Monday, August 18, 2008

We Got a Live One!

Here's the thing: We don't invade countries and "educate" the "savages" through the use of bribes and sharp objects. We don't even dress our young in short-sleeved button down shirts and send 'em out on missions, equipped only with bicycle helmets and backpacks fulla Bibles. If you want to be a Jew, you pretty much figure it out on your own. Then, you come to us.

Which, apparently, is what Lindsay Lohan is doing.

You’re skeptical? Relax those doubt muscles – we read about it on The news might as well have been carved on stone tablets. Here’s a fair-use tidbit to make Edward R. Murrow proud:

“She's exploring right now," [her father] says. "She's explored the Church of Scientology, she tried Kabbalah, and now this. I think it's just another phase. But either way, she's involving God in her life, and I'm happy about that.”
A phase? Hasn’t Michael Lohan ever heard the expression "There’s no such thing as a semi-Semite?" OK, neither have we. Interestingly, the story may overshadow another recently tabloided facet of the star's life: her hot-girl-on-girl mature relationship with Samantha Ronson, who – in addition to being a smokin'-hot British dyke with ultra-hip sartorial instincts – is also a DJ. How wicked rad is that? (Peep her disc of Theo Bikel remixes sometime. Challah!) And Samantha, clearly the mad-coolest person in the life of Linds, is apparently the one ushering teen-culture's erstwhile it-girl in her newly Chosen direction.

But clearly we need to say something about this. We need to welcome Lindsay in some way. Like, we need to tell her about how we're going to make her life better through Judaism.


We wish we could say we had the cure for stuff – we may have read someplace that young Miss Lohan has had some form of struggle with substance addiction – but that's more Scientology's bag. Lord only knows we wish we magically whipped parents into shape, but we don't think we can help you if they have preexisting reality TV contracts. But, never fear, Lindsay! Simon and Sera, as the Chosen Two ambassadors of all that is Jewish and Hot, can obviously celebrate your hotness.

In fact, this task is so easy a monkey could so it. After all, there was a dogged rumor that you are in fact so hot, especially around the breast area, that Disney had to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars to digitally de-hotify you enough to garner a kid-friendly rating for the hilariously monikered Herbie:Fully Loaded. Linds, if we may be so bold, you - or your boobs, at the very least - are primed and ready to join the tribe. And now that sumptuous rack can be freshly apprehended in the context of your strong, zesty, life-affirming Jewish womanhood.

Still, your public may wonder what manner of antioxidant, exfoliating or otherwise rejuvenating properties the Semitic Spa can bring to bear upon the dermis of your soul, even if you spring for the deluxe package.

Well, here’s the thing: Jewish thought (proffering as it does not only Orthodox, Conservative and Reform flavors but also agnostic, atheist, mystical, quasi-mystical, absurdist, Dadaist, slapstick, pork-loving and other variants) is largely about arguing, pondering, adjusting, reconsidering and deciding for yourself.

And when your young career generates bazillions of buckaroos for a phalanx of entertainment-conglomerate executives and their minions, not to mention your handlers, relatives, friends and hangers-on, all of whom expect you to be an empty chalice in which they will helpfully pour their “advice,” perhaps a rigorous path of intellectual and spiritual self-discovery predicated on slow, careful reading is a good way to tell your entire posse to shut the fuck up. In a nice way. Plus, it’ll be way helpful in contract negotiations.

One thing’s for certain: We’ll be rooting for you extra hard now that you're a Jew. It's true that we here at Very Hot Headquarters sometimes wish ... well, not anything too evil, more like just a mild pox upon the more annoying and superfluous aspirants now thrusting themselves bodily upon fame as though it were the very genitals of Johnny Depp. But there are also those tabloid regulars whom, though they seem at least as spastically cokeheaded as the rest (see Winehouse, Amy), we still love and want to see pull through with panache. And upon whom we also wish to foist a large tureen of nourishing chicken soup.

We’ll admit it: We're a little biased in favor of Jewish crackheads. And Jewish drunks. We can’t help it; it’s a family thing. Though ordinarily snobby to the core (Sime went to Oxford, for Faulkner's sake!), we'll even cut you a break if your last single/movie/graphic novel sucked ass. We do draw the line at raping and killing. We think. But anyway, you get credit with us for being a card-carrying Tribesperson. So, Linds, if this unlikely story is true, Mazel Tov. We can't help but think this will be good for your career. At least as it's reflected within the confines of this blog.

Thursday, August 14, 2008

Cherubim and Sera-phim: The Marvels of Comic-Con
by Simon

Where have we been, these Jews you love? What have we been up to?

Well, double duty, baby. Sera's been busy cooking up some mind-blowing shit that will be rocking your screen soon enough. Sime's been turning out all manner of commercial ephemera and prepping The Classic Rock Singalong (which goes down this Sat. night, 8/16, @ M Bar in Hollywood; please join us, Angelenos). And they've been dreaming up some other stuff too, which is all, like, ultra-classified.

But the purpose of this – our first post since, what, the Harding administration? – is to share my delight and pride at seeing Sera's panel and other public appearances at Comic-Con.

See, I've always known Sera was a superstar, and Jules and I met her back when she was a mere poppet, working in a not-very-satisfying job and writing genius works in secret. So to see the world embrace her fantabulosity makes me about bust a button.

And boy, was there some embracing at Comic-Con. Julia, Jo, Jim, Mollie and I dutifully filed into a gargantuan auditorium to watch her on the Supernatural panel (moderated by Entertainment Weekly's Alynda Wheat and also featuring series creator Eric Kripke, writer-producer Ben Edlund and a couple of actors whose names escape me); and yeah, OK, a lot of the chiquitas in that capacity crowd were screaming for the boy stars in a way that recalled Beatlemania or Hitchcock's The Birds, but the true aficionados were also palpitatin' for our girl.

Afterward, folks started lining up for autographs ... so many, in fact, that Comic-Con closed the line. And the seemingly endless throngs who trudged cheek-by-jowl through the convention center (including us) had to content themselves with viewing the signing ceremony on the Jumbotron.

Those of you who were part of that great wave of genre-loving humanity know what I'm talking about. If you weren't, imagine, thousands of fans crammed together so tightly that they make a giant hall look like a really small space, most of them dressed as Princess Leia (in near-naked Jabba-slave mode) or Spiderman or the octopus lady in The Little Mermaid.

Her Majesty's loyal subjects.

And seriously, peeps, one of the best things about Comic-Con is that the true fans of these shows and films don't just know the stars. They know the names of the people who toil away on their laptops, fueled only by specially fitted latte-dispensing helmets and muffins that have been crumbled into mouth-ready bites by a team of nubile interns, conjuring the fantastical scenarios of ghouls and vampires and ninjas and superhero vixens we depend on to make life remotely palatable.

And even in that constellation of scribes, our Sera shines brightest. If you ask me.