Do You Really Want to See Me Naked?

This morning I saw a news story about how our British cousins have made a camera that sees under clothing. So for all you women that never stopped padding your bra with toilet paper and all you guys that are still stuffing socks in your underwear, the gig is finally up.

Sure, the article says that the camera is only going to be used to determine whether someone has a gun, bomb or drugs on their person. But I say, yeah, right. Like we're stupid enough to believe that folks aren't going to be checking out our underwear or seeing what we look like naked.

I fully believe that if we're being told about the technology, it's probably already been secretly used on us for at least two or three years. People acted all shocked about the passing of the Patriot Act but I always thought the government did all of that surveillance anyway. I already figured phone conversations got listened to and bank records got monitored.

Do you remember the movie "Enemy of the State"? If not, it's a 1998 film starring Will Smith and Gene Hackman and it's all about surveillance. It basically predicted everything that would be included in the Patriot Act. I remember being especially weirded out by how the rogue National Security Agency agents track Smith's character via satellite. Next thing you know, we have the option to equip our cars with On-Star technology. Sure, we're told it'll rescue us in a crash, but do I really want someone to know where I'm driving at all times?

Yes, seeing that film was the first time I really thought about how God was no longer the only entity who could know what I was doing at any given time. Now we're all so monitored, we can even be tracked through our cell phones.

I certainly don't feel any safer with all this surveillance. After all, I've never heard about someone saying how they were 1) watching a robbery in progress from a live camera stuck on the side of a building in Downtown L.A. so they, 2) called the cops and 3) the cops showed up 30 seconds later and saved the victim.

In the amount of time someone watching a live camera feed spends on hold with 911, I might already be murdered, raped or robbed by a stick-up kid. All that'll be shown on the 11:00 news is a grainy picture of a suspect. I suppose that's better than nothing, but I'd already be a victim of a violent crime and, alas, my blogging days might forever be silenced. (Feel free to grab your tissues now.)

The fact remains that most cameras don't have someone viewing live footage. The manpower for something like that simply doesn't exist. So if a crime takes place, footage is pulled after the fact so a suspect can hopefully be identified.

Now I have to think about how some government employee is going to be viewing you and me with a camera that sees through our clothing. Can't you just imagine that employee snickering while tallying up a chart with the headings: boxers, briefs, thong, granny panties?

Just think what'll happen if these cameras get installed here in Hollywood. There'll be speculative reports in US Weekly and OK! about which other celebrities besides Britney Spears go out without their underwear.

Then someone from the National Security Agency will get drunk and leave their laptop in a bar. We'll find out that the laptop had thousands of hours of video footage stored on it. Before we know it some nefarious schemer will somehow acquire said footage and a website will pop up promising access to for a fee. How about $49.95 for access to a naked LL Cool J or Orlando Bloom?

If you're saying, "Girl, I wish I could but gas and milk is almost $4 a gallon!" Okay, how about $19.95 for nude access to D list celebrities that "star" on VH1 reality shows?

If that's still too steep of a price point, or you throw up a little in your mouth at the prospect of paying to see either Flavor Flav or Brett Michaels naked, the bargain section of the site will feature footage of everyday people. You and me in the buff for $9.99. And if you're truly broke, just think, there might even be a .99 cent section for images of those of us that aren't that attractive whether we're naked or covered with a gigantic parka.

Of course, the US government will try to shut the site down but it'll turn out that it's being run from some undetermined location in Eastern Europe. Just when the CIA manages to close in, the band of porn peddlers will pack up shop and high-tail it to Afghanistan to hide out in the mountains with someone else we can't find. Then the government will announce that even more surveillance is needed so we can catch the criminals who run websites showing us without our clothing.

After all the hubbub dies down and we're all trained to yawn at the prospect of that one stalkerish neighbor paying to see our naked picture online, a news story will be run on page 36 of the New York Times. It'll tell us about how Drunk Employee who lost the laptop in the first place has just been promoted to head of the Department of Homeland Security.

You think it can't happen? You think I'm crazy to come up with such a scenario? Well, then you must be one of the ones believing that the cameras will only be used to detect guns, drugs and bombs.

Good luck with that line of thinking.

Will Tomorrow Come for Britney?

A few hours after crying my eyes out over Obama's Iowa victory last night, I found myself watching "Gone With the Wind".

I know, it makes no sense but I can only blame it on late night channel surfing. Before I knew it, I was watching Vivien Leigh acting as Scarlett O'Hara and Clark Gable getting it on as Rhett Butler.

Watching GWTW is like watching a train wreck. Put aside the fact that it's never been a movie I've liked with it's racist depictions of slaves like Mammy and Prissy, who are just sooo happy go-lucky and content with their lot.

Who doesn't cringe at Prissy's classic line, "I don't know nuthin' 'bout birthin' no babies, Miz Scarlett!" Ugh, no wonder the actress that played her, Butterfly McQueen, ended up quitting acting for a long time. Talk about typecasting!

The thing that makes GWTW so train wrecky is that Scarlett is the girl with no morals, an attention whore, the mid 19th century equivalent of Tila Tequila or, gosh...Britney Spears.

Yes, I woke up this morning still buzzing about Barack Obama. But the local LA news was buzzing even more about Britney Spears.

It got me thinking. Maybe what's really been wrong with Britney all this time is that when she was a little girl her mama sat her in front of the TV to watch Gone With the Wind. Britney probably grew up thinking Scarlett O'Hara was just the essence of southern womanhood, the essence of beauty and decorum.

But in reality, Scarlett is a lying, scheming tramp. I mean, two seconds after Ashley Wilkes' wife dies, Scarlett's asking Ashley if he wants to get with her. Britney probably translated that behavior to the 21st century seeing as how she got with Kevin Federline while he had fiancee Shar Jackson pregnant with their second child.

Rhett Butler takes his daughter, Bonnie Blue Butler, away from Scarlett because it's clear Scarlett doesn't give a damn about the child. And of course, K-Fed's lawyers are busy taking away Britney's kids because, well, it's clear she doesn't give a damn about those babies either.

Not that Rhett or K-Fed are ideal, responsible upstanding men, because they're clearly not. So it's weird that I watch GWTW and I'm relieved when Rhett takes Bonnie. And I'm relieved that K-Fed has custody now.

Another thing: Scarlett has always struck me as suffering from some sort of mental illness or personality disorder, and I'm not just saying that because Vivien Leigh was bi-polar in real life .

As for Britney, is she bi-polar? Manic depressive? Does she have multiple personalities? Is it drugs? Is it all of the above?

I don't know but I do know that in "Gone With the Wind" we watch Scarlett act crazy for about four hours. It's truly exhausting to watch her antics during that relatively short amount of time. Even at the end of the movie, Scarlett's still oblivious to the fact that it's her behavior that's the problem. She never once thinks that stepping back and changing her behavior is the answer. Nope, Scarlett thinks that her plantation and getting Rhett back is the answer to everything.

She starts her scheming and then declares, "Tomorrow is another day!"

I always feel like yelling at the TV, "You don't get it! Tomorrow is another day but that day might not come for you!"

We've all been watching Britney act the way she does for a whole lot longer than four hours. I'm mentally exhausted by it, but she seems to feed on the insanity of it all.

She's a lead story on legit news sites. Her face is staring back at me from the magazines lining every checkout stand. She's talked about on the radio. And here I am writing about her on my blog.

It must make her feel like it'll always be that way, like it'll last forever. Like tomorrow will always come.

And the truth is, sometimes it doesn't. I just hope Britney realizes that before it's too late.

Jamie Lynn Spears: Statutory Rape?

Wowzer, 2007 is really going out with a bang!

If you haven't heard by now, Jamie Lynn Spears, Britney's little sister is pregnant.

I didn't see in the news how many soldiers died in Iraq today but I know all the sordid details of her pregnancy, particularly that Jamie Lynn is 16. I guess they've had Madonna's "Papa Don't Preach" on heavy rotation in that household.

I'd love to know where the condom was but good for Jamie Lynn that's she's decided to keep her baby. Really, I don't know why some in the media are acting like the girl's life is finished. I'm sure there are thousands of other 16 year-olds out there that are pregnant and they don't have the resources Jamie Lynn Spears has at their disposal.

Right now, I'm watching MSNBC where they're buzzing about whether Jamie Lynn's TV show on Nickelodeon, Zoey 101, is going to be canceled because of her pregnancy. After all, her image is supposed to be squeaky clean. They're debating whether or not Nickelodeon can legally fire her from the show and if they do, wouldn't that be some sort of wrongful termination or discrimination on the basis of her being pregnant?

I don't know about all that. I'm just waiting for these talking heads to bring up the fact that the father of her baby, her boyfriend, Casey Aldridge, is 19.

She's 16. He's 19.

So, isn't Casey having sex with Jamie Lynn statutory rape? Shouldn't someone be rolling up to handcuff him and cart Casey off to the big house? Or do laws like that only apply when black teenage boys like Genarlow Wilson get teenage girls to give them blow jobs on New Year's Eve?

Yes, 17 year-old Genarlow got ten years for having consensual oral sex with a 15 year-old girl. Just imagine how many years prison he would have gotten if that 15 year-old had gotten pregnant. Heck, he might have gotten life in prison or something.

Genarlow just got released this year, at the age of 21.

Since America is the land of equal opportunity, shouldn't Casey Aldridge get the opportunity to make friends with a jail cell?

I'm sure it'll never happen. After all, Casey's a nice boy from her church. No way he deserves to go to jail with hardened criminals, right?

Blowing Kisses to the Wind

Ten years ago, I lived in New York. I loved the city, felt at home in it. But the wall to wall concrete sometimes grated against my soul.

After a couple months of living in Harlem, I found myself complaining about how even dogs were deprived of the opportunity to handle their business on grass. I hated how the location of every tree seemed planned. Flowers only grew in the window boxes stuck to the side of buildings.

Whatever connection with the earth I'd had back in Chicago had been replaced with the sound of my heels clacking on concrete. I missed the appearance of wildness, of nature just out of control.

A friend who'd been raised out on Staten Island told me to stop complaining. He said, "Just go to Central Park!" It made no sense to me. How could one patch of land make up for such a lack of green in the rest of the city? I was an absolute skeptic and did not go.

A couple more weeks passed and I kept complaining. My friend decided to drop everything and take me himself.

The first time I went, it was a November day similar to today. I found myself sitting in the grass, feeling the crispness of the air blowing through the trees. I watched young lovers walking along shaded paths, holding hands, oblivious to all else but their beloved. I realized that my friend, in all his generosity, was hoping to be more than just friends.

Central Park is a beautiful place for reflection and for realizations. Yesterday, just before dusk, I walked along the south end of the park. I felt such a longing to just go and sit in that grass once more. I wanted to just sit in nature, feel my heart beating and blow kisses into the wind.

Alas, time did not allow and I found myself walking over to Columbus Circle and then riding a packed #1 train headed Uptown, squeezed against perfect strangers, bodies touching but still avoiding eye contact of any kind. It was so crowded that when the train lurched and people lost their balance, they were held up by the bodies around them.

There is something incredibly comforting about that crowdedness, that human contact, even in all of it's anonymity.

My time in New York City has flown by and I'm now sitting at LaGuardia airport, headed back to Los Angeles. Danny Glover is sitting across from me reading a magazine. It's sort of funny but it definitely doesn't seem like the guy sitting on his left even knows who he is.

Oh, let me take that back.

Someone just came up to Danny and asked him for an autograph. Now the look on the face of the guy sitting next to Danny is like, "Oh, you're not just a black grandpa looking guy, you're Somebody!"

Isn't that funny how folks will treat you different when they think you're Someone. Now Danny's getting mobbed by folks who just want him to sign whatever piece of paper they have hand.

What are they going to do with those pieces of paper, I wonder. Maybe those pieces of paper will be blown away by the wind. Blown away like the kisses I wanted to set free.

Truly, au revoir, NYC.

Lindsay Lohan And LA's Nameless, Faceless Black and Tan Dots

See that picture to the left? Don't you wonder what those little black and tan dots are?

I'll give you a hint: It's part of a map of Los Angeles.

Before you get all excited, let me be clear: those dots aren't locations of celebrity homes. And don't worry, they also aren't places where Lindsay Lohan's been arrested for DUI.

In fact, despite another booking for DUI and cocaine possession, I have a hard time picturing Lindsay spending any time in the neighborhoods highlighted in this section of the map. She doesn't really strike me as a South-Central type of ride-or-die chick, you know? She probably hasn't even seen "Baby Boy" before. And, Lindsay has money for bail and the umpteenth shot at rehab.

Indeed, Lindsay's train-wreck existence has felt like the biggest story on the internet and TV, even bigger than the Bulgarian medics who injected 438 kids in Libya with HIV being set free.

And now it's 12:13 at night and I'm watching Rob Schneider, dressed up and pretending to be Lindsay Lohan on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno. Schneider is pretty funny, and normally, I'd probably laugh. But I can't. I'm sitting here with tears running down my cheeks. And no, Lindsay's plight hasn't affected me that much.

No, I've been simultaneously reading the Los Angeles Times' Homicide Report. You see, those black and tan dots in the picture, well those are people. 460 mostly black and Latino people. Mostly males, mostly late teens, early twenties in age...you know, around Lindsay Lohan's age. And they've been murdered in Los Angeles this year.

The Report, in existence since January, is written in blog form by a journalist named Jill Leovy. This isn't the first time I've read it, but it's been awhile since I clicked on the link and read the heartbreaking stories about the circumstances and lives of those who have been murdered. Truly, I have nothing but respect for Jill who, in one article, answers the question about why the homicide report exists:

"Selective news coverage is a practical necessity for most news organizations operating in a county where nearly 1,100 people die from homicide yearly. The Los Angeles Times, for example, is limited by the number of pages it prints, and in a recent year, found room for stories on fewer than 10% of L.A. County homicides, according to an analysis by a Times researcher. Such selectivity ensures that the people and places most affected by homicides are least likely to be seen, while the safest people are inundated with information about crimes unlikely to ever touch their lives."

Don't be shy. Go ahead and click on that link and read more about why Jill does the Report. Rereading it just now reminded of me of why I wish the best for Lindsay Lohan and Britney Spears and all the rest of them...but I honestly don't give a damn about them. They aren't living somewhere where they can get shot sitting on their front porch. They aren't parents who have to grieve for their eighteen year old son murdered in front of their house. Oh, and these same parents have a daughter who's nine and survived being shot in a drive-by four years ago.

Yeah, you start reading that Homicide Report, and suddenly, those black and tan dots have a name, and have a face. You start reading it and you're accountable for what you know about the countless young people gunned down in this city... and they aren't even drunk and in possession of cocaine.

So forgive me for not thinking Lindsay's situation deserves all the press it's received. Forgive me for hoping she gets the book thrown at her and gets locked up for awhile, as she deserves.

After all, in prison, at least she'd still be alive.

Celebrities

Sometimes when I go places with my two sons, I feel like I'm traveling with a couple of A-list celebrities.

Because of the, "Oh my GAWD! They are SOOO cute!" factor here's some of the things they've experienced:

They have gotten free food and/or drinks from restaurants. And I'm not just talking about Denny's where kids eat free on Tuesdays.

They have received complimentary clothing. "Let's give that little boy an Amoeba Music t-shirt."

They've been blinded by a camera-phone picture snapping frenzy. (The phone wielders were tourists who mistakenly thought my sons were on some Disney Channel show.) And the last time we got pictures done professionally, I thought the photographer was going to have an orgasm.

"Yes, YES! Ohhh YESSS! That's the perfect shot!"

All that enthusiasm ended when it was time for the group family photos. "Um, mom, let's have you move a little to your right. Um. No. A little more. Um. No, let's try a different pose."

My sons are very mellow about all this attention and I've had to learn to not growl at people who compliment them. We've had to have a couple of chats about how cute is as cute does, but they are, overall, very unassuming.

However, this past week, I've had to deal with them making celebrity style demands due to the arrival of an even bigger celebrity, their grandpa.

My dad has been here in LA for work and the level of frenzy surrounding his visit was unprecedented.

There have been requests for more time in the bathtub because, "We need to get extra clean for grandpa."

They asked to have their hair washed, brushed, and dried with the diffuser attachment on the hair dryer. Why all this effort? "So grandpa won't think bugs live in our hair."

My punk-rock, skateboarding youngest made the ultimate sacrifice and washed all his hand-drawn ink pen tattoos off his arms. He didn't want grandpa to think he was a bad boy. He also didn't want to wear blue jeans because, "Grandpa doesn't like blue jeans." This is not true, but the mythology was powerful enough to cause some impressive temper tantrums when it came time to get dressed.

Despite their admiration of him, my dad got to experience being part of the Olinga/Toussaint entourage while we were all at the Cheesecake Factory in Marina Del Rey. Not one, not two, but three servers crowded around to coo over these two. I think my dad was getting a little annoyed by the gushing girl who kept saying, "Oh my gawd! They are so cute! Can I babysit for them? I'll babysit for free, they're so cute!"

Afterwards, my dad told me I should be afraid of the future. I absolutely agree.

These Are My (Pop-Culture) Confessions

I came home tonight and caught the tail end of Access Hollywood (or was it Extra?). In any case, Billy Bush was going on and on about Angelina Jolie's newest adopted child. They had some psychiatrist on the show talking about how the biggest issue the kid will have is getting used to dealing with the paparazzi. I told my husband that I didn't think I could deal with being a celebrity and having a media frenzy wherever I went. He said he wouldn't mind if he had enough money to live comfortably. We debated that for a bit and I stuck to my side of the coin.

For one, I don't think I could pass the fashionista litmus test. I wear too much black and I like to dress down more than I enjoy dressing up. I'd be on the "Needs a new stylist" list every week. Mr. Blackwell would roast me from here to eternity.

Bigger than that though is that I don't think I could deal with being unable to watch people because of them being too busy watching me. I got to thinking about how we're all just a bit too obsessed with pop culture. I'll bet more people in America knew Heather Mills was going to be on Dancing With the Stars tonight than knew that today is the is 4th anniversary of our little Iraq exploits.

But, I'm not a hypocrite so I have to come clean about my own little pop-culture issues. Although confession of sins is not allowed in my religious tradition, I figure that confessing my pop culture obsessions could be a good thing. Perhaps if I believe, like they say in AA, that the first step is admitting the problem, I'll be able to convince my husband to put down the copy of US Weekly that I bought at the Dallas airport on Friday night. He's sitting in bed right next to me, reading about celebrity drug addictions. He just said, "These people are sick!" but he hasn't chucked it into the trash. So, you wanna know:

1. I buy a copy of US Weekly or Star magazine at least once a month. Now, I know that gossip kills the soul of the person being talked about and the person doing the talking. BUT, I get sucked into the stories and before you know it, I'm reading, "Stars. They're just like us." Um, no they're not. I thank the heavens for rent control. They are considering moving to Malibu.
2. Celebrity gossip sites: I used to read Defamer religiously. Now I just check out Popsugar. I found that sites like Defamer and The Superficial had these mean, snarky commentators and I didn't like that.
3. I don't schedule anything on Mondays at 9 pm because I'm obsessed with the show "Heroes". It's on hiatus now and my Monday nights are relatively boring as a result.
4. I like to watch America's Next Top Model. I don't catch it every week but I like to watch it. Except that Ms. J is so annoying and I don't think his/her walk is really all that.
5. I visit Orlando Bloom and Depeche Mode fansites. I even leave comments on the Depeche Mode message boards. I know obscure facts that the average person that buys a DM cd doesn't know. Do these random facts help me in the real world? THAT remains to be seen.
   
6. Sometimes I watch The Real World. I know...it's a bunch of drinking, whoring and arguing. It's the proverbial train wreck. Why don't I just click it off?
   
   I'll leave it at six "problems". And, let me take a moment to remind myself (and you) that I'm not all bad.
   
   My saving graces:

1. I've never seen Grey's Anatomy or Desperate Housewives. Based on the advertisements for Grey's , I now know how the spread of venereal diseases happens so quickly.
   
2. I've only watched American Idol twice. First season. And I have no idea who's on this season. Don't care either....but I do sorta like Kelly Clarkson.
   
3. I've only seen Dancing With the Stars twice. Once was tonight and I only watched because I wanted to see the trailer for Pirates of the Carribean: At World's End. The trailer came on an hour and 22 minutes into the program. Waay too long to wait for that. Then, I left it on to watch Heather Mills dance. She was pretty awful and I hope she gets the boot despite her fake leg.

I'm really wondering, why do we all get so obsessed with pop culture? Is it a conspiracy to distract us from what's really going on in the world? And, what are your pop-culture confessions?