Greetings Mouthketeers:

Is it me or does anyone else think Twitter or the people who tweet could possibly be the anti-Christ?  I was uber disturbed to read all the fanfare the other day over Dan Baum’s “Twitter-versy” (spare me writing that word again!), where the New Yorker writer tweeted about his experience at the literary rag, crying and kvetching about how his contract was not going to be renewed.

Do we really care whether or not Mr. Baum was hired as a contractor, as a freelancer or as a staffer?  No one put a gun to this guy’s head, begging him to write for a living, so why should we shed a tear?  Uh, hello, Mr. Baum:  How do you spell, “c-o-n-t-r-a-c-t   o-v-a-h?”  In the PR world, contracts come and go, and the best thing to do is just find another one.  If you’re tattling on your former boss via Twitter, (or would that be ‘twattling’ on your former employer?), telling the world how you’ve been tweated, (MWAH!!!), what incentive does a new company have to hire you because they’ll think you’re gonna tattle on them too.  It’s not as if you were raped.  You worked in magazine publishing, for God’s sake.  Have you tried book publishing???????   That biz will keep you on your toes, trust me.    

Frankly, the cushy newspaper and magazine writers of today are beginning to experience what everyday dancers, actors and singers have gone through for decades:  Rejection.  Can you imagine the movie “Fame” rewritten to focus on the lives of writers who longed to write, rather than dancers struggling to make it on Broadway?  It would be hilarious, and sadly the same old story but without Irene Cara singing the theme song.  Perhaps Mr. Baum could twit, uh sorry, tweet, the opening credits?    

Seriously tho, George Orwell would turn over in his grave if he knew that it wasn’t Big Brother, but Little Brother—the masses—who have morphed themselves into the electronic Gestapo—telling everyone about everything so it’s not safe to even walk out on the street for fear of being tweeted. 

The best time in the USA was pre-1990s.  People didn’t tweet or even write.  Many read, but most sang folk songs or disco danced.  “Awesome” wasn’t a word yet.  They screamed.  They talked.  They spent time running from the establishment, not feeding the powers that be spontaneous content that will end up haunting them in the future.  Next time you have a conflict, Mr. Baum, either keep your mouth shut, see a therapist or hit the backspace key.  No need to wear you tweets on your sleeve. 

Has anyone seen the new rendition of “Hair“? 

Peace.

The Mouthinator. 

The Mouthinator Pop Culture

Greetings Mouthketeers:

Tonight, (Tuesday), is the premiere of “The Real Housewives of New Jersey” on Bravo TV and I gotta tell you, the cast has no kind of housewife I ever knew . . . and yours truly grew up in that state. 

On the show you have Danielle Staub, whose claim to fame is she’s the first in Jersey (and the fourteenth in the country), to own a Black American Express Card.  Could that be why her husband divorced this broad . . . because she spends way too much?  If she drops dead tomorrow would her tombstone read, “The woman who had that Amex card”? I’m not sure why that’s a claim to fame, do you?  To top it off, Danielle’s bio also says she attends mass regularly.  Oh wow.  I think I would be more apt to watch the show if Danielle came out of the closet or even revealed she attended AA.  I think the Mass thing and the reference to over-spending is more of a plotline for the Hallmark or Lifetime networks, don’t you?  

Then there’s another housewife, Caroline Manzo, who looks more like a truck driver with a potty mouth than a doll who the show claims “is the epitome of a strong New Jersey woman.”  If Tony Soprano was a woman, I think Caroline would at least be able to audition for the role.  There are a few more housewives in this totally clichéd spin-off of the series franchise, but why waste the entire post on these women, because frankly, if you took their names and faces off the Bravo TV website, their stories sound as if we’ve heard it all before.

I bet you never heard about the story of my mom, the late Elayne Atlas Loeber Papadopoulos, a New Jersey housewife, who, in the 1970s, didn’t want to join the Tennis club, the golf club or the yacht club . . . she simply wanted to reunite a mother with her little daughter and give the family a better life.  Here’s how the story goes:  Every night, our housekeeper, Monica, (yes, we had a live-in housekeeper), cried herself to sleep; and pretty quickly my mom confronted Monica about her sadness.  It turned out she had a five year-old daughter, Dawn, who lived in Trinidad, and Monica was heartbroken her child wasn’t living with her.  So, unbeknownst to me, my dad and Monica, my mom borrowed a passport and clothing of a five year-old neighbor, and went on a “business trip”—down to Trinidad—where she disguised Dawn to look as if she was a little boy.  One day the doorbell rang in my house, and there was my mom and Dawn, whom my mom smuggled into the country; and I’m proud to say Dawn lived with us until she graduated from high school, and Monica graduated from nursing school.

I realize Barbra Streisand already wrote, produced and starred in “Yentl,” (“Mama, can you hear me?”), but my mom lived a snippet of the story—with a Trinidadian spin.  I realize my mom’s plotline isn’t gonna win any big TV ratings on Bravo; but my point is this:  Does America need to see another rendition of “The Real Housewives . . . “ and go through another set of kinda pretty women whose lives don’t really make women look as if they can conquer the world?  Hell, in every “Housewives” show, the opening intro has each wife holding an official reference of the state (in Orange County they held oranges, in New York City they held apples and in Atlanta they held peaches).  Why didn’t Bravo at least have the Jersey grrrrls hold a garden hose or something because even though America thinks New Jersey is the armpit of the country, little do they know it’s known as the Garden State and truly is a beautiful place beyond the Turnpike.  If the NJ wives are holding nothing to represent the state, perhaps the network didn’t look hard enough to find Jersey’s true female ambassadors either. 

Have you ever been to the Mall at Short Hills?

Peace.

The Mouthinator. 

The Mouthinator entertainment

Greetings Mouthketeers:

Another semi-talented singer is caught in a compromising position.  Was that Rihanna or did I just see Prince in a nude photo taken in a bathroom?  In a moment reminiscent of the years when gossip gurus suspected Janet Jackson for living as her brother Michael, (or was it the other way around?), yesterday it seems as if the overly recorded sensation, Rihanna, (who looked a little like the legendary, Prince), took some nudie jpgs of herself in a bathroom.  Honestly if you had a few brewskies, you could swear Rihanna was riding in a little red Corvette, touting a raspberry beret and walking in a purple rain shower in these snapshots. 

For those of you who aren’t familiar with Rihanna, she’s the one who was beaten, bitten and bloodied by Chris Brown, and the skeptic in me really hopes some stanky publicist/crisis manager did not tempt her to release these tantalizing toot smacking titty titty bang bang pics on the web as a way to shake her image as a battered woman.  And was that Chris in a photo with a pink thong on his head?  If Rihanna is really Prince, and Chris is with Prince . . . Hmmmm.  You be the judge.  Seriously tho, wouldn’t it be a sad day in America if we all huddled around our laptops, searching for photos of a young woman desperate to deflect her bad press with even more nasty publicity?   (This posting sounds more and more as if I’m blogging about the darling and lip-synctual, Britney Spears or even the ever so untalented, Paris Hilton, right?)

Why do the female stars of today feel as if their career will go south unless they look as if they’re in the movie musical “Chicago”?  If you think real hard, Britney Spears could replace Renee Zellweger and Rihanna could fill in for Catherine Zeta-Jones in the next rendition of that movie.  Or would the show be destined for Oscar nominations if Paris Hilton took over for Britney, and JLo covered for Catherine? 

Since women in pop culture these days want to be caught with their panties down, caught with a real gun in their pocket, and caught making out on stage with another women twenty years their junior, the next thing we’ll expect is a remake of “West Side Story” where the Pussycat Dolls take over for the Sharks and the Playboy Playmates take over where the Jets leave us off . . . just to be cool, grrrrrl.    

Wow, what a weird culture we’re living in.    Put your clothes back on, Rihanna.  We know you’re beautiful, and have a great body.  Get back in the recording studio without Chris. 

Have you ever heard of Barbara Cook?

Peace.

The Mouthinator. 

The Mouthinator entertainment

We used to care if our recording artists had real talent. But ever since that guitar-crackin’, Madonna, came on-scene in the infamous 1980s, the mood shifted from audiences who craved talent to audiences who craved a beat that drowned out “talent.” Producers and remixers became Gods, and learned early on that as long as you had an 808 kick drum (a certain drum sound), and a percussion line that could drown out the singer, you could still sell a gazillion records. These production pimps didn’t have to pay a lot for a vocalist because they were a dime a dozen and knew the pretty chicks were desperate to be stars—and would do anything to twinkle.

Madonna is the Sarah Palin of music: You think you might like her, you know she’s not qualified to work in her field, but you’ll keep on watching her because she’s tenacious.

So, this year’s “Madonna Award” for most lackluster talent, goes to . . . (drum roll, puhleese), Paula Ab-dull. Oops. I mean Paul Abdul.

Have you heard Paula’s new single, “I’m Just Here for the Music”? Excuse me, this song is soooo generic, soooo boring and soooo pedestrian, it’s no wonder the world can’t wait to hear from Susan Boyle again. Honestly, we better bring back some funding for the arts because we need better celebrities. This era will not only be remembered as the most disgraceful in politics, but the most pitiful in music.

I don’t want to remember Whitney Huston for her “Crack is whack” rant; I don’t want to wonder if the self-proclaimed “Lady Gaga” is bisexual. Do we really need to be on the edge of our seats worrying if Janet Jackson is going to fall on top of us because she supposedly developed Vertigo? Wake up America. Like many politicians who spend more of their time deflecting the truth, mediocre celebrities are acting out so you’ll forget they’ve got flaws and they are human.

I used to love Paula. Even as we speak, the blogging world is a twitter, wondering how old she is for God’s sake. (Can you imagine at the time of this posting the question “How old is Paula Abdul?” is the tenth most popular subject on the Internet?) Paula ain’t gonna be “Straight Up,” and she ain’t gonna “Tell Ya” her age, so get over it.

Paula Abdul put choreography and music videos on the map. She is a superb visualist. She is the most respectful judge on “American Idol,” but at times the delivery of her critique is so fragile you could have sworn she is channeling through Judy Garland.

Am I the only one who thinks it’s a conflict of interest that Paula’s judging talent and performing on the same show?

Bring back Melba Moore. Minnie Ripperton, we love you. (Did you know Maya Rudolph from SNL is the daughter of the late Minnie Ripperton?) Herbie Hancock, thank you. The Average White Band? Way above average. Neil Sedaka! Frank!!!! Karen Carpenter, you really should have eaten. OMG, Beverly Sills. Barbra Streisand, get off your ass and get back in the studio. For God’s sake, America, if you could vote a Black man into the White House, you can demand better celebrities in music. Turn up the volume, turn off Paula Abdul’s latest recording . . . and ask her to sit down when the Idol contestants are singing so we can see the real talent perform.

Do you sing in the shower?

Peace.

The Mouthinator.

The Mouthinator entertainment

Greetings Mouthketeers:

Boy, did I get a slew of private emails about yesterday’s Ringa Dinga Pinga posting.  Relax everyone.  Take a cold shower, and chill.  I was just ranting about sex.  It’s all good . . . but now . . . enough dirty mouth, let’s talk about . . . Traffic!

I love driving in New York City, and have been for 33 years. That means I’ve been caught in some major traffic jams, and even participated in an accident or two.   I was involved in one fender bender where a cabbie rammed into my rear just as he was going into a Diabetic shock; but he was OK and obviously I’m here to tell the story.

Friends, you don’t need me to recall my altercations and violations . . . I wanna reveal the secret to getting rid of traffic altogether, which has nothing to do with eliminating cabbies who don’t speak English or even truckers who do their deliveries during the day—it’s about how cars stop and start around town.  It’s all about how vehicles should be pulled, not pushed, by traffic lights.

You hear me?  I’ve come to the conclusion that on some streets, the way the lights are timed cause the backups; and if you don’t believe me, the next time you’re waiting for the light to turn green, look in your rear view mirror.  You’ll see block after block of traffic creeping towards you . . . when you should see the cars in front of you, moving away.  If the traffic commission would pull, not push the cars forward, I guarantee the traffic would dissipate.

Tell me, why are the parking spaces on some avenues now in the second lane—virtually in the middle of the street?  And how many bike lanes do we really need?  Remember Rollerbladers?  Why don’t they get a lane or two too?  Hell, this ain’t China and there aren’t enough rickshaws to warrant all these peddle-pushing paths.

Does anyone but me find it absolutely ridiculous to see all these faux parks (which were formerly car lanes), cropping up, giving the impression the city is truly turning green?  If I were Mayor Bloomberg I would spend my money planting the million trees I promised, rather than spray painting fake sand on the road.   

I detest road rage, and now that the city is literally shrinking its car lanes, you see more and more of it.   I cannot wait for the year Apple introduces an iPod, which one day will morph into an electrical Smart Car.  That will be the only size vehicle allowed on the streets, don’t you think? 

And let’s not forget those cameras cropping up on every street corner . . . Are you ready for your closeup?  New York:  You are  d-r-i-v-i-n-g  me crazy!!

Do you think Mayor Bloomberg has ever driven himself around the streets of NYC?

Peace.

The Mouthinator. 

The Mouthinator Pop Culture

Greetings Mouthketeers:

There was a great article in Sunday’s New York Times yesterday, called “When the Cellphone Teaches Sex Education,” where Health officials use teenagers’ favorite technologies (cellphones, text messaging, and in-your-face websites), as a way to fight disease and unwanted pregnancies.

After reading the story I thought it was a sad day we’re teaching our kids about pinga and puss via electronics, but then after some thought, I think it’s awesome.  With AIDS and all those other sexually transmitted diseases permeating the planet, it’s not about where you learn prevention; it’s that you’ve simply learned it. 

In my coming of age days, the most dangerous disease we all thought you could catch was Gonorrhea and Urethritis.  Then all of a sudden you heard about Syphilis, Hepatitis and the dreaded AIDS virus.  I remember coming home from my two-year stint in England (as the pop star, which I wrote about last week), and as soon as the plane landed at JFK, learned a few of my friends were dying of AIDS.  That plague didn’t seem to hit Europe while I was hanging out there, so imagine how weird it was to come home to hear your posse was disintegrating. 

My parents did a less than average job teaching me about sex, (they figured I just knew about it, which I did), and during my coming of age days, I probably had every little pain in the ass sexually transmitted disease (except, AIDS, thank God.)  Speaking of “ass,” I even developed Strep Butt once.  Wha?  You got that right.  Strep Ass.  If I remember correctly, it’s a cross between a rash and Strep Throat, but it spreads between your butt cheeks.  My hole was on fiyah.  It is probably the most painful thing on the planet—the kind of illness which forces you to ask if there really is a God, and if so, why did he/she invent it—and it looks as if your backside is a strawberry patch and feels as if you have two pieces of sandpaper rubbing against your crack.  I could’ve sworn when the doctor spread my backside apart to make his diagnosis, my butt coughed right back at him.  Let’s not go into the “how” I got this thing, but I got it, and honestly, it would have been a helluva lot less awkward for me to text some hotline about my symptoms than go on a mission to put my derriere on high alert to every doctor in NYC. 

We’re the only species on the planet that has to learn about the birds and the bees.  And if we have to be taught, when are we all going to learn that knowledge is power—no matter how we gain the info—and that it’s much healthier to talk about how you catch the clap, than trying to figure out—all alone—how to wait for the applause to die out.

How did you learn about the birds & the bees?

Peace.

The Mouthinator.

The Mouthinator Sex