Why is Lauren Conrad's new Entertainment Weekly cover so creepy? Could be because it's damn horrifying that people are still talking about these Hills snots. But it probably has more to do with Conrad's eyes – why so deer-in-headlights, you nut? – which don't pair well with the news that her new favorite activity is sitting at home, alone, and crying about the ugly pit her life's become.
Every once in a while, a brave man (or woman!) emerges from the muck of Hollywood greater than they ever would have been had they not withstood the pressures of showbiz and its many ungodly tests. These people, these rare gifts, are like carbon that's squashed and roasted until out pops a diamond. Steve Guttenberg, The Goot, is not one of these people. But he really, really believes he is, and – God love him – we almost wish he were right.
“I am a seducer, I’m a salesman,” he said. “I’m trying to get people to buy my message. I do have a message. I’m as corny as Kansas in August. I’m as high as a kite on the Fourth of July. That’s from South Pacific, but yeah, I do have a message …” He looked at the busy street below and into the private park across the street. “The meek will inherit the earth,” he said, in a softer voice. “So be nice to the meek. The old man spitting on the corner. The janitor cleaning up. The man behind the counter at the convenience store. Those are our people—that guy driving that truck—they make the world go. And, you know, the powerful and the wealthy, there’s a place for everybody, but don’t put the regular guy down. And that comes from me. I’m an ordinary guy living an extraordinary life, but I’m an ordinary guy. I’m not a fancy fellow.”
…
“I think some people do understand that message, that I’m an ordinary guy trying to paint pictures of ordinary people, in an extraordinary life,” he said. And then there are the people he calls the “hippoisie. These are the people who think I’m not apathetic enough for them. That the tone in my voice goes up too often. That I smile too much. That I’m too happy. So, to them, I say, ‘Fuck you.’”
Do read the rest of The Goot's Observer profile. It's a wondrous thing.
VERY BAD THINGS "The former head of the top supplier of body armor to the U.S. military was released Thursday from federal custody after posting $400 million bond. David H. Brooks, the former chief executive of DHB Industries Inc., which is now Point Blank Solutions Inc., has spent several months locked up on fraud charges." While reaping millions from the war in Iraq, Brooks bought himself a $100,000 belt buckle, his wife an $8,000 face lift and his daughter an $8 million bat mitzvah.
Got seven grand lying around and taking up space that would be better filled with absurdly-priced goods? Got a desire to support people rendered hopeless and indigent by a stolen childhood and premature riches? Then get out your checkbook!
Also for sale is a letterman jacket once worn by Haim in a movie you've never seen—a steal at $16,000. (Seriously, he probably stole it from a Planet Hollywood.) No bids yet on either. Hurry!
According to a Page Six article published today, wasted waste Brandon Davis has fallen on tough times. Relegated to crashing on couches and suffering the indignity of asking for—and being denied—money from friends, the oil heir is finding it difficult to get out of a hole he dug with bottles and outbursts.
Several sources said Davis - who once hounded Lindsay Lohan for not having money and called her a "firecrotch" - has been financially cut off by his wealthy family for not being able to get his act together, and pals like Paris Hilton and Stavros Niarchos aren't taking his calls.
And here it is. Look closely, and for a long time. This, friends, is the face of utter resignation to vast wealth. This is the face of a man whose very existence hinges on an alcohol-infused routine so drab that it's difficult, nay, impossible to even expel a smile. To do so would not be physically taxing, but emotionally draining, as sifting through the negative feelings inside to find the fleck of golden happiness would be as futile as searching for an errant pebble in the Nile. And sure, it looks as if he can still muster the inclination to scrape an ivory handled razor over his expanding jowls, but such a surface attempt at decency makes his presence seem even more grotesque than it actually is. If you ever look in the mirror and see a face such as this staring back, check your pulse, and then immediately reevaluate your entire existence. There may be hope if you act soon enough.
For him, it's far too late. He will continue to chug, stumble and grope his way through life and into an early grave and, if we're lucky, along the way he'll serve as a reminder that when the nest is feathered too much, the bird will never learn to fly.
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