Star Effer

Location: The Suck, California

Me. Stars. Effers.

Thursday, December 29, 2005

2 Many Effers, 2 Little Time

Hiya Lovers of the Suck.


Holidays... what can I say? Yuck. But at least the yuckiness is over.

Now, I do not include New Years Eve and New Years Day in the yuckiness, because they are post-Christmas and hence devoid of effing fam-bam meshugas.

Here's something I always ponder around this time: why are the holidays such a pain in the ass for some peeps (like me), while they are a fun-filled glorious time of year for others? I know, it's a little infantile of me to say - a little, "Mommy, why do baby ducks have to die?" of me - but I don't care. The holidays turn me into a thumbsucking punk-ass bitch, then I collapse into a heap as though dead for a few days, and then right before the New Year I rise from the ashes like a phoenix and I'm all, "WHO WANTS SOME?!"

All those who enjoyed the holidays this year, raise your hand... OK, now duck cuz I'm going to start throwing shit at you.

Anyhoo, it's great to be back in town and back in the star effing saddle. I missed you all dearly. And even though I didn't write, I thought about you. Mostly late at night. The way you laugh, the way you toss your hair when you get nervous, the way you bite your lip when I... well, anyway, I thought about you while I was away. And right now, this is like an emotional reunion at the train station. Wisps of smoke here and there, I'm wearing my army uniform and you're in a new dress that you bought at Sears, Roebuck with the money you made from rivetting. Everything's in black and white as we rush up to one another, choked with emotion. I gently touch your cheek with a bemused smile and moist eyes. It's very Tom Hanks-y.

But sooner or later that dress has to come off. So, I thought I'd jump back into things with a two-fer. Not one star effing anecdote, but... (wait for it)... TWO effing star stories. Can I hear an amen?


You sure?

Alrighty... then let's get right down to it.

This first story is called "Krazy for Keanu." It involves a friend of mine, who for the sake of anonymity shall be called Fern Berkowitz-Schlatterhoegen. She's very pretty. VERY smart. Boobs leave a little to be desired but that's really getting picky, because Fern Berkowitz-Schlatterhoegen is a catch. Any guy would be lucky to claim her as his baby's mama. So, it was with no small amount of surprise that I learned of her unhealthy attraction to a certain Keanu Charles Reeves.

First I thought this was a run-of-the-mill crush. We all have them. I myself, for a brief period in my youth, felt a stirring in my loins for Sheila E. And when I got the chance to meet her recently, even though she's like fifty, that woman still made my nuts all a flutter. There should be a picture of her in Webster's next to the definition of "M.I.L.F."

[EDITOR'S NOTE: there is no entry for the acronym "M.I.L.F." in Webster's or any other reputable dictionary]

But what I soon found out was that there was nothing run-of-the-mill about Fern Berkowitz-Schlatterhoegen's crush on Keanu. Homegirl had gone off the deep end. She believed that she and Keanu had a spiritual connection. To validate her beliefs, she did homework: she consulted biographies, astrological charts, interviews, song lyrics for Dogstar (Keanu's band), and befriended anyone she could find who had even a remote connection to him.

What she found validated her hunch that she and Keanu were destined to be together. She earnestly believed that Keanu, through his art, had lighted a kind of search beacon through which he hoped to attract his soul-twin. He was a half looking to be whole, and Fern was convinced that she was that other half. "Keanu has been calling for me, and until now I wasn't listening." It was her duty, she believed, to make herself known to him so that he could recognize the connection that they shared. For her to do otherwise would be a crime against the cosmos and the high magic Keanu had employed to attract her - like starring in such movies as "Feeling Minnesota" and "A Walk in the Clouds."

But how to accomplish this? As President Bush might say, "It's hard work." Keanu had a lot of noise around him. A lot of people. People who may not share the same ideas about life and love held by soon-to-be lovers, Keanu and Fern Berkowitz-Schlatterhoegen.

Fern decided that Dogstar concerts would be her best bet. So she got all dolled up and went to see Keanu and his band play. When the band took stage she pushed herself to the front, right below Keanu and his gangly spread-eagle rock star stance. She was directly in his sight line and song after mediocre song, she stared intently into his eyes, as if in a trance. Several times during the set, Keanu looked right at her. And twice he smiled.

Smiled! It was as if the Heavens opened and pooped out a little Cherub, annointing their long overdue encounter with gooey glee. She felt it. He felt it. It had to be real.

But after the show, Keanu was nowhere to be found. He did not come racing around from backstage to greet his soul-twin. He didn't even come out to sign autographs. However, Fern was not deterred. Maybe he was stuck under a heavy object. Maybe one of his "people" was running interference. She went to the alley and waited. Luckily, she had a new pack of clove cigarettes to keep her company and a can of pepper spray to keep the undesirables at bay (she is, after all, smoking hot - no matter what the itty-bitty-titty-committee says). Finally, at 1:30 AM, the door opened and the band emerged, quickly packing into a waiting limo. Fern walked confidently up to Keanu and once again he smiled. As they say, third time's the charm, and Fern was emboldened:

"Hello," she said.

"Hi, I'm Keanu."

"I'm Fern Berkowitz-Schlatterhoegen."

They shook hands sweetly, both smiling. This could not be going better.

"I love your music, Keanu."

"Aw, thanks, Fern. That's really sweet of you."

"I love what you're saying. I really get it. It speaks to me."

"That's awesome. Wow, what a compliment. Thanks."

"YOU speak to me. I mean, really speak to me. Everything you say..."

"Well I play bass, Bret is the one who does most of the sing-"

"Shhhh.... I know Keanu. I know everything about you. Everything about... US."

(Awkward silence. She looked at Keanu with Manson Eyes. He got really freaked out.)

"So thanks for coming to see us. It was really nice to, uh, meet you." He backed into the limo slowly, not daring to turn his back to her, as one would with a scary rottweiler or Charles Manson.

"Yes. It was nice to finally meet, however brief. But I'm patient. I look forward to the next time..."

Keanu nodded, confused, and shut the door. The limo charged out of the alley and into the San Francisco night, leaving Fern standing there alone and somewhat embarassed.

But she wasn't sad. The Berkowitz-Schlatterhoegens weren't known to shrink from hard work or momentary set-backs. Afterall, it was the first step in a long road. And In her mind, the hardest part was over. They had found each other. The rest would be easy. Or would it?

Stay tuned for part two of Fern's story in my upcoming post:

"Krazy for Keanu 2: I Did Not Kill This Animal, It Was Already Dead"

And now for star effing story #2. I was walking down the Third Street Promenade at about 11am on a Wednesday morning. As I passed by La Salsa I noticed that a small crowd had formed. There in the middle of it all was none other than Ian Ziering of "90210" fame. It was some sort of fundraiser thing and Ian was introduced as a celebrity guest. Me and the seven or so other people cheered wildly as he took the microphone and gave a thirty-second speech. We cheered wildly again when he was done. I snapped a fuzzy pic with my camera phone. Ian grabbed a hat and started passing through the crowd asking people to donate money. When he got to me, I said what I say to homeless people when I'm out of spare change and small bills, "Sorry buddy. I'll get you next time." And I walked away disgusted.

You see, I had several singles and even a few quarters (all of which I would have gladly given to a homeless person). However, I will not give Ian Ziering any of my hard-earned cash, no matter what charity he's peddling. Fuck Ian Ziering. Thanks to ten years of regular run network primetime and subsequent syndication deals, he's got cash coming out of his ass. If they would have sent a starving little African girl out into the crowd with a donation box, it would've been a different story. But how could they expect me to dig into my pocket and hand that taint-licking fuckwit, that black-head on the acne-strewn face of pop culture, a few dollars?

How insulting. That charity, whatever it was, must've been reeeeeaaally desperate.

First of all, the guy pronounces his name "I-an," not "EE-an" as is commonly held. What a fucking asshole. I have the same problem with Ralph Fiennes forcing the world to say "Rafe Fines" instead of "Ralph Fee-ennes" which is the only way that name can be pronounced. I mean, his brother's name is Joseph, but he doesn't go around saying "No, it's not Joseph, it's Yoo-seep. Yes I know how it's fucking spelled, just pronounce it Yoo-seep please." Who are these people? Where do the I-ans and Rafe-Ralphs come from? If your name is Ian, just pronounce it the way it's supposed to sound you pretentious twat. Otherwise just change your name to something more fitting of your immense insecurity.

And secondly, I-an is not a good actor. At least Ralph Fiennes can act. But I-an is terrible.

I heard a story about I-an once from a very reliable source and I don't mind sharing it with you here. He's an albino monkey that was shaved and taught to speak simple phrases. One night after excessive drinking, the research scientists made an ill-advised wager and dropped him off on the front porch of a casting agent with a note reading:

"Trained Monkey. Will work for peanuts. Needs diaper change regularly."

The casting agent found this to be such a novel and refreshingly honest approach that she signed him on the spot and immediately started booking him for commercials and movies of the week.

True story.

I hope you all have a very happy New Years. I am looking forward to 2006 for many reasons, but mostly because it means that 2005 is over. I will have many more news and views on the Suck in the coming days, including Part 2 of "Krazy for Keanu" and another post for my ongoing column, "Star Effed by..."

Until then, go with God dearest ones.

Saturday, December 10, 2005

Poppa Effer: the Gene Hackman Factor

Take a look at both of these pictures.

Gene Hackman, right?

Wait a minute....LOOK CLOSER. There's a very slight difference. Do you see it?

Still don't? OK, let me illuminate: one of these men is NOT Gene Hackman. Believe it or not the handsome devil on the right is actually my father, Mr. Poppa Effer.

I know, I know. It's almost impossible to discern. See my dad is a dead ringer for Hackman. Spitting image. And wanna know what's creepier? He's almost identical in personality.

Here's an example. About a year ago I was in the men's room of a fancy Beverly Hills restaurant and Gene Hackman stormed in. He went looking into every available stall before turning on the Bathroom Attendant:

Gene Hackman: "Bidet?"
Bathroom Attendant: "S'cuse me, sir?"
GH: "I said, 'Where is your bidet?'"
BA: "What is that?"
GH: "A bidet? Ah for cryin' out-- It's a kind of basin for washing know...after you crap."
BA: "Oh my God sir."
GH: "I was told this restaurant had bidets in the men's room."
BA: "No sir, we sure don't."
GH: "Well I was told you did."
BA: "I've worked here seven years. I would know if we had one of those."
GH: "Forget it, I'll just hold it then..."

And he stormed out of the bathroom as quickly as he entered. Moments later, when I went to wash my hands, the Attendant made a face as if to say, "What's up with Hackman?" But I was too awestruck to care. For me it was as if my own dad had been there.

See, ever since my dad went to Japan he talks about bidets as if he's found Christ. "They wash you clean, my son. They leave you fresh and pure. Like the freshly fallen snow." He even gets the same little glint in his eye that I saw on Hackman that day in the loo.

Another thing they have in common is that they're both tough guys. Hackman has been known to be a bit punchy. Even as recently as four years ago he found himself in a well publicized street brawl against two men in their late twenties. Hackman was 71.

My dad's also had his fair share of scraps. As an immigrant to this country, trying to support a wife and four kids in the un-PC 1970s, speaking English with a thick accent, he came to be quite sensitive to comments like "Why dontcha learn some fuckin English?" or "Go home to wherever the shit you came from." He couldn't come back with witty retorts and didn't know how to respond to these hurtful words. But what he did know was that iconic American men like McQueen, Bronson and Eastwood didn't need witty retorts.

So I remember being at the market with my dad when some yokel cut in front of us at the checkout stand and on top of it, had the gall to make a slur. Next thing you know Poppa Effer popped him one in the nose. The guy fell to the ground, screamed for the manager and filed a police report. To this day Popps is convinced that punching the schmuck was the right course of action. Very Popeye Doyle if you ask me.


-Hackman used to smoke, but quit cold turkey.

-So did my dad.

-Hackman loves Volvos.

-Poppa Effer is a Volvo-slutaholic.

-Hackman left home at 16.

-Guess what? So did my main man.

-And they both have male pattern baldness to boot!

See? It really is as though I was raised by Gene Hackman himself! So if you ever happen to be walking down the street and you think you see Gene Hackman, it might just be my dad instead.

But if you choose to speak to him, err on the side of caution and refrain from saying, "What's up Poppa Effer!" It might just save you a black eye.

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

Love getting Stoned

Today's post has no pretenses. It does not aspire to journalistic heights. It attempts no fancy footwork. Today's post is all about getting STONED.

Or more precisely, Oliver Stoned.

Let me set the scene. A few years ago I was in attendance at the New Line Cinema Holiday party. This was back in the glory days of New Line, the rebel years before Faggy Frodo and Friends set up shop. These were the halcyon days when company founder Bob Shaye fended off multiple sexual harassment suits, Executive VP of Production Richard Sapperstein was accused of both bigamy AND fraud, and President of Production Mike DeLuca famously got thrown out of an Oscar party for getting a very public blowjob from the sister of actor Cary Elwes - the same party, incidentally, where Farrah Fawcett was seen "pooping" on the lawn.

These were good times people. Good times. And there was no way in hell I was skipping this "Holiday" party. So, after assuring my then-girlfriend (yes, the Beaver one) that there would be mischief and mayhem in spades, we rolled up on the scene.

Much to our dismay, it was a bit slow. No bigamy or fraud within sight. No public BJs either. Snap. We did see Cary Elwes - the cinematic equivalent of "pooping" on a lawn - but I wasn't drunk enough to do my Dread Pirate Roberts routine on him yet (this consists of slapping him on the ass and whispering "As you wish, Buttercup" breathily into his ear).

It was getting boring. Wesley Snipes walked in. YAWN. Quentin Tarantino strolled in wearing all-white Kanga gear, lapping up sycophantic praise and pretending to be Black...again. Fucking twat.

Then, around 10:30, it happened. "Hey Effer! Effer! C'mere!" It was M.E.B., my industrious industry friend. She's what Wonder Woman would be like if the Amazon princess took mad bong rips and was obsessed with Springsteen. "Get the fuck over here Effer, you don't want to miss this!"

When we approached M.E.B. she held up her hand and showed us a beautifully rolled joint. Then, with a sly grin, she added "Wanna get high... with Oliver Fucking Stone?"

Um... fuck YES.

Thirty seconds later it was me, my girlfriend, M.E.B., Oliver Fucking Stone, and Courtney Fucking Love all huddled together in a circle at the crowded bar, passing this beautiful, beautiful joint. Me and my girlfriend kept sneaking smiles at each other, as if to say "Is this really happening?" M.E.B. was right in the thick of it, injecting herself into the Love-Stone conversation at every opportunity.

And though M.E.B. was doing a mighty fine job getting Stone's attention, Courtney Love was steamrolling right over her. What we quickly learned was that Courtney was desperately trying to convince Oliver to cast her as "The Sister" in who-knows-what script. Sloppy is the only word to describe her demeanor. Already way too fucked up on something before the weed and alcohol, she was rapidly approaching the point where vertical was not an option. But that didn't stop her from pimping herself out like a seasoned pro. Propping one arm on my girlfriend and the other on Oliver's shoulder, she leaned into his ear and spewed hot propaganda on why she deserved to play "The Sister" and how she could guarantee him an Oscar nomination. It went on like this forever. Most people in her state would've been taken to the ER, but she was too busy muscling Oliver Stone for a movie role to collapse from an overdose.

On the surface it may have looked like I was listening to all this, but in my mind I was begging her to do something completely crazy. Maybe it was the weed taking hold of my senses, but the whole time she was huckstering I was secretly praying that she would give me some cuckoo. I wanted a story, and not just one I could write about on some stupid fucking blog. I wanted something I could sell to the papers. "Come on Courtney, he's not listening to you. Make him listen! Don't let Farrah Fawcett get all the glory. She's just a Charlie's Angel - you're a Post Feminist Punk Rock star! You're Mrs. Cobain for fuck's sake! Do something nucking futs!!"

And what was Oliver Stone doing this whole time?

Surprisingly, the whole time Courtney Love was yammering on about "The Sister" role all he did was stare at tits. He'd stare for a while at my girlfriend's tits, then over at M.E.B.'s rack, then down into Love's junkie cleavage, then start the cycle all over again. For variation, he'd change up the ogle order, but that's all the man did: stare at tits.

Having just come off a long flight from Malaysia, his eyes reduced to red, swollen slits, he looked more stoned than all of us put together (well, except Courtney, but that doesn't count since she prays to the Devil). Apparently he had taken "some stuff to relax" on the plane and had yet to come down off of it. So, all he could do was just stand there looking at tits until the joint came around. Then he'd bogart that J for ages, getting it good and moist with his Doors-digging-drool - all the way to the fucking cherry - before finally passing it on again.

At one point I leaned in to tell him my anecdote about Ron Kovic, the Vietnam vet whose life served as the basis for the film "Born on the Fourth of July," but Oliver just swayed over at me, looked down to see that I had no tits, then summarily turned his attention elsewhere. He could give a rat's ass about Vietnam at this moment, he was balls-deep in choice titty and I wasn't going to distract him.

My admiration for the man was at an all-time high. And so was I apparently because I didn't even blink when that sopping wet joint made its way back over to me. I was convinced that smoking a doobie coated in Oliver Stone's drool was somehow going to help my writing career. The Pope of Pop Subversion was anointing me with his Holy Water. I crossed myself upon exhalation and passed the joint to M.E.B.

As the pot smoke wafted throughout the room and the presence of Oliver and Courtney got people's attention, we found ourselves getting invaded by other star fuckers. They were pushing in all around us and Ollie was starting to get cagey. He tore his eyes away from the breast buffet long enough to spot the exit. Our ten minute huddle was soon to be over.

I tried one last attempt at conversation with Oliver, but Courtney was too overpowering. Satan juice was coursing through her veins and "The Sister" role would be hers at all costs.

The joint was smoked down to a tiny wet roach. Oliver was pulling away. Courtney was sticking like succubus glue.

Moments later it was all over, just the three of us again. We ordered a round of drinks and toasted M.E.B. and her amazing Star Effing powers.

God Bless the dirty years of New Line Cinema. God Bless Love and Stone.