Another site for me not to update

Part of the reason that I've had such a difficult time updating this site is because I can't write. The other part is that I spend too much letting celebrity news chew holes in my brain like syphilis. So, as part of my therapy, I present to you, The Hollywood Flash. It's basically a place where I can get all of this stuff out of my head; It's taking up too much room and I'd really like to be able to remember how to do long division.

Crying, sometimes over you, sometimes not.

As I was shoved up against a man's knees and breathing in a mixture of sweat and stale urine on the 1 train last week, I noticed something that should have been more unusual: the woman standing next to me was crying. Our eyes accidentally met in that awkward shared-commute kind of way, and I saw the tears streaming down her cheeks. The look on her face wasn't one of embarrassment, as you might think, but one of resignation. It was a look that said, "Yeah. I'm on a subway, it's rush hour, and I'm crying. What're you gonna do?" I liked that look because it was a look I understood.

For someone with a paralyzing fear of crying in public, I have shed more than my fair share of tears in this city. Bunny wrote about her experience with New York City crying awhile back--it isn't just me, people. The big apple is drowning in tears. I don't know how to explain this phenomenon, other than by attributing it to the sense of anonymity that goes along with living here. None of these people know you or give a shit about your problems. It's easy to convince yourself that you're invisible, and in many respects, it's true.

I have cried everywhere in this city. I've cried while walking down the street, listening to my Ipod. I've cried while waiting for the light to change. I've cried while hailing a cab and, like the woman next to me, I've cried on the subway. Oh, how I've cried on the subway.

I've cried on the 6 train platform in Soho as a relationship I thought had promise disintegrated. I've cried on the uptown 2 because everything seemed to be falling apart at the same time. I've cried on the downtown F, on the uptown A. I've even cried on New Jersey Transit.

I've stood at the waters edge, under the baking sun, as a boy broke my heart from hundreds of miles away, my tears mixing with my sweat. I've cried in the snow and had my snot freeze to my upper lip. I've cried in a Starbucks while sipping a hot chocolate, I've cried in an Au Bon Pain while eating soup. I've sat on a bench and texted while I cried, I've sprawled out on the grass and cried on the phone. I have cried in this city.

Out of all the times the tears fell in inappropriate and public places, there wasn't one person who ever did more than offer me a sideways glance. No concerned old ladies asked if I was okay, dear. No wrinkly men offered me a hankie. No creepy dudes on the corner told me I'd be a lot prettier if I smiled, girl. No mother, sitting on the train with her kids, offered me an encouraging smile. Thank Jesus.

When your life feels like it's so out of control that weeping on mass transit seems like reasonable and appropriate behavior, the last thing you need is a "you'll get through it" smile and head nod from a stranger. No, what you need is for the people to get their bags out of the freakin' doors so they can close and you can get home to your dog and your Tivo'd episodes of Law & Order.

As we passed by the Upper West Side, Columbia and Harlem, the woman standing next to me just stared out of the window and cried. As I stood there, our shoulders touching, her music leaking out of her ear buds, the only thing I could think was, "why? Why, why, why, oh why do you have to be standing in front of the only two empty seats in this entire car?"

But what about THE CHILDREN???

She shaved her head, she got tattoos, she went to rehab three times in three days. To say Britney Spears has had a rough week would be an understatement. Girlfriend has had a rough couple of years. I was sitting at my desk this morning, watching the video of her bashing in a car with an umbrella and thinking that the widely-held belief that marrying K-Fed signaled rock bottom seems so...quaint now.

We didn't like Kevin Federline from the beginning. From his stringy hair to his insistence on wearing manpris for every occasion, to his weasly little eyes, we did not want him near our Britney. The guy was obviously a freeloader, obviously only after her for her money, and was obviously going to get her pregnant as soon as humanly possible in order to ensure a permanent stake in her fortune. He was the skeevy guy at the club who comes up behind you and starts grinding on your ass before you even see his face.

Throughout their marriage, Britney was seen as the good guy. Sure, she got herself into a bad situation. She's obviously made mistakes, but she's not to blame. She was a CHILD STAR. She can't possibly be held accountable. Through the Red Bull, Marlboros and Cheetos, we stuck by her. We kept thinking it was a phase that she would soon outgrow.

When she filed for divorce last October, we felt vindicated. She finally wised up. She was doing what was best for her and her boys. And then? Paris Hilton.

On the New York City subway system, there are these terrible posters put up by Health and Human Services that offer basic parenting tips like, "Never, ever shake a baby","Don't leave your infant in the bathtub unattended" and "Don't put your baby to sleep in your bed, do a bunch of heroin, nod off and roll on top of your baby, killing him, like Christopher did to Adriana's dog on "The Sopranos." I know no one in L.A. uses their subway system, so perhaps the city could erect billboards that say something along the lines of, "Hey, do you have kids? Do you want to have kids? Are you perhaps passing by a playground or a Toys R Us on the way home from work and run the risk of accidentally making eye-contact with a child? Then stay the fuck away from Paris Hilton. Seriously. Her shit is airborne."

I try to stay away from the pearl-clutching judgment calls as much as possible, but when you have two small sons, you do not need to be running around with Paris Hilton, flashing your lady business to strangers. It is completely unnecessary. Rent some Baby Einstein DVDs and try to undue the damage genetics have already done to your children.

So fast forward to today. After months of Cesarean scar flashing, stripper outfit borrowing, drinking, vomiting, and alleged drug use, Britney has been locked away. The dust is beginning to settle, and who is coming out as the winner? None other than Fed-Ex himself.

Yep, Kevin Federline, king of the cornrows, bad rapping and illegitimate children is looking pretty damn good right now. His threat to have Britney's hair tested for drugs is reportedly a big reason why she shaved her head. The dude is pissed. And who can blame him? He's been vilified in the press sense the moment we learned his name, yet there have been no blind items featuring him snorting coke in a bathroom stall. There have been no pictures of his vomit staining the floor of his SUV. He may be a douchebag, but I doubt he would put his kids at risk like Britney probably has. I mean, seriously.

I picture a day with Britney and her kids starting out like that episode of jackass where Johnny Knoxville pretends to leave his baby on top of the car and then drives off. You know that shit has happened more than once. You know what else I'm sure has happened more than once? Britney coming home with Jayden in her arms, putting down her keys and her bag, and then hanging the baby on the coat rack, followed closely by her nanny who just sighs, shakes her head, and wordlessly gets the little munchkin down, taking the airplane bottle of vodka that Brit has been using as a pacifier out of his mouth.

K-Fed's day with the kids probably involves a lot of propping them up on pillows next to cardboard cutouts of celebrities, and then playing his CD while he lip-syncs and dances in front of his adoring fans. Sure, it's still not an ideal living condition, but when the poor kids have these two parents to choose from, it's really the best they can hope for. Well, second best. I hear Queen Latifah is looking to adopt some American kids and everyone knows that lesbians make the best mommies.

If only the job interview was at a cancer center...

Many people, when they have a bad week, turn to the sweet, comforting embrace of alcohol to make themselves feel better. While I see nothing objectively wrong with curling up with your good friends Jack and Johnny, I have a thing about not drinking when I'm sad. Because of this character flaw, I usually treat a bad day with a double dose of SVU and VH1 Celebreality programming.

Sometimes, though not nearly as often as one would hope, something better comes along. Perhaps a friend is visiting, or one of your favorite bands is coming to town and you think to yourself, "you know, this week was pretty shitty, but motherfucking Paradise City (The G&R tribute band that is so awesome that Axl Rose's feelings of comparative inadequecy is the real reason for Chinese Democracy's interminable delay) is playing in Jersey, so nothing else matters."

Yesterday, I had an experience that surpassed even hearing "Paradise City" performed by a man who has devoted his life to keeping the flaccid 80s Cock Rock movement alive: I got a phone call from Elizabeth.

Now, this wasn't a typical Elizabeth phone call in that she didn't once mention how I was going to die alone or how nobody could ever love me. Those phone calls are so common they are hardly worth mentioning and definitely not worth writing about. This time she had news.

Apparently, Justin Timberlake is coming to Richmond and a local radio station was giving away tickets, as they do. Since these tickets are a pretty hot commodity, the station, Q94, figured people would do just about anything to get them. They were right. Our friend Rachel shaved her head bald for Justin Timberlake tickets. But that's not the best part. The best part? She had a job interview that afternoon. For a job she really wanted. But wait--that's still not the best part. The BEST best part is that it was a second interview. So these people have definitely met her before and have definitely seen her with hair.

Now if this wouldn't inject some brightness into a dark, miserable week, then you should just fall asleep on some train tracks, because you're already dead inside.



Rachel (far right) and Rachel (third from left)



The only thing left to say is "thank you."

I am a failure

Okay, so I'm working on like, 3 different entries right now. One I like but is taking longer than I wanted it to, one that I don't like and have kind of given up on, and one that only exists in my head.

I also have some potentially fun news, but I'm awaiting outside confirmation.

So, basically, I've got nothing. Hence the title.

On an unrelated note, isn't Heroes a great show? I'm in love.