I'm a Celebrity In My Own Mind...Does That Count?

OK, I admit it: I'm a little bit addicted to those reality shows featuring washed-up "celebrities" dancing or singing or skating or cooking or taking a crap. True, that last one hasn't been made into a show yet, but rest assured that FOX'll have it on the fall schedule. And I'll be the one perched on the edge of my couch, shushing everyone around me so I can hear the sweet sounds of the guy who played Vicki's brother on "Small Wonder" dropping trou.

There's just something about watching Ashley Parker Angel get all cutthroat about making a better pie than Patti LaBelle to recapture his "fame" for a few minutes before the next pointless celebrity reality show comes along and nobody cares about him anymore (I wouldn't fuck with Patti, Ashley. She hits below the belt).

ANYWAY, here is my question: What, exactly, do the producers of these shows define as a "celebrity?" The dictionary says a celebrity is "a famous or well-known person."

I would love to be a fly on the wall at some of these TV show idea pitching meetings:

Producer: OK, we get the guy who played the tubby White kid on The Cosby Show, and we pair him with David Blaine, see, and they do magic! And they compete against other actors and magicians! And the prize is getting to be David Blaine's assistant for a year!

TV Honcho: I love it!! Order 30 episodes!

Like, I get Dave Coulier being dubbed a celebrity for the purpose of Skating with Celebrities and The Surreal Life: 1) He played an iconic character on an iconic show. His Uncle Joey was a man of so many demensions--he was a man who could do a Popeye impression the likes of which the viewing public had never seen, but at the end of the day was still able to convince us that he was just a simple man who wanted only to tend to his mullet, play hockey and bang DJ in the basement. Such range, Coulier! Such depth! 2) He was the inspiration for the Alanis Morrisette classic "You Oughta Know." Yes, Alanis went down on Coulier in a theater (well, maybe). Gross, but still, that song rocks.

So Coulier, you get my vote as a celebrity. Or at least a once-upon-a-time celebrity. But producers of "I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here!," having been married to J. Lo for all of nine months does not a celebrity make (i.e. Cris Judd, you are not a celebrity). Celebrity Fit Club, having a jackass of a son who MTV pays to be even more of a jackass does not a celebrity make (i.e. Phil Margera, you are not a celebrity).

I don't know, maybe I'm being too harsh. Perhaps my standards for celebritydom are too high. But then again, I kind of can't wait until K-Fed shows up in five years for Celebrity Tattoo Removal 5.

So, maybe not.

Is John Cougar Mellencamp indulging in payola?


When you have a long commute, as I do, you end up listening to the radio a lot. I have contemplated making some sweet mixtapes to make the roughly 325 miles I drive each week a joy-filled musical extravaganza of sounds, combinations of songs and lyrics heretofore unexplored. I think everyone's looking for that perfect mix, the kind with songs that just take over your body and force out all other thoughts but the song. The song controls you, and you like it. For me, two such songs are "Closer" by Nine Inch Nails and "American Woman" by the Guess Who. But I lack motivation and know-how. So it's the radio for me, and as I cannot stand listening to (most) talk radio in the morning (Eric and Kathy make me long for death) it's a lot of channel surfing for me. This means my musical standards go way, way down. I'll listen to pretty much anything. One thing I have noticed? John Cougar Mellencamp is UBIQUITOUS on the radio these days. On average each day, I hear at least three of his songs. It's like Jack and Diane dancing naked fighting the law (which won, incidentally)in Pink Houses on a lonely 'ol night that manages to also be a wild night full of cherry bombs. Or something. It's insane. So I've decided that Mr. John Mellencamp has been paying off DJs, perhaps in pizza, perhaps in Diane's, to play his songs. There is no other explanation. Just picture it ...

Scene: An empty radio station, early morning. The morning DJ (let's call him Mack in the Morning) has just arrived, bleary-eyed and clutching his morning coffee. He's never gotten used to the early morning shift, despite having been a morning jock for years. He shuffles in slowly, and eases gratefully into his little spinning chair near the microphone. He snags the day's playlist and is about to slide his lusciously padded, "radio DJ" headphones onto his weary head when he notices something is amiss ... the playlist has been altered!

Mack in the Morning: whaahuh? John Cougar Mellencamp ...?

He notices that three currently popular songs have been replaced with songs recorded by John Cougar Mellencamp. Something nefarious is clearly afoot. He makes a move to cross the songs off the list, when suddenly he hears a rasping sound behind him. He looks up, and is tackled by John Cougar Mellencamp, who is foaming at the mouth!

John Cougar Mellencamp: IT"S JUST JOHN MELLENCAMP, YOU IGNORANT PRICK. And if you cross off even one of my songs, Mellencamp will end you! YOU HEAR ME? I WILL END YOU, I WILL FUCKING END YOU.

Mack in the Morning is badly frightened, but as he is a morning DJ, he is also a cocky SOB. He bounces back quickly from the fear.

MiiM: What? Are you serious? I thought you lived in like, Bloomington ... you can't be that tough, John Cougar Mellencamp. I mean ... Johnny Cougar? Then John Cougar Mellencamp? Now just John Mellencamp? Identity crisis, much?

In response, Mellencamp promptly puts Mack in a sleeper hold. When Mack wakes up 8 minutes later, Mellencamp is sitting on the floor next to his head, staring at him and gleefully snacking on a bag of Funions. Mack is deeply shaken. He now knows that Mellencamp means business, and he is prepared to do whatever it takes to get him to leave him alone.

MiiM: Whaa? What do you want, John Mellencamp?! Please, just tell me what it is that you want.

Mellencamp stares at Mack in silence. He pulls a Funion out of his bag, looks meaningfully at Mack, then snaps it in half abrubtly.

Mack jumps, startled. He then tries to appease the Mellencamp.

MiiM: So anyway, man, nice to see you in person, you look terrific. And are those Funions? Good choice man, they really put the fun in onion ... anyway, what can I do for you?

Mellencamp: I. want. you. to. play. my. songs. Got.it.?

MiiM: Well you know, John, I'd be happy to, but I don't really make those decisions around here ... oh my god! (Mellencamp has begun to advance) Yes, yes, of course I will play your songs. All of them. Whenever you want. Be happy to.

Mellencamp nods. Brushing Funion crumbs off his shirt, he gets up to leave. Before he does, he looks down at Mack, huddled on the floor. He stands over him and nudges him in the ribs with his steel-toed boot. He pulls a wad of cash from his wallet and throws it on top of Mack. Then, his face contorts into the most awful sneer, and he leans over ... and spits. Covered in Mellencamp spittle, Mack curls up into the fetal position and chokes back tears.

Mellencamp: Keep the change, you filthy animal!

Mellencamp exits.

MiiM: Did John Mellencamp just reference Home Alone? What a tool.

That's really the only explanation.

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Personal Story of Embarrassment: When in college, I was a DJ at WPGU. When I first started, I worked overnights. After a certain time , the station locked automatically to protect the precious DJs inside from unruly fans. One fine morning, I was there at about 4:30 a.m., at which point the morning paper was delivered. Bored with listening to Tool songs and trying to think of clever witticisms that no one would be listening to anyway, I went outside to retrieve it. Instead of leaning out the door to grab the paper, I walked all the way outside. It was only when I heard the door shut behind me that I realized what I had done. Yes, I had locked myself out of the station ...

Needless to say, 15 minutes or so of dead airtime later, I was rescued and let back inside. But it was still quite awful. And a completely classic "Kristin" move.

My (John Mark) Karr is in Overdrive

So I wanted to make my first contribution to Shalomy the Potato a light-hearted piece on reality TV (Tina Yothers on Celebrity Fit Club 4? You go on with your badass self, girlfriend! Holla!) or a look at the hottest fall fashions (pair leggings with a hot denim miniskirt for a fab autumn look!)

But before I touch on those two very important topics, I need to get something off my chest: I need someone to get this mother f-ing John Mark Karr off my mother f-ing TV screen (and that, my friends, will be the last terrible Snakes on a Plane reference I will make. Until tomorrow. I'm sorry, I just can't resist. Apparently, neither can the New York Post. It's Snakes on a Plane mania, people!)

But I digress. Seriously, I get why people are so in a tizzy about him--he's (maybe!) the guy who (maybe!) killed a beauty queen a decade ago. It's a hot story. It's really sad that a little girl got killed, and if he actually did it, people can have some closure. He's a creepy car wreck of a dude--you don't want to look at him, yet you can't look away.

But the whole thing is a little out of control. Like, I get the feeling that President Bush could be assassinated by a tag team (back again, check it to wreck it, let's begin) of Fidel Castro and Ariel Sharon, who healed from their respective ailments with the help of Uncle Fidel's Happy Fun Time Magical Awesome Elixir, and somehow John Mark Karr and his creepy dead stare would still end up on the front page of the paper.

And I hate it, because I have somehow gotten sucked into the insanity. Like, the other day I found myself looking at the picture they keep showing of him in the Thai airport, and I was all, "Brother could use a belt." It took 2.2 seconds to think that thought, 2.2 seconds I could have used to save a kitten caught in a tree or tend to a dying flower.

And I've somehow become fascinated by his name. There's something about guys who use two first names that is really interesting to me. I spent 15 minutes at work today sticking his name into song titles. Because I'm weird (and my job is boring). Here is what I came up with:

Get out of my dreams, and into my (John Mark) Karr
(John Mark) Karr-ma Karr-ma Karr-ma Kar-ma Kar-ma Chameleon
Baby, you can drive my (John Mark) Karr
(John Mark) Karr you, (John Mark) Karr me, say it together, that's the way it should be
(I took some liberties with the last one).

Anyway, the bottom line is, let's find out if the Prince of Creep City did it and then move on with our lives. So I can spend less time worrying about John Mark Karr's belt situation and spend more time rocking out to Paris Hilton's new album. Now that is some good shit!!

The birth of Shalomy the Potato (told in the third person)

Late one evening, Yvonne and Kristin were comfortably ensconced in their apartment. If you've never been, this apartment is a magnificently spacious abode the likes of which are simply unparalleled. The floors are centuries-old oak buffed with a whisper-thin coat of crushed diamonds, and the amenities include a jacuzzi and a cabana boy. Naturally, Kristin and Yvonne were wearing evening gowns, as they do every night. Yvonne's was a dazzling beaded electric blue number, and Kristin's was a fabulous confection of green chiffon.

On this fine summer evening, the girls were conversing merrily about what a proper artistic outlet for their myriad talents might be.

Kristin: I say, Yvonne ... didn't we have a simply marvelous idea for a blog a fortnight or so ago? What were we planning to call it?

Yvonne: Yes, I do recall that we did, Kristin. In fact, it was very clever, if I recall?

Kristin: I declare, it was powerful clever, Yvonne. If I remember correctly, it had something to do with courtship and the trials and tribulations thereof.

Yvonne: Yes! But alas, I cannot remember either. Perhaps it is for the best, as I think we would have a shortage of material in that area.

Kristin: Perhaps you're right. But let us not abandon the idea entirely. Maybe we can create a blog on another topic?

Yvonne: Yes, that is true. We can write a blog just about our lives, and comment on pop culture and world events!

Kristin: Yvonne, you're brilliant! Let us call upon our Irish Catholic and Polish Jewish heritage to give birth to something that combines them beautifully ... SHALOMY THE POTATO.

Overcome with emotion, Kristin faints. Yvonne, ever the trustworthy friend, comes to her aid and revives her.

Kristin: Thank you! Accept this lime as a token of my undying friendship!!!

Yvonne: Thank YOU. What a stunningly appropriate gift.

Fin.

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OK so in reality we were sitting around Yvonne's room in our gym clothes. We remembered how we wanted to start a team blog and the following conversation occurred:

Kristin: Yvonne, we should still start our blog. We had a hilarious name, what was it?

Yvonne: Hmm. I don't remember. But it was really funny ...

Kristin: I think it had something to do with dudes .... Mother of pearl, what was it? I can't remember!

Yvonne: I can't either. Although maybe we should think of a new topic, it's not like either of us are serial daters.

Kristin: I don't know, I was going out with Captain Crunch for a while ... (Kristin is the only one who finds this hilarious. Yvonne waits patiently as Kristin says "Get it? Cereal dater?" AHAHAHA) Anyway, we can just blog about pop culture.

Yvonne: Yeah, that sounds good.

Then we somehow came up with Shalomy the Potato. Shalomy is a Hebrew name and potato is a starchy vegetable with eyes. If you didn't know. According to Dan Quayle, it's spelled potatoe.

Anyway, here we will blog about stuff. And other stuff. And that stuff too. With Jesus and Moses on our side we really can't lose.