Ho, ho, hum.
Don't kid yourself. The postnasal drip of holiday congestion is heavily upon us, and -- besides donning ironic Santa garb for the cover of this very issue, ill-advisedly -- I'm not having it. I've been reading The B List and checking it twice, only to find that I have encountered some of the most ridiculous wisdom the almost-celebrity underworld has to offer over the course of the last 12 months. "I'm the luckiest little boy in the whole world," I whisper to myself, just before eyeing the shotgun propped up in the corner.
So join me, won't you, as I offer lumps of coal for the lumps of bullshit that have made this year's B List experience so, um, gratifying.
By the way, I love you all. Really I do.
One giant lump of never-disappearing coal goes to slimy magic man David Copperfield. In an interview that he insisted on conducting by e-mail (he's invisible, you know), he attempted to sum up his mystical appeal: "Magic caters to a spirit of reverence and mystery, and it is the magician, above all other theatrical and performing artists, who must carry this torch of wonder. His art speaks to a primordial emotion inside us all."
Insert primal scream here, then shake it off.
A lump of spandex-encased coal goes to former Milli Vanilli high-kicker Fabrice Morvan, who almost (almost!) killed my vodka buzz with a similarly irrelevant bit of nature-baiting: "I've done so much to turn the tide over," he splashed. "I've been doing a lot of grass-roots campaigns. It's not about advertising, because people are hip to that now. If it's real, then, you know. Human beings have antennas, and they'll feel it. You can only fool people so long."
Oh, just shut up and cut your hair.
A chunk of ore with silver studs on it goes to Gerardo, who brought us the ditty "Rico Suave" in case you forgot. Cue name-dropping: "I opened up for Prince, and I was like in heaven," he liked. "And then, after that, Prince invited us to his house. In his limousine, going to Prince's house, was Warren Beatty, who was my idol, because he was the biggest pimp of all time. So, it was me, Warren, and Kirstie Alley. I was looking out the window going, 'Damn, I finally made it. It can't get any better than this." It never will.
Halfway to Gerardo-hood by now, li'l Aaron Carter couldn't have been less charming in his interview -- unless he was his brother, Nick. Both deserve blond-tasseled lumps of coal for such superfluous musings as: "Of course, y'know, I had a voice change. That was pretty tough, but I made it through" and "I gotta take care of my voice. You gotta make sure that you use it well, cuz this is all that I got!"
And you don't even got that, yo!
A graying chunk of humility coal goes to fattened Loverboy Mike Reno. He had this to offer on the subject of ironic VH-1 game-show cameos: "We call it one of those things you do for grins and chuckles. Heh heh. They flew my wife and I into New York for the weekend. They gave us a car, a few bucks and said, 'We'll see you for two minutes on Thursday.' I mean, I was like, 'I'll do that.' And I made them promise not to make it too much fun. You can only take so much abuse."
Less humble (and more sour-grapey) was former pseudo-rocker, Gunnar Nelson of, well, Nelson. Two grimy globs of coal for him, then, as he reflects on getting no respect: "It was our misfortune that the record came out the same year that Milli Vanilli broke. So you had these two guys with long hair and glitter and colorful videos and this outrageous presentation, and everyone's thinking, 'My gosh! It's Milli Vanilla!'"
My gosh. You're stupid. (I bet I'm the only columnist on earth with TWO Milli Vanilli mentions in his year-end column. Dear Mom, I've finally made it.)
Some boredom coal for formerly frisky Pat Benatar. She never really liked the headband, you see: "I always say that you wear one thing once that will immortalize you forever," she drolled. "Just make sure that you really love it, because you're going to see it always."
A tossed chunk with a razor blade in it goes to Goonie goon Corey Feldman, who thought himself to be something of a dumb lightning rod. Now where's that pesky lightning?
"It's the way that I interpret things," he cloyed. "And the way I do it may be kind of off, but that's OK because it's the way that I do things."
The same goes for Michael Winslow, hear told. Pass the coal. The former "Police Academy" noisemaker continues to ride on his novelty even today: "Even when you get pulled over for a speeding ticket, they'll ask you to make a noise. So I ask them, 'How 'bout the sound of a slower speed?'"
Did somebody just fart?
Perennial pork belly Joe Fatone Sr., might have. Anything would sound better than his coattails-exploiting, not-so-boy-band, old-man experience. Joe actually called me after this interview and called me "paparazzi," which I think he thought might have been a kind of pizza. Eat coal, fat one. "It's like being a pair of brown shoes in a tuxedo shop. You could wear 'em, but where does it work?" he surmised of his career. Perhaps it just doesn't. But that's the fun, isn't it?
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