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Jewel Confesses Life-Long Battle with PretensionNovember 26, 2001 |
Anchorage, AK Rick Hooger/AP Jewel, displaying trademark symptoms of pretension
"It's not something you want to admit, even to yourself," Jewel said in her calm, waterfall-like voice at a press conference Friday. "Your soul is kind, gentle, and without acclaim, and then tiny threads of a black spider wrap you up in pretension. It is a disease of the fiercest… uh… pony."Friends and confidants knew for years, yet kept her secret because they thought Jewel could handle it.
"The next thing I knew," said Bill Barber, a session player and friend, "she was on VH-1 against a white background reading snippets of poetry like she's a supermodel Maya Angelou. That's when I knew she had no control of the problem."
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oung musician and published author Jewel surprised few Friday when she revealed she's battled with pretension all her life.
"It's not something you want to admit, even to yourself," Jewel said in her calm, waterfall-like voice at a press conference Friday. "Your soul is kind, gentle, and without acclaim, and then tiny threads of a black spider wrap you up in pretension. It is a disease of the fiercest… uh… pony."Friends and confidants knew for years, yet kept her secret because they thought Jewel could handle it.
"The next thing I knew," said Bill Barber, a session player and friend, "she was on VH-1 against a white background reading snippets of poetry like she's a supermodel Maya Angelou. That's when I knew she had no control of the problem."
Even then, all were reluctant to speak up for fear of damaging her career or their own. An attempt at an intervention in March of 2000 disintegrated into a hootenanny and Native American bonfire ritual, and several members walked out nearly as pretentious as the one they came to help.
"Pretension is sometimes hereditary, but more often results from years of unearned attention festering, cultivating itself into the bacteria egous extremis," stated Dr. Simone Callow, Professor of Pretentious Studies at Columbia University. "Often through no fault of their own a victim can start out a perfectly healthy human being, and then before you know it they're taking themselves so seriously they're publishing their own autobiography, or accepting awards for ridiculously minimal accomplishments."
Pretension, though often confined to those with higher-income households without geographic boundary, is unfairly distributed throughout Hollywood and the New York art scene.
"There's no telling how many have it in Hollywood," Dr. Callow said. "When you pay people millions of dollars for doing virtually nothing, it makes for a breeding ground for pretension."
Jewel herself, recently releasing the new album This Way, has halted tour plans to check into the Martha Stewart Clinic For Pretension in Connecticut in hopes of treating her condition.
"A dark spot has begun to wander across my heart," she said with stilted, distant voice. "Until I corner this blemish, collect it in my cupped hands and whistle it away to the wind, I cannot share my gift with the world." the commune news regrets coming to this party dressed in the plaid bellbottoms. Lil Duncan is a senior correspondent for the commune and weighs in at a rough 'n' tumble 130 lbs.
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 January 21, 2002
The Man in the Baloney SuitThere once was a man
in a baloney suit,
Who danced on the
street corner all day.
He'd dance a jig
when the mood struck him
And then repeat it
without much delay.
Oh what a sight, with all his might
He'd spring and he'd spritz all around.
And he'd make fantastical robot sounds
Whenever his feet touched the ground.
The children all loved to dance with him
As he'd twirl and he'd beep and he'd toot.
And they'd snack the day away merrily,
On the pieces that fell from his suit.
Oh what a lark, staying out 'til dark
Watching the baloney man dance.
As our parents, from windows watched carefully
To make sure that he stayed in his pants.
The neighborhood dogs loved baloney man,
Even more so than the kids.
They'd yip and they'd yap and their paws went rap-rap
On the street while they did what they did.
Oh how they schemed, in gray-toned dreams,
That suit would be theirs to eat.
But that spry dancing man was too fast for them,
And they just nipped at the soles of his feet.
I asked my father one afternoon
Where the man got his suit made of meat.
My father told me "Baloney's not meat,
What it is I'd rather not say.
Don't eat it, don't smell it, don't even try to spell it,
Don't use it to patch up your tire.
While you're at it, stay away from that baloney man.
º Last Column: Rosey Red-Ass
º more columns
There once was a man
in a baloney suit,
Who danced on the
street corner all day.
He'd dance a jig
when the mood struck him
And then repeat it
without much delay.
Oh what a sight, with all his might
He'd spring and he'd spritz all around.
And he'd make fantastical robot sounds
Whenever his feet touched the ground.
The children all loved to dance with him
As he'd twirl and he'd beep and he'd toot.
And they'd snack the day away merrily,
On the pieces that fell from his suit.
Oh what a lark, staying out 'til dark
Watching the baloney man dance.
As our parents, from windows watched carefully
To make sure that he stayed in his pants.
The neighborhood dogs loved baloney man,
Even more so than the kids.
They'd yip and they'd yap and their paws went rap-rap
On the street while they did what they did.
Oh how they schemed, in gray-toned dreams,
That suit would be theirs to eat.
But that spry dancing man was too fast for them,
And they just nipped at the soles of his feet.
I asked my father one afternoon
Where the man got his suit made of meat.
My father told me "Baloney's not meat,
What it is I'd rather not say.
Don't eat it, don't smell it, don't even try to spell it,
Don't use it to patch up your tire.
While you're at it, stay away from that baloney man.
Of him, I'm beginning to tire."
From that day on I was cast aside,
No more joyous dancing for me.
I'd watch and weep from my windowsill,
While the other kids squealed with glee.
Oh what a way to spend your days,
But now I'm older and I don't even care.
All those kids grew up and got ass cancer,
And that baloney man was ate by a bear. º Last Column: Rosey Red-Assº more columns
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|  February 12, 2002
Home for the HorrordaysDorothy said there's no place like home, but I would say that wartime Yugoslavia can't be all that different. No, dudes, I'm not a homebody. My thoughts don't turn to charming holiday gatherings around the fire with the ones I love since it usually involves a lot of alcohol and the fire involves the firecrackers someone tried to light by cooking them in the oven.
I would say my family's strange, but that's everybody's family. My family is homicidally manic-deppressive—there, that at least sounds more original. Seriously, my family is always happy when I come back to Bellmont for Christmas, but catch any of them on the right day and they're happy when the mail shows up. They're fundamentally unhealthy enablers of every drug habit you could name and they derive pleasure from each other's pain. Which is all fine, since that's how I am, but it's real dangerous to put us all in the same place.
First, there's my dad, Fozzy Coleman—dad somewhere got the impression that he was black, and even more odd, that he's Ike Turner. Dad rules the house with an iron thumb, an iron thumb being some gardening device he got for Christmas 20 years ago that spreads mulch. My favorite holiday memory of dad was that year we converted to Judaism. Mom made soggy cornbread and accidentally poisoned the turkey gravy with make-up remover, and when dad found out he was so pissed he threw the menorah like a trident and it stuck in the wall. The bright side was that it worked...
º Last Column: Rosey Red-Ass
º more columns
Dorothy said there's no place like home, but I would say that wartime Yugoslavia can't be all that different. No, dudes, I'm not a homebody. My thoughts don't turn to charming holiday gatherings around the fire with the ones I love since it usually involves a lot of alcohol and the fire involves the firecrackers someone tried to light by cooking them in the oven.
I would say my family's strange, but that's everybody's family. My family is homicidally manic-deppressive—there, that at least sounds more original. Seriously, my family is always happy when I come back to Bellmont for Christmas, but catch any of them on the right day and they're happy when the mail shows up. They're fundamentally unhealthy enablers of every drug habit you could name and they derive pleasure from each other's pain. Which is all fine, since that's how I am, but it's real dangerous to put us all in the same place.
First, there's my dad, Fozzy Coleman—dad somewhere got the impression that he was black, and even more odd, that he's Ike Turner. Dad rules the house with an iron thumb, an iron thumb being some gardening device he got for Christmas 20 years ago that spreads mulch. My favorite holiday memory of dad was that year we converted to Judaism. Mom made soggy cornbread and accidentally poisoned the turkey gravy with make-up remover, and when dad found out he was so pissed he threw the menorah like a trident and it stuck in the wall. The bright side was that it worked so well we use it to hang the Christmas stockings still.
Then there's my mom, who's great when she's sober, if you can be there during that time from 8 to 8:15 a.m. When she gets drunk she says all the things normal moms only think, like, "I had plenty of chances to drown you, Clarissa," and, "By my calculations, you still owe us about $359,000—oh, what, you thought the room and board were free rides?" My mom's name is Bunny, but dad always calls her Bunny Coleman like it's one word. Like, "Bunnycoleman, who ate all my fucking French toast?" Or, "Get my bath ready, Bunnycoleman."
It's hard to complain about my brother and sister, they're not really to blame for anything—between having my parents for their parents and having my shadow to live in all their lives, it's amazing they aren't screwed up.
My brother, Randy, doesn't let us call him Randy anymore since he joined that cult in the compound next door to mom and dad. At least he didn't have to go far to get brainwashed. He prefers to be called Toot now, and he's actually pretty nice, the nicest one of the bunch. He curls up in a ball and chants whenever mom and dad fight now, he tells them they have bad Chaka Khan or something, some kind of karma rip-off the cult made up, and the worst thing he does is steal from mom and dad to give to the cult so they can build that glass temple of theirs. Which is all fine by me, I never take more than $20 home when I go anyway.
My sister's a bit more peculiar. She never had the looks or talent to be an actress like me, so she was driven into this weird-ass obsession with grades and scholarships and stuff. She went to Harvard like that Good Will Hunting guy and majored in lawyering. Now she works for the ACLU and writes books on feminism in her spare time, really spaced-out shit. She doesn't come home too often, actually, but she sends self-help books and fruit baskets.
I guess, more than anything, this time of year is about forgetting your family is clinically sociopathic and learning to keep your temper in check long enough to sit down for a single Christmas dinner. To gather around the tree, open up crappy presents, and pretend you like at least one of the things. To sleep in your old room and act like you don't hear your dad getting nasty with your mom, shouting, "Take me to town, Bunnycoleman!" in the room right next door. But at least when you hear that, you know it's just another ten minutes until everyone gathers in the living room around the kitchen fire and opens their presents. And that's as much family as anybody gets these days. º Last Column: Rosey Red-Assº more columns
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Quote of the Day“If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it must be Microsoft's new Futuretron 3000 Duck Simulator. That's almost a duck!”
-Rodney CheesesteakFortune 500 CookieWhen kicking out at opponents this week, aim for the nuts—always a good strategy. It's time to let that baby shark go home to its mama; it's been two years and you've got to take a bath sometime. Look forward this week to a final showdown with your mortal nemesis, Weezer. But watch out for the Rentals to intervene.
Try again later.Top commune New Year's Resolutions| 1. | Breakfast with Bagel | | 2. | Boris. Proper English. 'Nuff Said. | | 3. | Convince Ramrod Hurley that picture of Nelson Rockefeller has no religious significance | | 4. | One news story with a verified fact in it | | 5. | Finally finish off Ivan Nacutchacokov | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 7/1/2001 What's the haps, America? Well, you can forget about all of that crap because it's Oscar time! It's that magical time of year when the Academy tells us what's the best of the best, and we cry "Bullshit! What about Blue Streak?". I'm here, as always, to help you sift through the nominees to find the golden nougat hidden within. And just in case you're worried that your Uncle Roland might be a little off his John Rocker, I'm well aware that the actual Oscar ceremony took place a few months ago. I've been pretty busy running a rotisserie bocciball league this spring and justhaven't had much time. But never fear, though I taped the show I haven't got around to watching it yet, so rest assured that these picks and pans are fresh as a newborn can of Bud Light.
As always, some of...
What's the haps, America? Well, you can forget about all of that crap because it's Oscar time! It's that magical time of year when the Academy tells us what's the best of the best, and we cry "Bullshit! What about Blue Streak?". I'm here, as always, to help you sift through the nominees to find the golden nougat hidden within. And just in case you're worried that your Uncle Roland might be a little off his John Rocker, I'm well aware that the actual Oscar ceremony took place a few months ago. I've been pretty busy running a rotisserie bocciball league this spring and justhaven't had much time. But never fear, though I taped the show I haven't got around to watching it yet, so rest assured that these picks and pans are fresh as a newborn can of Bud Light.
As always, some of the best films to come out in the last year weren't even nominated, providing ample proof of the academy's blind-spot for instant classics like "O Brother, Where's My Car?" and "The Big Kahuna's House". But, we've got to make the best of what we're given here. On to the nominees:
Best Picture
Chocotaco
These things are awesome. I didn't even know they were based on a movie.
Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon
The Sports Star/Asskicker buddy picture concept that didn't work for Dennis Rodman and Jacques Costeau in "Double Team" somehow comes up big for man-boy golf sensation Tiger Woods and spasmatic Chinaman Jackie Chan in this butt-rocking gem. It's Chan's talent that carries the film, however, as the screenwriters have to keep inventing ways to showcase Woods' abilities in the context of fight sequences. Some are more plausible than others. There are a lot of shots of Chan chasing an entertainment lawyer down an alleyway so Woods can hit him with a golf ball or Chan wrestling a ninja-thug onto the beach so Woods can utilize his sand wedge. Despite these rough edges, this is a stellar film that will make you want to either practice your putting or learn to kick ass with a flag pin.
Erin Brockovich
Erin won some serious kudos this year for her role as a chick playing a movie star playing a book store owner playing a wedding planner playing footsie with Hugh Grant. As far as I'm concerned, she deserves the "Best Actress" plaque just for keeping all that straight. Not to be confused with 70's folksinger Edwin Broncobitch.
Gladiator
Proving that they know their classic Beatles movies like "A Hard Day's Night", "SHIT!" and "Goldfinger", the Black Crowes embark on this cinematic romp through the Roman Empire that can't help but entertain. Rome will never be the same after the Crows are done trying to save Ringo from the rehab clinic, becoming bumbling slaves and slapstick coliseum stars along the way.
Terminator 2: Judgement Day
Arnie's back and this time he's got "Oscar" written all over his meaty ass. Guys loved it because shit got killed, girls loved it because in the jacuzzi scene, you can almost see his Schwartzenegger. That's what I hear anyway. I wasn't looking.
Traffic
Like the saying goes: when it rains classic-rock band-movies, it pours. Steve Winwood and crew reunite and prove they're "Feelin' Alright" in this adaptation of the Toni Morrison novel "Black Rain". Much running around and silly hats ensues.
Best Director
Stephen Soderbergh, Traffic
Coming a long way from his immature early period (E.T., Glenn Close Encounters Her Third Kid, Stark Raving Sharks), Soderbergh finally hits his stride and rolls with it in this fable about higher love and those magical things that the night can do.
Stephen Soderbergh, Erin Brockovich
Proving that he can not only direct a great film, but also sneak into the theater twice wearing a phoney mustache, Soderbergh pulls a fast one on the academy with his second nominated film of the year. Here Soderbergh finally realizes the unfulfilled promise of his earlier films, such as "Gremlins", "Hookin'" and "Polacks in Space".
Ripley Scott, Gladiator
As host of one of the most outrageous game shows of the 70's, "Ripley's Believe it or Scott!", Scott Ripley saw more larval aliens burst out of contestant's chests than many people have seen non alien-bursting chests to begin with. This experience helped Ripley bring an unflinching realism to this sometimes-troubling tale of a rock band running around ancient Rome to xylophone music.
Ang Lee, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon
Another hilarious joke-name nomination this year, I can just hear those Academy numbskulls yukking it up over Evian martinis and cracking wise: "I'm velly Ang Lee I didn't win! Velly Ang Lee!". Those guys are cards.
Stephen Daldry, Billy Elliot
If there are two things I love, they're two-man directing teams and the Who. 'Nuff said.
Best Actor
Russell Crowe, Gladiator
One of the classiest cameos of the year had this dude from that Led Zeppelin movie play onstage with the old guy from the Black Crowes, who incidentally is married to Frances McDormand.
Javier Bardem, Before Night Falls
No no no, I ordered the tacquitos, senior.
Tom Hanks, Castaway
Proving that being typecast isn't always a bad thing, last year's turn in Saving Pirate Ryan prepared Hanks perfectly for this salty salute to shanghai-ed summer lovin'. I once declared that I'd never let a movie about gay pirate sex make me cry again, but Castaway done made a liar out of your old friend Roland McShyster.
Ed Harris, Pollack
Another academy gag name, everybody knows Ed's German. Second only to his gag co-star, Martian Gay Hard-on.
Geoffrey Rush, Quills
Who?
Best Actress
Joan Allen, The Contender
I love when she does that grunting thing. Chicks and their power tools, I tell ya.
Juliette Binoche, Chocotaco
Weight watchers, Juliette Binoche. Now that everyone's met, we're going to be spending some time together. Ha ha! This is fun!
Ellen Burstyn, Requiem for a Dreamcast
So believable as one of those moms who hates video games that I got half way to the park before I realized I don't like being outside.
Laura Croft, You Can Count on Me
She can kick ass, do back flips, and raise a kid without a father around. I'd be all over her like OJ on a white chick if it weren't for the fact that I need a stepkid like Dick Cheney and his pig-heart need a bacon-grease sandwich. That, and she's a video game character. I learned my lesson with Ms Pacman on that one.
Jason Robards, Erin Brockovich
Pretty funny guys, Jason may have tits and he plays a great lawyer, but I'd have to do some pretty intense penitentiary time before I nominated him for Best Actress.
Well folks, I'm Roland McShyster, you're America, and that was the Oscars Roundup! I hope it was one of the defining experiences of our generation.   |
