Everything I said in my April Fool’s post, up until the end, was completely true. I don’t have the time anymore, I’ve lost interest in celebrity shenanigans, I have other projects I want to focus on, and I don’t want to not like things anymore.
But I will NOT be shutting down the website.
So technically, the April Fools was on myself. Or, I guess, I unconsciously fooled myself by trying to fool you into thinking I hadn’t fooled myself when in reality I was the fool and you were the foolee, except not, because it wasn’t true, but it was and my brain just broke.
Can someone get MIles from Lost to explain time travel to me, cause I think I just shot Ben Linus dead.
So TheJay.com, as it is, won’t be going offline. I get too much traffic to old posts, have too many links floating around the net, and it’s nice to be able to go through my online archives every so often and laugh at my old jokes. That being said, new posts will be VERY few and far between (think 2-3 posts a month at best). And when (or if) it does happen, it will be fun and funny like always, but positive. A collection of ideas around things that are awesome.
In fact, I’m changing my site description from:
“TheJay.com is pop culture from inside the bubble, offering fresh and funny commentary on the world of entertainment and celebrity shenanigans.”
“TheJay.com is fresh and funny commentary on all things awesome in the world of entertainment.”
Will I still be somewhat acerbic? Sure. Will I still poke fun at some of my lesser favorite celebrities ahem Reese ahem? Yeah, probs. Will I every so often let a bitchy post slip through the wire? Only if Mischa Barton does something stupid enough to block my sunshine.
But for the most part, you can expect great YouTube clips, move trailer reviews, drops of songs that are worth endlessly repeating on a loop on your iPod (think: “Use Somebody”, Kings of Leon, or “Hope Valley Hill”, Helios), love letters to celebrities are who loveable and updates on things going on with me that are of note.
I hope you’ll pop back in occasionally and see what’s up. Whatever is here, I’m hoping it’ll be just a little something to brighten up your day. Especially if you hate Mischa Barton.
I’ve been writing this blog for close to three and a half years; in that time I wrote more than 400 (suspect to hilarious) posts and was read by more than a million people. I have been linked across the net, spotlighted by some of the biggest websites there is and was nominated and won a slew of awards. Also, I got to make fun of Reese Witherspoon a lot.
It was a good run.
I just don’t find celebrity shenanigans interesting, anymore. And I don’t have that much to be angry about, anymore. Britney is back to normal, Keanu is working towards respect, Tom Hanks has his hair under control, Mad Men is universally renowned, Friday Night Lights just got renewed for two seasons, American Idol is Boring, Paris Lindsay and Nicole are afterthoughts and Orlando Bloom is dead.
What else is there to talk about?
And I just don’t have the time. Concluding my tour of “Things You Don’t Know About The Jay”, I’m actually a playwright. And I have a show running for the next three weeks in LA (Come see it! CLICK HERE FOR DETAILS!), and a show I’m ramping up for the Fall; I need to be focusing on words that will have a lasting effect on art, and not a tossed off insult about Shia LaBeouf’s relative craziness. Nothing may ever disappear on the Internet, but nearly EVERYthing gets forgotten about. Theatre endures.
I want my work to endure.
But the bottom line is this: after a time, there is no cleverness in hate. I don’t like not liking things. True to fact, there’s very few things I ACTually hate. And grudges are just tacky. I’m a liker of things. And in this day and age of sarcasm and irony and hate as an Olympic sport, liking things has become an act of courage. I’m looking to get my Red Badge of Web Courage. Unfortunately, love blogs aren’t interesting. No one wants to read a 900-word love letter to Ryan Seacrest four times a week (and let me tell you, I could go 5200 words on the topic). If there was a way to be funny and relevant and positive I’d do it, but there isn’t, and besides, I’m the only who thinks this way, anyway.
I have no interest in being cranky.
I’ll probably do another blog; most likely two or three, in fact, and most likely not about entertainment. I’ll try new things; see if I can’t figure out the next great blog idea. I’m gonna take some time off of the Internet, recharge my blog batteries and be back someday soon. So keep your eyes open for The Jay…
I can’t thank you all enough for taking time out of your lives to read my silly musings on the world of celebrity. I wrote every joke for you, just for you. I’ll miss hearing what you think of my thoughts, miss having random friends complimenting me on a post or thanking me for a good laugh. I’ll miss having a place for my sarcastic voice. But all good things must come to an end. And this good thing is over. You have been a great audience and I was proud to entertain you.
I’ll end my post, my website, with that most familiar Lost Boys refrain, that joyous exclamation, my signature line…
APRIL FOOLS, BITCHES!!!!
The Jay ain’t going NOWHERE! And I hate more things than EVER! Suck it, Reese! Get effed, Danny Gokey! You’re still bland, Orlando Bloom! MORE HATE! More of all of it! FOREVER.
Sack in, kiddies, it’s gonna be a long time before this guy shuts up and shuts it down.
I have now spent what seems like 14 full days watching the Where The Wild Things Are trailer. It’s nourishment for me, sustenance, at this point. I feel that if I don’t watch it, dissect it, consume it, I will lose it, and that is a loss I am not prepared to handle.
There is a lot about culture, specifically pop culture, which is dispensable. Forgettable. Trivial. You watch it on a lark, or because it’s pretty, or the explosions, or the Rachel McAdams, and you don’t feel one way or the other, emotionally, about it. Sequels meant to provide you with that safe feeling of security; no brain power is needed, you have already rode this ride, you know the loops and the spins, you will be OK. And that is all fine, to a point.
The other side is culture that is vitally important to your life on a conscious and subconscious level. Stories that have affected the way you think, characters that define you, words you live by. Art is a visceral experience; an active viewer registers a chemical response to the thing being viewed. This chemistry is inherently fixed, as Malcolm Gladwell would tell you, and is affected by synapses in the brain that cannot be comprehended. In other words, you have no choice over the things you love and hate. Everything that makes you who you are, environment, experience, et al, affect your chemistry.
I’m going on at length about this, so that when I tell you the chemical reaction I am having to the WTWTA trailer is so potent my skin is literally heating up, you won’t think I’m speaking in hyperbole. I watch this trailer and I lose my shit. Lose it.
I do so because the combination of images and sounds is so beautiful. Because the care being put into this movie is so readily apparent. Because I have long desired to see the Wild Things come to life, and here they are, as real as in my dreams, and I can not seem to shake the feeling that my imagination, my wild imagination, was right on on this one thing, and that validation is more enriching than love, in this moment.
My Mom read me this story. I looked at the pages and she read the words. I was that boy. I was Max. I had feelings of anger and hope and ambivalence. I was confused by my parents’ behavior, by how different I felt from my friends and schoolmates. I longed to be part of a community where I was the focus, where I was set free to revel in my id. I wanted to ride in my sail boat to that faraway land. This was important to me. And it has stayed important to me, as all landmark art does.
When I point out the difference between trivial and transcendent pop culture, I do so to illustrate just how vital certain works are, and how important it is for them not to be mangled or disrespected. My Dad read me The Cat in the Hat, but as I had no real connection to it (I care about a cat coming to life and playing with paint?), seeing Mike Myers piss on Dr. Suess’ memory wasn’t such a travesty. The story just didn’t resonate with me on a physiological level. Where the Wild Things Are did.
Had the creatures been made to look fake or “funny” or childish, I would have been heartbroken. Had Max not been wearing his costume, had he not danced and ran and growled, had the Wild Things not roared their terrible roar, it would have crushed me. Because it would have taken away that memory I have of being a child, being told a story, and believing in my mind that this was real. That it was right. That it was OK.
And so I watch this trailer and become a child again. And my mind moves and whirls and my heart breaks and my soul dissolves into molecules. And I close my eyes and relief washes over me; this memory, this sacred thing, is safe. I am safe.
This is EXACTLY what a kid looks like when he confuses fear with anger. How human is this movie!
The ultimate. Just the ultimate.
The “E” is a Wild Things foot. Did you just die? Did you just die a beautiful death? I thought so.
Aaaaaaand I have lost control of my faculties.
Holy Jesus. They actually made the Wild Things legitimately frightening. Love it.
An inside peek into what a boy sees when he uses his imagination.
This is where I truly lost it. That Spike understood that the book, in its basest form, is a cry for help from a young boy, slays me. Max is acting out because he lost his father. The Wild Things ARE his Dad. When he plays with them, he is really playing with the Ghost of his abandoned Father. There just aren’t words for the astounding tragedy of that idea.
When was the last time you rolled down a hill? It’s been too long.
Are you five years old, curled up into a ball, eyes wide with the wonder of the world at your feet? Cause I am. And continue to be…
I’m gonna need you to get ahead and watch this video. IMMETES.
In continuing my recent “you might not know this about The Jay” Tour, I wanted to tell you that when I’m not online skewering celebrities and on my couch TiVo-blooping Idol flunkies, I have me a real world jobby job. And in that jobby job I work on a webseries. That webseries is called “Harper’s Globe”. It’s the companion webseries to the new CBS show “Harper’s Island”, and, if I do say so myself, it rocks. It rocks the socks. It rolls, it owns, and it pwns. It would be the Top Post on SuccessBlog.com.
You know how Wayne Campbell says “This blows goats. I have proof”? Well Harper’s Globe is the COMPLETE opposite of that. It goats blows.
Picture the most amazing thing you can think of that doesn’t include a monkey wearing two tuxedos (ONE tux wasn’t formal enough!). So you’re probably imagining something like this: Keanu Reeves is whoa-ing in bullet time while Rachel McAdams makes out with Ryan Gosling on a pier, Rocky is boxing a Russian, Vince Vaughn is talking a mile a minute at nothing in particular, Reese Witherspoon is gathering nuts for the winter (because she is a squirrel), The Zellweger is hitting the wall, Guy Pierce is taking Polaroids of you, Mel Gibson is shaking hands with Jews, Megan Fox is bending over every car in the parking lot, the Terminator just showed up and is all “come with me if you want to live” but you’re holding out for Michael Beihn cause you’re a child of the 80′s, somehow you have a working lightsaber in your hand and Vader is NOT your father but IS a really cool Uncle, Chris Farley is suddenly alive and falling into coffee tables, Beyonce is singing Halo on a loop, ’99 Britney is rocking her catholic schoolgirl outfit and asking you to hit her baby, one more time, Molly Ringwald wants to go to Prom with you, Ferris Bueller is dedicating Beatles songs to you, Chazz is asking you about a gangster named Keyser Soze, Ben Affleck is saying that YOU were the bomb in Phantoms, your abs are as jacked as King Leonidas, you’re saving hostages on the top of Nakatomi Plaza, everything is in that James Cameron-style blue filter that makes you look kickass and THIN, your hair is better than Don Draper’s best day side-sweep and this is all being filmed using that one Spielberg shot wear the camera zooms in on the actors but the background goes all wide and blurry, like when Chief Brody first sees the shark in Jaws.
This is better than that.
Listen to my mouth words here and peep the star of our show:
Like you don’t want to spend time with her? Like that isn’t the punim that launched a thousand frenzied Google searches (real name = Melanie Merkosky. Have fun!)? You’re actually telling me this? And expecting me to believe you? Go fuck yourself.
So watch it, comment on it, help me make it a success. Because I don’t slave all day making high-quality web entertainment so that it can be ignored. Get on this, people!
I’m also quite fond of the guy’s “we are” as he sneakily leans back. And her head tilt response. And his bit of business straightening out his shirt.
This is quite the well-directed commercial.
And how she walks into the room and presents herself, fully expecting a big response, gets it, but doesn’t quite know what to do with it because he’s not equally as dressed up, and therefore delivers the “thanks” in the way she hadn’t practiced in the bathroom mirror as she was getting ready. Which, then, begs the question: are we to assume she’s a stereotypical dumb blonde, or did the adwizards hire a beautiful blonde girl who can do a parody of a stereotypical blonde girl?
This is quite the well-cast commercial.
I’m also confused as to where this is all taking place. Obviously they’re dating, maybe even boyfriend and girlfriend. Did she get ready at her place, then come over? Wouldn’t she expect to be picked up? Why didn’t he open the door for her if she was knocking? Who leaves their apartment door open in any situation that isn’t an NBC sitcom from the 90′s? And why am I putting so much thought into this?
This is quite the mysterious commercial.
And who even eats Carl’s Jr. for dinner? Or, for that matter, any other time of the day that isn’t “lunch” or “drunk at 2 am, unable to locate a Jack in the Box, and confident in their ability to make it to a bathroom within eight minutes of completion of the meal”? And seriously, HE expects HER to eat Carl’s Jr? Or any fast food at all? Or “steak”, for that matter? This guy is delusional. And a dick boyfriend. But also? Kind of my hero.
Oh, and did I happen to mention she’s really hot? Cause: BOOF. This is her, btw: Tamara Brown.
Is this the best “unbelievably hot chick in a surprisingly good commercial promoting terrible junk food” since Ali Landry caught Doritos in her mouth? It may be too early to tell. We’re gonna need to see if Tamara can parlay this spot into a third-billed lead in a CW teen drama, a Playboy magazine cover and a failed engagement to at least one former child star.
But one thing is for sure: this is QUITE the commercial.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Captain has turned on the Fasten Seat Belt sign. If you haven’t already done so, please stow your carry-on luggage underneath the seat in front of you or in an overhead bin. Please make sure your seat back and folding trays are in their full, upright position.
If you are seated next to an emergency exit, please read carefully the special instructions card located by your seat. If you do not wish to perform the functions described in the event of an emergency, please ask a flight attendant to reseat you.
At this time, we request that all cellular phones, pagers, radios and remote controlled toys be turned off for the full duration of the flight, as these items might interfere with the navigational and communication equipment on this aircraft. We request that all other electronic devices be turned off until we fly above 10,000 feet. We will notify you when it is safe to use such devices.
Smoking is prohibited on the entire aircraft, including the lavatories. Tampering with, disabling or destroying the lavatory smoke detectors is prohibited by law.)
If you have any questions about our flight today, please don’t hesitate to ask one of our flight attendants. And if you have any complaints about the way we serve you today, keep it to yourself. We’re doing the best we can on this plastic tube of death and stale air. The last thing we need is you mouth-breathers bitching about the lack of leg room or the crying baby in front of you.
I’m not an arbitrary writer. My mind, like most triple digit IQ noggins, though it works semi-spontaneously, makes its money through logical patterns. A sequence of cohesive, directional responses. What I’m getting at here is this: I write about things that NEED to be written about. I don’t make up celebrity shenanigans; mostly because in Hollywood, truth is far more fun than fiction. I comment on only what’s in front of me. I leave the lists up to people who are bored in a room. Vanity Fair fluff pieces are far more fun to read, than write. And gossip is a wormdouche’s game (get dead, Perez Hilton).
To appropriate a line from Grosse Pointe Blank: If I’m posting about you, chances are you did something to make me post about you.
While I am keenly aware of the goings on of Heidi and Spencer, their lives mean dick to me. On the other end of the spectrum, William H. Macy is too classy to do something stupid enough for me to write about. When I blog semi-meanly about Reese or Lindsay or Tom or Katie or whomever, it’s because they did something so high-level, so objectively ludicrous, that to ignore it would be an injustice to the world.
Again, to simplify, as I’m so riled up I keep adding on gratuitous intro paragraphs, is this: I don’t care about celebrities who are useless. I won’t write about them. I’ve never once written about Kim Kardashian or DJ AM or Lauren Conrad or Danny Bonaduce, et al. Because that shit is low-fi.
So when a low-fi celebrity does something that raises MY eyebrows enough to get fingers on keys, especially during a slow blogging period, you can bet it was egregious. And people, emo-troll Pete Wentz and lip-synching nose disaster Ashlee Simpson naming their child “Bronx Mowgli Wentz” is egregious. To a degree a Rhodes Scholar couldn’t quantify. We’re gonna need Will Hunting up in this bitch.
Bronx. Mowgli. Wentz.
I need to tackle this atrocity one name at a time.
Let’s get this out of the way, right away: Bronx is a low rent, homeless person’s bastard rip-off the Beckham baby name Brooklyn. Brooklyn can at LEAST be shortened to Brook, but Bronx? How is that endearing? You wanna be the girl who has to moan that name in 18 years? You’re gonna sound like a retarded Yankees fan.
I’ll give Ashlee and Pete credit over the Beckham’s in one respect: at least Pete is FROM the Bronx. I doubt Victoria and David have ever stepped into the borough of Brooklyn. However, isn’t Ashlee from the South? Isn’t she, on principle, allergic to the Bronx? What did Pete have to give her for the naming rights on this one? Is their second child gonna be “Hoedown Jude Law Simpson”?
Is it good or bad if the kid doesn’t actually grow up in the Bronx? If he does, will the constant double context use of the word “Bronx” give him fits and therapy material? If he doesn’t, will he be resentful of his parents for naming him after a city they felt too high and mighty to live in?
Dude, you just know this kid is going to be ugly.
If Mowgli is meant to be the Mowgli from The Jungle Book, Pete and Ashlee need to SIDDOWN! You do NOT disrespect the greatest Disney animated movie of all-time by naming your celebaby after the mancub. I will end lives over this. I will put on Variety shows in their asses. OH, and BESIDES, if you’re gonna drop Jungle Book character refs on your kid, but not use “Baloo”, then you’re just an idiot. Which, when I think about Pete Wentz and Ashlee Simpson, is entirely possible.
Too much bile and rage is vomiting up to my surface, let’s just move on.
Is this supposed to be a comic book name? You can match sounds and be truly proud of yourself if the rhyme is STUPID. “X” and “Z” have no business being in relationship to one another. You need a natural sonic device. Brooklyn Beckham. Do you see? George Foreman. It’s about dialectics, people. Bronx Wentz is a name that trips you up. It jails the tongue. Saying “Wentz” is hard enough in a sentence, as you close up and come to a dead stop on that syllable.
Say “Bronx Wentz” a few times in a row, is your tongue starting to hurt? It should. Cause the name is a punishment. Lord help this child if he has a lisp, a stutter or an accent.
BRONX MOWGLI WENTZ
On the douchebag celebrity baby name scale, with “Violet Affleck” as a 1 and “Audio Science Clayton” as a 10, I’m giving this an 8.
I just attained a newfound fondness for Pilot Inspektor Lee.
In conclusion: Pete, Ashlee, congratulations on the birth of your first child. A happy and healthy baby is all any couple can ask for. I wish your child only the greatest of happiness and limited exposure to Jessica. Creating a human life is a beautiful thing; an act to respect and cherish. You should be quite proud of your achievement.