Brangelina: Not Your Average Saints

http://perezhilton.com/topics/angelina_jolie/they_grow_in_factories_20070314.php

3 March 2007

The media’s worshipping of Brad and Angelina disgusts me to my very core. After hearing this morning that they’re in the process of adopting yet ANOTHER ethnic child, I am beyond infuriated and can’t believe that people buy into their bullshit.

NEWS FLASH: CHILDREN ARE NOT COLLECTIBLES, ANGELINA. “Collect all thirty-seven!” doesn’t come stamped on the baby-soft butt cheeks of wee ones, and starting a veritable United Nations of ethnicities and creeds under one roof is nothing short of moronic. In addition, her quotes recently to that French mag about how her natural born child is not as love-worthy as her adopted ones because she was born into privilege is vomit-inducing. Your little orphans never experienced pain, dumbass, you swept them out of their terrible situations before they could formulate memories of living in squalor. It’s almost as if she only had Shiloh as a favor to Brad, who, in his American stupidity, wanted a blood child.

Yeah, you’re pretty effing lucky if you’re an abandoned Third World type who gets adopted by an American celebrity. But I’d much rather be adopted by Kevin Federline than by these two lunatics. They aren’t even raising their own children, and their collector’s items are by default destined for rehab and death-by-overdose. Money doesn’t make somebody a good parent, and when you can’t even treat your own flesh and blood with respect, how can we expect you to treat the others with respect? The whole peace-among-all-colors line is nothing but pure publicity.

Angelina’s dagger stare and her know-it-all smirk make me want to rip off my arm and attack the real estate agent who sold them their house in New Orleans. They don’t deserve to live in a city where real families exist. Or even real people, for that matter. They should move to the moon and start their own colony of doll children. They can bring the Thetan Cruise clan along with them and invent space ships to take them to L. Ron’s Galaxy of Greatness. That’s where they all belong.

Point Break (AKA The Greatest Movie Ever Made)

Point Break (1991) is one of those rare hidden classics that you find amongst the “VHS For Sale—Everything $2” bin at your local video rental. The crowning glory of the rival surf gang action adventure genre, Point Break takes its star-studded cast (Gary Busey, Keanu Reeves, and Patrick Swayze) and award-worthy script to whole new levels of awesomeness.

I had the good fortune to Netflix Point Break recently—and not, admittedly, because of its cast or what could only be an incredible storyline, but because of a supposed cameo by my own personal rock hero, Anthony Kiedis. But little did I know what a cinematic treat I was in for.

The premise of Point Break is straightforward enough: two undercover FBI agents (the green young Keanu, who is partnered with the seasoned and wise Busey) are directed to find and arrest a gang of bank robbers who have been terrorizing SoCal and call themselves “The Ex-Presidents” because of their choice of disguise (masks of former U.S. Presidents). Somehow Keanu decides that some of the local Malibu surf gangs are suspicious and chooses to take up surfing to infiltrate these enemy actors (and who wouldn’t?). After getting rescued (Keanu’s surf skills aren’t quite up to par for the wilds of offshore Malibu) by the chic and 90s-sexy (meaning flannel and a I’m-a-strong-woman-with-a-man’s-haircut) Lori Petty, Keanu comes to the obvious conclusion that these surfers know what’s up. So, he enlists Petty to teach him how to surf.

Through Petty he comes to meet the demi-god himself, the charismatic and sage-like Patrick Swayze (if ever there were a poster child for the ballet dancer action hero, Patrick Swayze would be it), the leader of the cool surf gang. He takes young Keanu under his wing, teaching him the ways of the surf world and how to master the tides.

But, lo and behold, Keanu becomes too close to his new friends, losing sight of the job at hand. Enter Anthony Kiedis, member of an evil meth-fueled surf gang that throws wild parties and is clearly up to know good. Said surf gang pummels Keanu and nearly kills him until Swayze runs to his rescue. Keanu’s partner, The Man With Teeth Like Chiclets, then realizes that Keanu has become too close to the group he’s trying to infiltrate, and tries to shake some sense into him, but in vain, as Keanu has already fallen for the sexy Lori Petty and is under the enigmatic spell of Swayze.

With red herrings (energized by Anthony’s stellar role as an Indian chief-esque meth lab worker), twists, Oscar-worthy performances, and the ever-present symbolic role of the ocean, Point Break brings good moviemaking to whole new levels. The highlight of the film is obviously when Swayze leads Keanu into certain death by making him jump out of an airplane with no parachute. What happens? Well, you’ll just have to see to find out.

Point Break (1991): Thirty Stars out of Ten

They're Dropping Like Flies

As I learn of yet another one of my close 22 year old friends becoming engaged, it takes all my energy not to ball up my fists and punch a hole through the wall in pure, unadulterated rage. What the hell happened to the women’s movement?

Now, I am the least likely candidate for a feminist. I once was a registered Republican. I am, for the most part, a traditionalist. I think that the man should make the first move and believe in the fundamental inequality of men and women. I can’t stand those bra-burning bitches with unibrows and hairy legs and their “feminine mystique.”

But it really irks me when my friends decide they’re worth nothing more than writing their life away at 22 for a man.

Okay, whatever, they may be “in love.” But that’s a crock of shit. Nobody falls in love at 22 anymore who isn’t Amish or Mormon. It’s just not normal. For all of the craziness that the feminists in the 60s and 70s brought us, they also had a point: women, tear off your aprons, take the world by storm! Despite our fundamental inequalities, women are just (if not more, I might add) as capable as men to run corporations, find cancer cures, be politicians, blah blah blah.

This we all know and love and nobody in their right PC mind would try to challenge it. Which is why I just cannot get my head around the concept of my fellow females being so willing and eager to get married and have babies so young. Don’t you have dreams of your own? Career aspirations? Personal life goals?

They say that history moves like a pendulum, and that this retroaction is a natural reaction to the women’s movement. But that doesn’t really make a whole lot of sense, since the women’s movement changed the world as it was. It evened out the playing field, and made the world more receptive to women in general. These things should be championed and celebrated and we should praise our fuzzy-legged foremothers for them.

And some will argue that the point of the women’s movement was that women should be allowed to do whatever they want to do—even if that means closing down shop at 22 and turning into a baby machine at 23. I shouldn’t begrudge anyone their right to choose, I know. But it would behoove you marrying folk to take a second look at why, exactly, you think it’s necessary to cut your life off at a time when the world is at your feet. We’re not exactly in the depths of a shrinking human race, here, it’s not crucial that you reproduce ASAP to propagate the species.

I think the real problem is not that they’re in love or that they want to have babies, but that they’re apathetic. Generation Y is the generation of affluence, and with affluence comes apathy. We’re not as motivated as Gen X’ers or Baby Boomers to go out and change the world—it even seems that anti-war protests and stormtroopers on the White House are spearheaded by “real adults.” It has been made so easy for our generation to just sit back and do nothing but watch TV, play on the computer, page through the tabs, etc. etc. etc. With more money and more education, we take just about everything for granted.

I’m not trying to denigrate my peeps, here, but honestly, why else would girls flash their tits for some beads? Why else would they decide to shack up right after college and work a brainless job until they can get hitched? Boredom, I tell you, it’s boredom. You would think that something like the Iraq war or the horrific treatment of women in the Middle East would be issues that would mobilize people, but apparently, we’ve decided it’s just more pleasant to do nothing. (Until it affects us, that is.)

I can’t help but wonder if we’re throwing everything our mothers and grandmothers worked for away, back in their faces. Maybe I feel like an outsider because I do want things for myself, and because I have been single my whole life. But it just seems to me that girls who marry themselves off so early in life aren’t giving themselves enough credit and aren’t embracing all of the options the world has for them. You can’t very well drop everything and go backpacking around the world for a year at 27 if you’re married and have a mortgage and twins on the way, Susie Q. Why would you want to deny yourself the experiences of life?

In the end, I suppose it’s none of my business to pry into the reasoning behind other peoples’ decisions, and the beauty of living in a free society (so they say) is that we’re free to do as we please. And so I am grudgingly happy (and, natch, a little jealous) for my friends who are overjoyed that they’ve found “true love” and are going to live happily ever after. I hope the divorce rate goes down, I really do, for the sake of all my friends. I hope they’re still able to do something for themselves other than fall into a life of soccer motherhood. We do have a right to choose, and I shouldn’t try to stop anyone from seeking out what they believe is their path to happiness.

But don’t you dare come crying on my shoulder when you’re knee deep in diapers and haven’t had sex in a month.

23 and So Tired of Life...Such a Shame to Throw It All Away

I’m in at 11:39 on my birthday (I have work in the morning) and I can’t help but wonder…how did it end up like this? I never thought I would be 23 and so unaccomplished. I used to have such huge goals and plans for myself (and pretty much still do), and somehow, they have all eluded me. Until now, I suppose.

I spent my birthday with good friends at a classic Sunset Strip haunt (my beloved, Anthony Kiedis, hung out there as a child, because his father was dealing drugs out of the place)—Rainbow Bar and Grill—and then went over to another Sunset Strip classic, Viper Room, to see my boss’s son’s band play. Suck up, you say? Not really. The guy is actually pretty hot.

And it’s strange, because I meet so few straight men in the city, and this guy actually seems pretty cool, and is definitely very hot. But he’s pretty much unattainable due to the fact that HE’S MY BOSS’S SON.

All of this is unnecessary back story. The point is, I’m 23, and I’m nearly unemployed (I quit my job with the aforementioned boss on Monday), and I am nowhere near the success and fame I had planned on in my early 20s. I don't even have a boyfriend (nor have I ever), and somehow I doubt that my boss's son will be in my future. I’m trying to convince myself that it’s just a lot harder than I originally thought, that I’m doing the best I can, that it will happen eventually. But there’s a growing, subliminal fear that…maybe it won’t.

Maybe I won’t ever be a published author whose audience is far greater than the handful of you who read this column. Maybe I won’t ever have the opportunity to make incredible films. Maybe I won’t touch anybody, maybe I will never make an impact in any way on anything or anybody. This is a very possible fear, a very likely reality.

But the naïve, innocent, still-hopeful side of me is desperately trying to convince the other side of me that that is all nonsense. That it will happen, that I’m destined for greatness. That 23 is just a number, and a small number, at that. That this will pass and the next year will be amazing.

I’ve never had a boyfriend, never really have done anything remarkable, never have lived life on the edge as I have imagined I would. Sure, I’ve had more experiences than a lot of people, I’ve seen a significant amount of the world, I’ve had some pretty cool things go on in my life. But it’s nowhere near what I ever wanted.

How do you cope in this world if you’re forever wishing for something else? How can you go on if your dream is in a part of a world that is rapidly changing—the world of art? It’s not like artistry has ever been an easy thing to make an impact in while you’re alive; we’re not all Andy Warhols and Steven Spielbergs. But I have to grab on to the hope, the promise that permeates every day life here in Los Angeles, that it still can happen. That 23 isn’t that old. That there’s still plenty of time, that it will all work out. Because without that hope, I would be nothing.

And as I’m buzzing and confused and wishing I didn’t have to go to work in the morning, I’m also desperately trying to ignore the fear and the wonderment that nothing significant will ever happen to me. I may have experienced travel, working on a major motion picture, exciting flings, and jail, but I’m not confident that I will ever experience life as it could be if nothing comes of my desire to make a real impact as an artist. And that’s what makes me sad on my 23rd birthday—the fact that I’m growing more aware that it could be possible that my dreams are becoming further and further away.

I feel as though I should be wearing shoulder pads to work and should be financially independent. I’m still supported by my father and I wear t-shirts to work as I ruin my eyes by staring at a computer screen for 8 hours a day. I wish beyond all wishes that my life were different, and I hope beyond all hope that quitting my current job will open me up to the possibility of real success. But still I worry that it won’t happen.

So I don’t really know what to make of this birthday, except to cling on to the miniscule hope that the guy I’ve been dating will turn out to be someone decent, that maybe I will find a friend in my boss’s hot son, that maybe something will work itself out in my career. It’s that hope that keeps me going, that forces me to get out of bed every morning, that refuses to disappear even in the depths of my despair. I can’t push it away yet, because I am still so unable to settle on the notion that it will never happen.

And maybe it won’t ever happen. Maybe the people I will only ever reach with my art are the people—you—who are reading this column. But I pray that I will never lose the hope, the fire that pushes me, the unnatural desire to make an impact and to make a difference. Because without that hope, without that driving force, my life would be meaningless. And so, I have to be pleased to some degree that I’m still a naïve young twenty-something who has celebrated her birthday in style.

With her boss’s hot son. You know you’re in Los Angeles when…