Cover illustration by Warren Popelier
FEZ SEZ______________________________Zed lets loose on Pocket Dogs
'FEATURAMA'______Bobby Wildside brings us 'BLOGGING A DEAD HORSE'
'WACKING ONE OUT' _______________Munky Harris sees the Real Jacko
UNDER THE FEZ________________________This Month: Clare Werbeloff
'BURK' ____________________The World's First Celebrity by Circusmouse
'ROLL UP, ROLL UP' ____________Mej D's take on the Circus of Celebrity
********************************************************************************************
Contributors
Zed, Bobby Wildside, Circusmouse, Munky Harris and introducing special guest contributor Mej D
DOG STAR by Zed
A little over a century ago lived a dog named Blair. Now Blair was no ordinary dog, in fact you could say Blair was a visionary, a pioneer. You see, Blair was the very first canine movie star. He played a heroic dog named Rover in the little known 1905 classic "Rescued By Rover". It was a British film in which a baby is kidnapped by an old beggar woman and, you guessed it, is rescued by Rover the faithful family dog. Since then many other dog stars have emerged and earned celebrity status by performing extraordinary feats from saving lives to solving crimes. Serious method actors like Lassie and Rin Tin Tin would immerse themselves in their character so deeply they would constantly pull off award-winning roles. It was even said, as illustrated in "Lassie Come Home", that this gifted canine actor was able to shed a tear on command. These movie legends paved the way for other greats on the silver screen. Names like Benji, Bingo, Underdog and Inspector Rex reached super stardom through gutsy performances, rugged good looks and a clever choice of scripts. But now, over 100 years since Blair first graced the screen, a new star has emerged, a star whose mere existence threatens to corrupt and debase the entire canine entertainment industry. I speak of none other than the Celebrity Pocket Dog.
Apart from the Taco Bell mutt and the entire cast of Beverly Hills Chihuahua, these irritating creatures are untalented and over-rated. They pompously pose for paparazzi in their jewel studded collars and designer outfits, mocking their hard working predecessors with a pretentious squint and occasional yawn. As expected, the entrepreneurs have pounced on this market, creating an industry worth millions. An estimated average of $38,000 is being spent on each one of these vile critters each year, making their net worth more than that of some of our readers. With big name manufacturers creating hand bags to accommodate them, outrageously expensive bowls and eating utensils to feed them, designer clothes and jewel encrusted accessories that match their owners and day spas and tooth whitening clinics that would... well... make them feel better about themselves, there almost seems to be no end to the lunacy.
Apart from the Taco Bell mutt and the entire cast of Beverly Hills Chihuahua, these irritating creatures are untalented and over-rated. They pompously pose for paparazzi in their jewel studded collars and designer outfits, mocking their hard working predecessors with a pretentious squint and occasional yawn. As expected, the entrepreneurs have pounced on this market, creating an industry worth millions. An estimated average of $38,000 is being spent on each one of these vile critters each year, making their net worth more than that of some of our readers. With big name manufacturers creating hand bags to accommodate them, outrageously expensive bowls and eating utensils to feed them, designer clothes and jewel encrusted accessories that match their owners and day spas and tooth whitening clinics that would... well... make them feel better about themselves, there almost seems to be no end to the lunacy.
Some have argued that these poor creatures are the reluctant recipients of fame, thrust into the limelight through no fault of their own as they make the most of their extraordinary lifestyles. However, I see them for what they really are, the devil's own spawn, strategically placed by the Freemasons to whisper commands into their owners' ears, pulling the strings of the wealthy and influential as they plot their zionistic one-world-government and play for world domination. There have been claims made that Pocket Dogs were directly responsible for the 9/11 attacks and the Global Financial Downturn. I find these claims to be ludicrous as without opposing thumbs a dog would not be able to handle a box cutter. I do, however, find the GFD theory plausible, as I once knew a dog who knew a dog that could spell "ShELL OIL" with a calculator.
*
"Fame is like a river, that beareth up things light and swollen, and drowns things weighty and solid", Sir Francis Bacon, English philosopher, statesman and essayist Jan 22, 1561-Apr, 1626.
"ETHICS, fuck ethics," laughed J.P. Schmo, swinging around on his office chair, a mobile pressed firmly against one ear. " Yeah, well, he got his just desserts." You'd be sure to find Schmo in this self-congratulatory mood on most days of the week nowadays in his home town of Twitcher, ranting and railing and, as he put it, "uncovering the truth".
Just next to him on his desk, heaving under the weight of two computer monitors, hard drives, lap tops, and yet more back-up hard drives, sat a two-feet bronze phallus. Upon it were inscribed the words: "All politics is local, all politics is personal." Gotcha, had, in his own words, "shafted" another well-known MP, police officer, civic worker or, as was the case these days, a member of the public. In fact, anybody was a fair target if Schmo reckoned they had crossed his carefully proscribed conventions.
"I know, I know. Well, if they do that sort of thing, they have to face the consequences. It's fair pickings as far as I can see," Schmo insisted to the voice on the other end of the phone. He was referring to the previous night's attack upon an elderly man, dragged from his bed and savagely beaten in his front garden by a bunch of self-styled vigilantes.
Schmo had instigated the attack, after publishing the man's name and address on his news blog site Gotcha. The old gent's "crime" was to have enjoyed a cigarette in the seclusion of his own garden, while looking after his seven-year old nephew. Schmo's apartment overlooked this old man's back yard and he had spotted the pair. Grabbing his mobile phone, Schmo clicked off a few pics, and uploaded the shots to Gotcha, with the old man's address attached in an instant. "look at this uncaring geriatric," he blogged. "I would go so far as to say he is evil, filling this young child's lungs with cancerous smoke. It's debauched. Does the mother know what this wicked individual is doing to her child?" Via Gotcha, Schmo invited his readers to "pay his visit" to the unsuspecting victim.
But our story begins a few years before.
"ETHICS, fuck ethics," laughed J.P. Schmo, swinging around on his office chair, a mobile pressed firmly against one ear. " Yeah, well, he got his just desserts." You'd be sure to find Schmo in this self-congratulatory mood on most days of the week nowadays in his home town of Twitcher, ranting and railing and, as he put it, "uncovering the truth".
Just next to him on his desk, heaving under the weight of two computer monitors, hard drives, lap tops, and yet more back-up hard drives, sat a two-feet bronze phallus. Upon it were inscribed the words: "All politics is local, all politics is personal." Gotcha, had, in his own words, "shafted" another well-known MP, police officer, civic worker or, as was the case these days, a member of the public. In fact, anybody was a fair target if Schmo reckoned they had crossed his carefully proscribed conventions.
"I know, I know. Well, if they do that sort of thing, they have to face the consequences. It's fair pickings as far as I can see," Schmo insisted to the voice on the other end of the phone. He was referring to the previous night's attack upon an elderly man, dragged from his bed and savagely beaten in his front garden by a bunch of self-styled vigilantes.
Schmo had instigated the attack, after publishing the man's name and address on his news blog site Gotcha. The old gent's "crime" was to have enjoyed a cigarette in the seclusion of his own garden, while looking after his seven-year old nephew. Schmo's apartment overlooked this old man's back yard and he had spotted the pair. Grabbing his mobile phone, Schmo clicked off a few pics, and uploaded the shots to Gotcha, with the old man's address attached in an instant. "look at this uncaring geriatric," he blogged. "I would go so far as to say he is evil, filling this young child's lungs with cancerous smoke. It's debauched. Does the mother know what this wicked individual is doing to her child?" Via Gotcha, Schmo invited his readers to "pay his visit" to the unsuspecting victim.
But our story begins a few years before.
Turned down from all manner of journalism and PR jobs in the past years, Schmo had used his savings from the payout of a car crash to fund his burgeoning news site. Years earlier, one boozy night, he had ploughed his Mini into a lamp column. Luckily for Schmo, he had escaped unscathed from the crumpled wreck, until he squeezed out of the car door and, unluckily, set loose a planter pot that broke free from its fitting on the lamp above.
Clunk, it came crashing down, bashing his head with all the speed of a cannonball, and cracking open his skull like a freshly peeled hard-boiled egg. An old woman walking her dog had found his crumpled body on a grass verge that fateful night, covered in geraniums, clumps of hardened soil and shards of clay pot. His body had been saved, but the brain damage was irreparable.
Life changed for Schmo after that. On the surface, he seemed like any other guy: clean-shaven, of average build, neat haircut. But below the exterior, in that mashed up brain, that was where the damage had been wrought.
Since the smash, he had been left with many minor ailments, but two symptoms had dictated the way his life would be lived from that moment onwards: one setback was that Schmo could no longer differentiate between shapes and colours. This made the daily task of dressing very difficult indeed. To Schmo, a gum boot looked the same as a sandal, and a T-shirt much the same as an oven glove. The other side-effect of the accident we will come to later.
Job interviews proved particularly troublesome for him. So many times, job applications saw him shortlisted for the post, such was his flair with words and oratory. But he always fell at the final hurdle.
At his last dismal interview for a TV researchers job, he had arrived at reception in a pair of tatty budgie smugglers, a button-down orange shirt, wearing a thong on the right foot and a smart, polished brogue on the left.
But then he discovered the world wide web and his musings and scoops on Gotcha soon elevated him to the status of local celebrity.
"Say it loud and say it proud," he would declare. "I am a CELEBRITY."
When the news crews wanted a talking head to comment on the closure of a hospital, the opening of a school, the resignation of a councillor, there he was - the celebrity newshound with a view on everything. Unbalanced, unresearched, unfounded, unbelievable, unforgiving, that was Schmo - and the public kept clambering to get a piece of him.
From very unremarkable surroundings, Schmo had made a name for himself. He lived on his own, in a cluttered, messy apartment and had no friends, except for his "stylist", who ensured he was suitably attired each morning, when, after blogging, he would chat on local cable TV about the issues of the day.
Celebrity, Schmo kept saying to himself, was his only friend, and his office was his empire. It was his dream factory, where his Tweets, emails and blogs made history. When Schmo wasn't asleep, every waking moment was spent on YouTube, Gawker, Facebook, WordPress, Bebo, MySpace, Google and Flickr. Rings and rings of cyber gumph spinning around the globe onwards and outward to eternity.
Was Schmo a narcissist? He certainly would have disagreed most heartily with that notion. No, in his eyes, he was a mover and a shaker. He was the citizen journalist's Citizen Journalist. And this must surely be the case he conceded one particular day, on observing the young eager newshounds from Twitcher TV rush over to him, to get his views on the day's events, asking him for a sound-bite on everything from job cuts at the hospital to dog shit on the pavement.
Most nights, Schmo did the local rounds, visiting bars, heading to event openings, and then would return home for a ready meal and a light beer. Once home he would begin blogging. He would work to his midnight deadline, uploading all the latest gossip and tattle to Gotcha.
On his final evening, he was having a particularly tough time, as the second of his symptoms caused by the car crash had come back to recently haunt him.
Tap, tap, surf, surf, blog, blog, on and on he went. But as fast as he keyed in his stories, his right hand would sweep erratically across the keyboard, temporarily preventing him from continuing with his story, deleting most of what he had just written.
"No, come on. Please," he pleaded. But the right hand kept on swiping and wiping and destroying everything he had previously written, letter after letter, word after word. "I'll stop the blog tomorrow. Promise. Come on, just one more night," he said.
Schmo lost his temper, crying and screaming. He grabbed his right hand with his left and pinned it firmly to the desk, as if to strangle it.
His right hand had become Dr Jekyll to Schmo's evil Mr Hyde, acting independently from his body.
After the car crash, neurologists had studied Schmo. At first they were baffled. It was Dr Harley Webster who fathomed out the problem with Schmo. He was a sufferer of Alien Hand Syndrome, whereby the sufferer's hand takes on a mind of its own. Webster warned colleagues that Schmo's life was in danger, because the right hand had become independent of his control and had taken upon itself to attack its owner.
Battling to contain his right hand, Schmo's life was under threat. Computer monitors crashed off the desk, his trusty water bottle spun on to the floor and his documents and books lay useless, soaked in juice. Schmo was on the floor, writhing in agony as the hand grasped his scrawny neck, tightening its grip. The blogger was gasping for air, purple in the face, the hand pressing harder and harder on his windpipe.
And then the struggle was over. Schmo lay lifeless in his polka-dot yellow jumpsuit and Crocs - his stylist had not visited today. He had blogged his last blog.
Fans of Gotcha awoke the next morning to get their daily fix of Schmo's ramblings. The only new entry they could find that crisp August morning was written at 11:58pm. It read: "Woof, woof, grrr, caaw, caaw, woof, woof, caaw. The blog beast must be satisfied every day. I cannot take it any longer. Blogging is the revenge of the amateur. Goodbye."
Schmo's number one fan, Eric, had fired up his computer in Twitcher, logging on to Gotcha, eager for all the latest local news.
"Hey Marge, that Schmo has really let it fly this morning. What a read. I reckon he's hit the nail on the head with today's column."
Clunk, it came crashing down, bashing his head with all the speed of a cannonball, and cracking open his skull like a freshly peeled hard-boiled egg. An old woman walking her dog had found his crumpled body on a grass verge that fateful night, covered in geraniums, clumps of hardened soil and shards of clay pot. His body had been saved, but the brain damage was irreparable.
Life changed for Schmo after that. On the surface, he seemed like any other guy: clean-shaven, of average build, neat haircut. But below the exterior, in that mashed up brain, that was where the damage had been wrought.
Since the smash, he had been left with many minor ailments, but two symptoms had dictated the way his life would be lived from that moment onwards: one setback was that Schmo could no longer differentiate between shapes and colours. This made the daily task of dressing very difficult indeed. To Schmo, a gum boot looked the same as a sandal, and a T-shirt much the same as an oven glove. The other side-effect of the accident we will come to later.
Job interviews proved particularly troublesome for him. So many times, job applications saw him shortlisted for the post, such was his flair with words and oratory. But he always fell at the final hurdle.
At his last dismal interview for a TV researchers job, he had arrived at reception in a pair of tatty budgie smugglers, a button-down orange shirt, wearing a thong on the right foot and a smart, polished brogue on the left.
But then he discovered the world wide web and his musings and scoops on Gotcha soon elevated him to the status of local celebrity.
"Say it loud and say it proud," he would declare. "I am a CELEBRITY."
When the news crews wanted a talking head to comment on the closure of a hospital, the opening of a school, the resignation of a councillor, there he was - the celebrity newshound with a view on everything. Unbalanced, unresearched, unfounded, unbelievable, unforgiving, that was Schmo - and the public kept clambering to get a piece of him.
From very unremarkable surroundings, Schmo had made a name for himself. He lived on his own, in a cluttered, messy apartment and had no friends, except for his "stylist", who ensured he was suitably attired each morning, when, after blogging, he would chat on local cable TV about the issues of the day.
Celebrity, Schmo kept saying to himself, was his only friend, and his office was his empire. It was his dream factory, where his Tweets, emails and blogs made history. When Schmo wasn't asleep, every waking moment was spent on YouTube, Gawker, Facebook, WordPress, Bebo, MySpace, Google and Flickr. Rings and rings of cyber gumph spinning around the globe onwards and outward to eternity.
Was Schmo a narcissist? He certainly would have disagreed most heartily with that notion. No, in his eyes, he was a mover and a shaker. He was the citizen journalist's Citizen Journalist. And this must surely be the case he conceded one particular day, on observing the young eager newshounds from Twitcher TV rush over to him, to get his views on the day's events, asking him for a sound-bite on everything from job cuts at the hospital to dog shit on the pavement.
Most nights, Schmo did the local rounds, visiting bars, heading to event openings, and then would return home for a ready meal and a light beer. Once home he would begin blogging. He would work to his midnight deadline, uploading all the latest gossip and tattle to Gotcha.
On his final evening, he was having a particularly tough time, as the second of his symptoms caused by the car crash had come back to recently haunt him.
Tap, tap, surf, surf, blog, blog, on and on he went. But as fast as he keyed in his stories, his right hand would sweep erratically across the keyboard, temporarily preventing him from continuing with his story, deleting most of what he had just written.
"No, come on. Please," he pleaded. But the right hand kept on swiping and wiping and destroying everything he had previously written, letter after letter, word after word. "I'll stop the blog tomorrow. Promise. Come on, just one more night," he said.
Schmo lost his temper, crying and screaming. He grabbed his right hand with his left and pinned it firmly to the desk, as if to strangle it.
His right hand had become Dr Jekyll to Schmo's evil Mr Hyde, acting independently from his body.
After the car crash, neurologists had studied Schmo. At first they were baffled. It was Dr Harley Webster who fathomed out the problem with Schmo. He was a sufferer of Alien Hand Syndrome, whereby the sufferer's hand takes on a mind of its own. Webster warned colleagues that Schmo's life was in danger, because the right hand had become independent of his control and had taken upon itself to attack its owner.
Battling to contain his right hand, Schmo's life was under threat. Computer monitors crashed off the desk, his trusty water bottle spun on to the floor and his documents and books lay useless, soaked in juice. Schmo was on the floor, writhing in agony as the hand grasped his scrawny neck, tightening its grip. The blogger was gasping for air, purple in the face, the hand pressing harder and harder on his windpipe.
And then the struggle was over. Schmo lay lifeless in his polka-dot yellow jumpsuit and Crocs - his stylist had not visited today. He had blogged his last blog.
Fans of Gotcha awoke the next morning to get their daily fix of Schmo's ramblings. The only new entry they could find that crisp August morning was written at 11:58pm. It read: "Woof, woof, grrr, caaw, caaw, woof, woof, caaw. The blog beast must be satisfied every day. I cannot take it any longer. Blogging is the revenge of the amateur. Goodbye."
Schmo's number one fan, Eric, had fired up his computer in Twitcher, logging on to Gotcha, eager for all the latest local news.
"Hey Marge, that Schmo has really let it fly this morning. What a read. I reckon he's hit the nail on the head with today's column."
*
"The King of Pop is dead", "Michael Jackson - Generation X Elvis", "Prince of Pop greatest performer of all time", spouted the media upon news of Jackson's death.
No, no, no. Stop the train, let's get off. As the cult of celebrity has struggled to contain itself, it seems the man who was last year pictured in pyjamas, being pushed around in a wheelchair while shopping, a litany of alleged sex case trials against young kids behind him, is being mourned as if he were a god who walked amongst us. Whaaaaaaaaat!!? Why is this?
Wacko Jacko (as the papers used to call him) had an unparalleled recording career for a time, that is not in doubt. But his successes ended more than 20 years ago, and since then he has been a man merely acting out the role of a functioning mammal, capable of merely showing up in the public eye, spending millions on his narcissistic attempts to look like celebrity hero Liz Taylor and taking a string of young boys to bed with him.
But the worst thing in the unseemly drama that unfolded during the wall-to-wall coverage of Jackson's death is the failure to separate past from present and fact from fiction. Celebrity has become nothing more than the travelling freakshow of Victorian days, in which the bearded lady (Britain's Got Talent contestant Susan Boyle), huge-breasted dwarves (Jordan, aka Katie Price) and mutated child snatchers (the dearly departed Jacko) have become the norm and something to aspire to.
Jackson's problem was that he couldn't let go of the glory days. His star had faded and instead of putting his wealth to good causes, he invested the cash in his own vanity, glorifying the legendary star that once was Michael Jackson, the moonwalking, hip swivelling superstar. Would it have made a difference to the recent coverage of his death if Jackson had been found guilty of child molestation, instead of the alleged cases against him being paid off out of court? FEZ doesn't know.
What FEZ does know is that despite being $300 million in debt, his Neverland ranch sold off, and being sued by former managers, financial advisors, lawyers, business partners, a porn producer, and the son of the King of Bahrain (to the tune of $10 million) over nonpayment or soured deals, he was facing obscurity any time very soon.
Come on, let's face it, Jacko wouldn't have been up to those stunning live shows of 30 years ago - he hasn't toured since 1996, suffering a fit of nerves, walking off stage half way through a performance at a London awards ceremony three years ago. The man was a wreck.
It's all a scam, this rubbish about Jacko's death. It's just the way he likes it. His whole life had been an invention, a constantly evolving fantasy. What better way for Jacko to escape the pressure he heaped on himself, by doing a runner with a pocket full of cash from the $160 million in ticket sales from the upcoming shows and the tens of millions after the reissue of his back catalogue.
Jacko, where are you?
Wacko Jacko (as the papers used to call him) had an unparalleled recording career for a time, that is not in doubt. But his successes ended more than 20 years ago, and since then he has been a man merely acting out the role of a functioning mammal, capable of merely showing up in the public eye, spending millions on his narcissistic attempts to look like celebrity hero Liz Taylor and taking a string of young boys to bed with him.
But the worst thing in the unseemly drama that unfolded during the wall-to-wall coverage of Jackson's death is the failure to separate past from present and fact from fiction. Celebrity has become nothing more than the travelling freakshow of Victorian days, in which the bearded lady (Britain's Got Talent contestant Susan Boyle), huge-breasted dwarves (Jordan, aka Katie Price) and mutated child snatchers (the dearly departed Jacko) have become the norm and something to aspire to.
Jackson's problem was that he couldn't let go of the glory days. His star had faded and instead of putting his wealth to good causes, he invested the cash in his own vanity, glorifying the legendary star that once was Michael Jackson, the moonwalking, hip swivelling superstar. Would it have made a difference to the recent coverage of his death if Jackson had been found guilty of child molestation, instead of the alleged cases against him being paid off out of court? FEZ doesn't know.
What FEZ does know is that despite being $300 million in debt, his Neverland ranch sold off, and being sued by former managers, financial advisors, lawyers, business partners, a porn producer, and the son of the King of Bahrain (to the tune of $10 million) over nonpayment or soured deals, he was facing obscurity any time very soon.
Come on, let's face it, Jacko wouldn't have been up to those stunning live shows of 30 years ago - he hasn't toured since 1996, suffering a fit of nerves, walking off stage half way through a performance at a London awards ceremony three years ago. The man was a wreck.
It's all a scam, this rubbish about Jacko's death. It's just the way he likes it. His whole life had been an invention, a constantly evolving fantasy. What better way for Jacko to escape the pressure he heaped on himself, by doing a runner with a pocket full of cash from the $160 million in ticket sales from the upcoming shows and the tens of millions after the reissue of his back catalogue.
Jacko, where are you?
*
FEZ recently caught up with the 'Bogan of King's Cross', Clare 'Chk-Chk-Boom!' Werbeloff, and we were lucky enough to get a few seconds of her 15 minutes of fame and have a quick chat.
FEZ: First off, Clare, can you just say it, please?
CW: Say what?
FEZ: You know, just once, please?
CW: Do I have to?
FEZ: Pretty please.
CW: Ok.
(A brief pause while Clare composed herself.)
CW: Chk-Chk-BOOOM!
FEZ: Hahahahahahaa, yes! Thank you.
CW: Is that it?
FEZ: There was an explosion of remixed tracks on the net the next day, containing your 'catchphrase'. Do you have a favourite?
CW: You know, I still haven't received anything from anybody for those. What ever happened to artists rights. It's for shit, bro!
FEZ: Yes, quite. FEZ's favourite can be found at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3SwPvCY6Yi0. It's a clever, if somewhat predictable mash-up with old school faves Jazzy Jeff and Fresh Prince.
CW: Yeah, that's Hancock, right? I couldn't believe it when I saw him. I didn't know he could rap.
FEZ: Yeah, well, before your time. Going back to your earlier comment about artists rights, you've done pretty well since then, haven't you?
CW: Yeah, bro, totally, it's awesome. I've been on A Current Affair, Triple M Sydney with Ugly Phil and Sami Lukas, I've been everywhere, bro. Totally awesome!
FEZ: Well, hardly A-list but, congratulations, it's a start.
CW: Thanks. I think.
FEZ: How do you think we can bring the various ethnicities closer to what we believe is the Australian way?
CW: I dunno. Tattoo them with the Southern Cross. That's why we were in the tattoo shop that night in King's Cross. We found this ABC* in the street and we dragged him in there to make him a fully sick bogan.
FEZ: Did it occur to you that maybe he didn't want to be a bogan?
CW: What?! Who doesn't want to be a bogan? This is Australia. It's what we're all about.
FEZ: In view of recent events, FEZ would have to agree. There does seem to be a shift in our society and a rise in boganism.
CW: You make it sound like it's a bad thing.
FEZ: Oh Clare, the horror, the horror.
CW: Yeah, totally.
FEZ: You've stated that you are not a racist. What would you do about the recent racially motivated violence against foreign students, notably Indians-
CW: I know! Coming here and taking education away from Aussies! It's disgusting!
FEZ: You said you weren't racist, right?
CW: I'm not! I have nothing against foreigners born in Australia, especially if they get the right tattoo.
FEZ: But the money collected from these foreign students in fees, etc., helps prop up the education system in this country, allowing citizens to get an education. Without it, some institutions would have to close.
CW: Aaah, we'll be right, mate, we Aussies don't need any education, coz we're the best in the world.
FEZ: Yes, quite. We live in an age, where celebrity is created and taken away at lightspeed by a media that spins in ever tightening, self serving circles. FEZ hopes that you enjoy the rest of your time in the limelight.
CW: Whatever.
*ABC=Australian Born Chinese
CW: Say what?
FEZ: You know, just once, please?
CW: Do I have to?
FEZ: Pretty please.
CW: Ok.
(A brief pause while Clare composed herself.)
CW: Chk-Chk-BOOOM!
FEZ: Hahahahahahaa, yes! Thank you.
CW: Is that it?
FEZ: There was an explosion of remixed tracks on the net the next day, containing your 'catchphrase'. Do you have a favourite?
CW: You know, I still haven't received anything from anybody for those. What ever happened to artists rights. It's for shit, bro!
FEZ: Yes, quite. FEZ's favourite can be found at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3SwPvCY6Yi0. It's a clever, if somewhat predictable mash-up with old school faves Jazzy Jeff and Fresh Prince.
CW: Yeah, that's Hancock, right? I couldn't believe it when I saw him. I didn't know he could rap.
FEZ: Yeah, well, before your time. Going back to your earlier comment about artists rights, you've done pretty well since then, haven't you?
CW: Yeah, bro, totally, it's awesome. I've been on A Current Affair, Triple M Sydney with Ugly Phil and Sami Lukas, I've been everywhere, bro. Totally awesome!
FEZ: Well, hardly A-list but, congratulations, it's a start.
CW: Thanks. I think.
FEZ: How do you think we can bring the various ethnicities closer to what we believe is the Australian way?
CW: I dunno. Tattoo them with the Southern Cross. That's why we were in the tattoo shop that night in King's Cross. We found this ABC* in the street and we dragged him in there to make him a fully sick bogan.
FEZ: Did it occur to you that maybe he didn't want to be a bogan?
CW: What?! Who doesn't want to be a bogan? This is Australia. It's what we're all about.
FEZ: In view of recent events, FEZ would have to agree. There does seem to be a shift in our society and a rise in boganism.
CW: You make it sound like it's a bad thing.
FEZ: Oh Clare, the horror, the horror.
CW: Yeah, totally.
FEZ: You've stated that you are not a racist. What would you do about the recent racially motivated violence against foreign students, notably Indians-
CW: I know! Coming here and taking education away from Aussies! It's disgusting!
FEZ: You said you weren't racist, right?
CW: I'm not! I have nothing against foreigners born in Australia, especially if they get the right tattoo.
FEZ: But the money collected from these foreign students in fees, etc., helps prop up the education system in this country, allowing citizens to get an education. Without it, some institutions would have to close.
CW: Aaah, we'll be right, mate, we Aussies don't need any education, coz we're the best in the world.
FEZ: Yes, quite. We live in an age, where celebrity is created and taken away at lightspeed by a media that spins in ever tightening, self serving circles. FEZ hopes that you enjoy the rest of your time in the limelight.
CW: Whatever.
*ABC=Australian Born Chinese
*
*
So, another celebrity marriage bites the dust. This one is closer to home because it's Peter Andre - who pops into Cairns now and then to see his brothers - and his wild wife Katie (you know who she is - you literally can't miss her - she's the big breasted UK glamour model whose ginormous boobs are probably in the Guinness Book of Records).
While the breakdown of the marriage of these 'stars' is detailed daily in the UK tabloids, the real question is: 'Who really cares?'.
Seriously, why does anyone care? It is absolutely crazy to even think about the personal lives of two people who make more money than a small country, two people who seem mindlessly distracted by glamour and whose deepest thoughts are probably about deciding what is the best hair colour to wear this month. These people are too weird to be considered 'real' people.
Of course, we shouldn't give them and their surreal world a second thought. No smart, intellectual person would.
But, the truth is, we do.
Sadly, the multi-million dollar gossip magazine industry proves there is an insatiable thirst to know everything there is to know about celebrities.
The Peter/Katie media circus is pretty much the same as it has been for most celebrity marriage breakdowns (except Brad and Jennifer, of course. The media is still beating that one up.). It's fodder for gossip magazines and the much-critised paparazzi. But before we blame the writers, photographers, magazine editors and even the graphic designers, we really have to take a good, hard look in the mirror.
Okay, so you guys probably never ever pick up a glam magazine. But a LOT of smart, sophisticated women do. Even the most intellectual woman who doesn't know who Peter or Katie are can be seen to be reading a 'gossip' magazine now and then. True.
Put a female judge or unbiased lawyer in a hair salon waiting for her colour dye to set and give her a pile of gossip magazines and you'll not hear a peep from her again. She'll be so ensconced in the gossip glam world, even making comments in between the dye and the cut.
Most intelligent women don't 'logically' care about a celebrity's comings and goings, but deep down they can't resist picking up those tabloid glam magazines. Yes, they want to know when Brad is finally going to dump Angelina for Jennifer. They lap up every single tidbit of information on why Charles could never give up Camilla and they simply must know if Victoria and David really do love each other or is it all a publicity stunt.
The funny thing is women are not solely drawn to these magazines to find out more about the celebrity 'stars'. That's not what motivates them to read all about celebrity shortcomings.
While women can be bitchy, catty, critical, self focused and self motivated, which is who these magazines targets, the truth is women pick up those magazines for one main reason - they need to know that the top-rated models, actors and celebrities muck up their personal lives just like everyone else.
They need to know these 'perfect stars' aren't perfect. They have to know that - it helps them feel good about themselves again and put a spring into their step again.
But, as well, they just MUST know, is Brad really leaving Angelina for Jennifer and are Victoria and David splitting up finally????
While the breakdown of the marriage of these 'stars' is detailed daily in the UK tabloids, the real question is: 'Who really cares?'.
Seriously, why does anyone care? It is absolutely crazy to even think about the personal lives of two people who make more money than a small country, two people who seem mindlessly distracted by glamour and whose deepest thoughts are probably about deciding what is the best hair colour to wear this month. These people are too weird to be considered 'real' people.
Of course, we shouldn't give them and their surreal world a second thought. No smart, intellectual person would.
But, the truth is, we do.
Sadly, the multi-million dollar gossip magazine industry proves there is an insatiable thirst to know everything there is to know about celebrities.
The Peter/Katie media circus is pretty much the same as it has been for most celebrity marriage breakdowns (except Brad and Jennifer, of course. The media is still beating that one up.). It's fodder for gossip magazines and the much-critised paparazzi. But before we blame the writers, photographers, magazine editors and even the graphic designers, we really have to take a good, hard look in the mirror.
Okay, so you guys probably never ever pick up a glam magazine. But a LOT of smart, sophisticated women do. Even the most intellectual woman who doesn't know who Peter or Katie are can be seen to be reading a 'gossip' magazine now and then. True.
Put a female judge or unbiased lawyer in a hair salon waiting for her colour dye to set and give her a pile of gossip magazines and you'll not hear a peep from her again. She'll be so ensconced in the gossip glam world, even making comments in between the dye and the cut.
Most intelligent women don't 'logically' care about a celebrity's comings and goings, but deep down they can't resist picking up those tabloid glam magazines. Yes, they want to know when Brad is finally going to dump Angelina for Jennifer. They lap up every single tidbit of information on why Charles could never give up Camilla and they simply must know if Victoria and David really do love each other or is it all a publicity stunt.
The funny thing is women are not solely drawn to these magazines to find out more about the celebrity 'stars'. That's not what motivates them to read all about celebrity shortcomings.
While women can be bitchy, catty, critical, self focused and self motivated, which is who these magazines targets, the truth is women pick up those magazines for one main reason - they need to know that the top-rated models, actors and celebrities muck up their personal lives just like everyone else.
They need to know these 'perfect stars' aren't perfect. They have to know that - it helps them feel good about themselves again and put a spring into their step again.
But, as well, they just MUST know, is Brad really leaving Angelina for Jennifer and are Victoria and David splitting up finally????
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FEZ next month:
"MYTHICAL"
Freaky tales or urban myths, tell us your story for your chance to win a prize.
Congrats to Sqizzy B for winning last month's prize.
Contributions to:-
fez@randompress.com.au
