Welcome back to The Bootleg. And a welcome back to me after spending most of this week in our Nation’s Capital, Washington D.C., yet somehow living to tell about it. I guess I should be grateful that I made it out there, at all, after oversleeping and missing my original flight out of San Diego.
The plan was to wake up at 4:30 AM, shower and finish packing, so I could drive myself to the airport. Using one of those “park & ride” shuttle services would’ve had me at the gate by 6:00, which was an hour ahead of my flight time.
At 5:29 AM, the wife (who had fallen asleep on the couch) came upstairs and asked me when I was planning to leave. I looked at the clock and, as Mrs. Bootleg describes it, did one of those cartoon triple-takes”¦each time hoping that the “5” would turn into a number less than “4”.
Apparently, the alarm did go off at 4:30, but I turned it off without breaking R.E.M.
As is our house protocol, in the face of a crisis, the wife takes charge. She threw me in the shower and finished my packing. By the time I got downstairs, I was good to go and off we went to the airport. Unfortunately, I had already been bumped from my flight, but caught another one about an hour later.
Along the way, there was a 90-minute layover in Chicago. During that time, I stopped into one of those grossly overpriced souvenir shops and paid $5.00 for a “Chicago” magnet, which will show up on my expense report as “lunch”.
Hey, the wife collects ’em and it would cover my ass for that whole “anniversary gift” conundrum. Too bad I left it in the store after I paid for it. I realized this just as I passed the one-mile mark on the hiking path to my gate at O’Hare. Doubling back, I realized just how difficult it would be to find one particular souvenir shop manned by Middle Easterners in this terminal.
When I finally found the place, I explained that I had paid for the damn thing, I’d just left it behind. And, how do you say “n*gga please” in their native dialect? So, I just grabbed the magnet and continued my journey to DC.
Hey, quick question about Dulles Airport, where I flew into”¦is there some sort of labor exchange program with the nation of Somalia? Are their airports filled with overweight and unpleasant Americans in sensible shoes and unsheathed security wands?
DC, itself, was uneventful”¦not enough outside-of-work socializing (which is all these business trips are good for) and too much time spent in Maryland, with the lowlight being an evening at Bugaboo Creek Steak House. Apparently, the locals swear by it, and members of our party were devastated that the talking moose on the wall wasn’t working. I tell ya”¦when it’s time to start booting states from the union”¦
I finally returned to civilization late Wednesday night”¦again, flying through Chicago and racking up a $28.00 bar tab in the process (“dinner”). And there’s nothing like that “ain’t had a shower since 3:00 AM local time” mixed with a little bodily purge of Jack Daniels out of the pores to make that “welcome home” hug more than a little awkward with the wife.
Ah, but The Goodness is that pine-scented car freshener rubbed all over your body!
Bodyguards and Incontinence
Last weekend, allegations arose that a member of the security staff for rapper Fabolous (he of the flaccid flow) roughed up a Philadelphia radio host by the name of “Golden Girl”. She claims one of Fab’s bodyguards “grabbed her by the shoulders, picked her up and slammed her to the ground”. At press time, not much more than that was known.
Now, longtime readers of this column probably know where this one’s headed“¦and you’re right. But, the question on everyone’s lips is: which Golden Girl was actually on the receiving end of this “up arrow, B-button” maneuver?
Well, right off the bat, we can eliminate arthritic amazon Bea Arthur, who likely would’ve been $15,000 richer if she’d been allowed to enter the Andre The Giant v. Big John Studd match at the first Wrestlemania.
And does anyone think that Estelle Getty has recovered from working the last few seasons of Empty Nest: The Kristy McNichol Went Crazy Years? Not enough to be seen in public, that’s for sure.
Rue McClanahan proved her toughness by beating back breast cancer in a real-life tale that was re-told during the second season of HBO’s prison drama, Oz.
So, that leaves Betty White“¦and I’m guessing that anyone featured in The Smithsonian is easily thrown down by a bodyguard. Or probably dead already.
What? Four words too many?
Shake Ya Tailfeather”¦In a Straight Line, Please
Murphy Lee, Nelly’s Mini-Me MC, was arrested last week and charged with driving under the influence of drugs, in addition to one count of possession. At this time, there’s no word on whether or not the people who awarded him a Grammy last year would face a similar charge.
It seems that Murph was initially stopped for expired tags on his Mercedes. A police search uncovered approximately 30 grams of cataracts relief. Lee has a December court date set to answer the charges.
It hasn’t been a good week for celebrities behind the wheel, either. Your Olympic hero and all-around whitebread boy next door, Michael Phelps, caught his own DUI charge, as well.
An early candidate for Sports Illustrated’s irrelevant “Sportsman of the Year” award (1999 U.S. Women’s Soccer Team, anyone?), he’s now almost assured a bronze medal finish behind the fake blood on Curt Schilling’s sock and Lance Armstrong’s one functioning testicle.
And don’t look now, but Vijay Singh’s benign mole is making a late move of its own. Ooh, he might wanna get that checked out.
Reality Check, The Remix
Sean “P. Diddy” Combs made non-news this week by openly speculating that “the world was ready for a Black James Bond.” To the surprise of no one, he promptly nominated himself for the role made famous by George Lazenby, Timothy Dalton and Remington Steele.
He even suggested that Angelina Jolie play his Bond girl, which I’m sure will go over really well on the bastions of tolerance that comprise on-line fan message boards and moviegoers in the Deep South. Besides, Diddy”¦didn’t we get our shot at the super spy series with Undercover Brother?
Yet, despite the dueling dichotomy of Denise Richards and Doogie Howser, the film failed to find an audience. A surprise to many, I’m sure, confirming that maybe, juuuuuuuuust maybe the co-star of UPN’s Malcolm & Eddie series isn’t exactly a bonified bankable box office brutha.
But, then again”¦who is? Denzel Washington, of course. Um, maybe Will Smith”¦from 1996 to 1997. There’s Jaime Foxx”¦as of two weeks ago. Jeez”¦Blair Underwood, Bokeem Woodbine, Eddie Murphy and Easy Reader“¦suddenly, those two slow Negroes from Good Burger don’t look so bad.
Merchandising? That’s the Sweetest Plum of All!
Norwegian rap group “Gatas Parlament” has landed in hot water for opening a website called “killhim.nu”. The site allegedly solicited money to be put towards a bounty on the head of American President George W. Bush.
The site has already been shut down at the prompting of Washington’s Oslo embassy, however the group claims that the site was merely satirizing another money-grubbing anti-Bush webpage based in Norway, as well.
This item brings to light a very serious problem in this uncertain information age we live in. Simply put”¦whatever happened to bounty hunters? I think I speak for most of my audience when I say that I was first exposed to the profession by way of The Empire Strikes Back.
Oh, sure”¦we all remember Boba Fett, the breakout star of the original six assassins assembled by The Man They Call Vader. But, for me, it was the other five that I was feelin’. Think about it”¦characters like Dengar, Bossk, and IG-88 didn’t say or do anything in the movie.
They just stood around for a few seconds of screen time and still had action figures made in their likeness. Hmm, handsome compensation, for pretty much next to nothing.
Expect a class action suit, on the grounds of ‘gimmick infringement’, from the last four games the Yankees played, the last two years of Ronald Reagan’s presidency and Matthew Michael.
He Was Last Seen at King of the Ring ’93
Justin Timberlake and Cameron Diaz shared a special moment with a pair of paparazzi. As the lovebirds were exiting the lobby of a high-end hotel, two photographers attempted to snap a few pics.
Diaz and Timberlake forcibly took the camera away, after a brief scuffle ensued, and now their handlers are in full spin control mode, attempting to justify their respective gravy train’s behavior. See”¦it’s OK, because the stars were “ambushed by two men” who were hiding “on a dark, deserted street late at night.”
They say the couples’ actions were justified on the grounds of self-defense”¦from the threat of a camera. In their defense, it has been about 10 years since anyone has seen or heard from longtime Decepticon, Reflector.
He’s pretty much pure evil and, in camera mode, he can “emit a powerful flash explosion that can leave an opponent blind and disoriented for up to 15 seconds.”
Wow”¦all that Cybertron circuitry and cutting edge Transformer technology and his power is the human fleshling equivalent of getting shampoo in your eye. And we wonder how the Autobots always won”¦as well as where the hell Optimus Prime’s trailer went when he transformed.
Sometimes The News Just Writes Itself
Liza Minnelli and her bodyguard have spent the last week exchanging disturbing lawsuits with one another. The neckless, massively built Minnelli has sued M’Hammed Soumayah for $250,000 on the grounds of breach of contract and fiduciary duty.
Meanwhile, Soumayah, 56, has sued Minnelli, 58, for $100 million claiming sexual harassment, assault and battery, breach of contract and withholding payment for services rendered.
Honestly, I don’t know where to begin.
A 56-year-old bodyguard? Didn’t Rene Russo already cover this ground during In The Line of Fire? And the thought of Liza Minnelli sexually forcing herself on anyone is now indelibly burned in my brain. It occupies a spot that, for the past 12 years, has been home to the creepy Eartha Kitt/Eddie Murphy love scene in Boomerang and every Boyz II Men video that involves these four goons actually landing beautiful women.
I was actually cool with their little fantasy f*cks until the On Bended Knee video, with Lisa Turtle from Saved by the Bell fame. She pulled herself back from Zack only to wind up with one of these harmonizing Heckle and Jeckles? I can only suspend disbelief for so long, people.
Nick’a Please
conceptualized by Nick Salemi
Hey, even Nick needs a break after the last month of showin’ y’all how to make the perfect mixtape. Check for him next week and, in the meantime, go back and check out the construction of the first four discs of Mixtape ReLoaded:
Disc One :: Disc Two :: Disc Three :: Disc Four
Eminem: Beyond the Encore
We hope you’ve been enjoying this week’s extended Eminem feature here at IP. I’ll delve into some of the feedback next week, but I’m honestly surprised at how, uh, “heated” most of it has been. Seems we’ve struck a nerve with Em’s loyal fanbase, yet still managed to reach out to those who don’t consider themselves Slim Shady fans, as well.
Part I :: Part II :: Part III :: Part IV
And, be on the lookout for my review of Eminem’s Encore LP, coming on Monday!
General Haberdashery
Fernandez brings the best of Scotmanality (yeah, I know) on board this week, along with pictures of his second (or third) wife and news on the Inside Pulse compilation album, executive produced by Suge Knight. And, no Jukebox!? I’m not sure who flaked, but the last guy who ditched on Jeff was JJ Botter”¦Think about it.
Gloomchen is always “must read IP” (it reads better when you don’t say it out loud). Oh, and check out the legs n’ boobs pictures from “Halloween: Eastern Iowa Style”. I think Mathan and me should find this bar next year”¦walk in”¦and ask where the white women are. Keep the engine running.
Mathan has even more to say on Eminem, in addition to his excellent piece for our Beyond the Encore series. How’s Slim Shady, the MC? Read and find out”¦if, for nothing else, to see the word “asunder” used without the word “torn” before it. Kidding”¦I mean, is that even possible?
And, for the last time”¦a little 3 Tha Friday, from the request line:
TV Mathan is a week old, but I’m hoping that this week’s edition addresses the bizarre season finale of Real Time with Bill Maher. Wyoming’s Alan Simpson (R) went on a senile rant that had to be heard to be believed. And, I’ll reserve judgment on Lost until TiVo spits it out for me tonight. Although, last week’s “Super Kate” side story left me cold.
Meanwhile, Movie Joe Reid breaks up the band by moving his act to Mondays. The Monday Movie News Happy Hour? Alliteration is the bitch goddess of literary devices. Although, his profane political salvos and reference to cartoon cat Heathcliff, last week, make up for everything. Now, if we find out you’re stealing hits from Scott Keith’s Raw Rant, it’s on.
Life With the Bootleg Family
Those of you with kids probably know the single most difficult part of being away from your families for any extended period. Believe it or not”¦it’s not the part where you initially say “goodbye”. It’s actually every subsequent conversation that takes place while you’re gone.
Oh, don’t get me wrong”¦Mrs. Bootleg’s letter-by-letter, piece-by-piece updates of what was in our mailbox each day were well worth every precious minute of airtime on my cell phone. You’ve no idea what a weight off my shoulders it was to find out that I’d already been pre-approved.
If the calls ended there, I’d hang up”¦shake my fist and curse her hide, then be done with it. But, they never end there. Y’see, when you have a child and you’re not at home”¦you’re legally obligated to talk to the kid on the phone.
Now, in the privacy of my hotel room, most of my manhood is already cut off and kept in my carry-on luggage. However, out on the streets”¦where people can see (and hear) me, it’s another story. When I’m on the phone with the wife and she says, “Say something to your son”, I’ll be damned if I’m going to get sucked down that self-lobotomized slope of banal baby talk in public. Here’s an example from this past week:
Mrs. Bootleg: “Say ‘hi’ to Jalen!”
(Wife puts phone down by Jalen”¦who promptly mashes random buttons like a fat man trying to place a call without his special dialing wand”¦)
Me: (on the train from D.C. back to my hotel) “What’s up, brutha?”
(Pause for effect, so that any eavesdropping passenger will think I’m carrying on a legit conversation.)
Me: “Yeah, took care of some business, made some money”¦you know how we do.”
(At this point, anyone listening probably thinks I’m a drug dealer (yeah, in D.C”¦I’m shocked, too) as if my Haggar slacks and oxford shirt didn’t give that away.)
Me: “Aiight”¦I’mma see ya soon! Stay outta trouble and don’t give her no grief!”
(See, it’s important to finish with a dual-purpose line like this. That’s because after a few lines, the wife will always pick up the phone and want to hear what you’re saying.)
Regardless”¦in the eyes of the wife, I’m a good father. And in the eyes of those half-dozen or so men and women on the train with headphones on or their faces buried deep inside newspapers or laptops”¦I ain’t no punk.
Two weeks until Thanksgiving, six until Christmas and 90 days until”¦ah, never mind. Get at me on AOL or Yahoo IM: ajcameron13
