I lost my mojo for mocking strangers. :( Pity me.
The Hollywood sign, as seen from Space.*
As the infamous 2012 end date fast approaches, our mailbox overflows with end-of-times literature from all across the globe. Because when the world is about to end, the logical thing to do is warn Hollywood. It would seem.
This one came as a little booklet, and I’m really quite fond of it. Despite the fact that it reads like a drunken caveman who watched a Nat Geo special on the San Andreas fault last week and can’t quite remember what it was about, the little film strips were a really nice touch.
Quick tip: Headshots and resumes are typically more effective when you present yourself as an able bodied actor and less like a Civil War ghost who figured out how to use a Xerox machine and fudge an acting resume.
Someone was kind enough to offer up this sweet deal on Yoga Journal. Unfortunately, we don’t accept bribes. (Note transcribed below.)
“A gift to you, [blank]. Doctors swear by this yoga. Norman Mailer did yoga. It’s not phoney exercise as I’d always thought it. In a word, this is some goddamn hard mother-fucking exercise, I shit you not.”
(From Alan Ball’s Wikipedia page)
I know this event looks so fucking cool, and you’re probably all mad that you missed it, but surprise! You actually lucked out because it took place at the Scientology Centre. I live in the general vicinity, so I get flyers for their
creepy recruiting family-friendly events on a bi-weekly basis, and I gotta say… well done on this one, Scientology. Bravo. I was this close to showing up.
It’s just funny to me because when I was growing up, our church had flea markets where I’d get my face painted and come home with a bag full of yarn octupuses and a bunch of baby Jesuses made out of toilet paper rolls and I was happy as a clam. What happened to the simple stuff?? Once you whip out the endangered species where do you go from there, ya know? No one is taking a fucking personality test after they’ve spent some quality time with a monkey, I’ll tell you that.
I think I might call this girl just to see if she wants to hang out. She seems like fun. And like someone who could use a friend.
These are not, to my knowledge, jokes. Not intentional ones anyway. In case you haven’t noticed, this whole blog is an exploration of the depths that some humans go just to be noticed. “Almost Fameless” is my cheeky, existential way of describing people who believe so strongly that they’re going to be famous, that they don’t realize how very not-famous they are destined to be.
The only thing I can compare it to is the feeling a child has when writing to Santa Claus. The notion that by simply writing a letter and sending your wishes out into the ether, some magical force is going to reward you with what you want. But these people aren’t children; they’re adults. And they’re not asking for toys; they’re asking for millions of people to watch them and love them and envy them and ultimately scrutinize and judge them for the rest of their lives.
Look, we know that fame can drive a person insane (Michael Jackson, Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan, Kirk Cameron, Tom Cruise, this list goes on…) But I’m here to show you that WANTING to be famous (being “almost fameless” if you will) can make you just as fucking crazy.