People Who I Love But Are Beginning to Freak Me OutAlly Sheedy: Dear God in heaven, what happened to that woman? Such a fine actor, such a lovely lady, yet she’s now in the C-list ghetto, mostly portraying (unconvincingly, I might add) lesbians in peril in exploitative films that are, shall we say, less than mediocre. Her performances of late -- well, the past two years or so -- are grievous displays of public humiliation and extreme boredom. I almost expect her to turn to the cameras and say, “What the fuck?” I can’t be alone in my confusion and rage, can I?
Bill Clinton: Okay, I realize that I’m going to sound awfully shallow here, cruel as all get out, but come on, what the hell’s up with his nose lately? I love this man, Hillary knows I do, but since his unfortunate health problems, his poor nose has expanded to gigantic proportions. Like, W.C. Fields proportions. I don’t like that. Not one bit.
Jon Voight: Oh, how I loved, loved, loved him. Ever since I was a wee child, I’ve had the hots for Mr. Voight. His face is wonderful still, and his acting is brilliant as ever, but...I don’t know...This whole thing with Angelina is just creepy. His embarrassing media junkets last year, filled with tears and accusations and puffy concern, made my stomach hurt. And he accuses her of being nuts? No more love for him --at least not until he starts on some Prozac. Or something.
Leif Garret: My childhood crush, if only for a year. He was so adorable then with his poufy blonde locks and almond-shaped blue eyes. Now he’s a wearer of do-rags, and if there’s anything that disturbs me more than a baseball cap-wearing man, it’s a man who wears a do-rag 24/7 -- ostensibly to hide a bald pate. Please, guys, stop that shit immediately. Men are supposed to bald -- ever hear of testosterone? The more you have, the greater the hair loss. Be bald and be proud of your potent hormones.
Julia Roberts: I liked her in Mystic Pizza, loved her in Pretty Woman, but I can’t stand her anymore. Every movie she’s done since is just Julia being herself, and that’s not acting. Her mouth bothers me. Her nose bothers me. And she's a homewrecker to boot. I find her repulsive, if you want to know the truth.
Nicole Kidman: Only Jesus knows why Ms. Kidman has morphed into a six foot tall anorexic elf who could convincingly play the long lost sister in a made for T.V. movie about the Jackson family.
Stephen King: All right, I still dream about being married to the man (shut up, you -- different strokes for different folks), but when I saw his interview with Jon Stewart a few days ago on The Daily Show, I was irritated mightily by Steve’s throaty gurgle-clicks every time he pronounced a word with an “L” in it. What up, my brother? Might you have been ill that night? Sore throat, maybe? I hope so, because if this gurgle-click thing is here to stay, I no longer want you as my man.
My youngest brother: Handsome (he‘s a cross between a young Keanu Reeves and Collin Farrell), intelligent, talented (he writes) -- yet he needs a boot in the ass something awful. And that’s all I’ll say on that subject.
Ernest Angley: There was a time when this ancient televangelist’s antics amused me. My late father got me into this early Sunday morning program when I was but a tot -- he would howl all through the program, even weeping with laughter on one occasion. I get my sardonic wit and appreciation of all things offbeat from my dad. But, although Angley seems like a truly nice man -- in his thirty plus years of bellowing “baby!” at hopeful deaf folks, there have been no shady investigative reports about him on 60 Minutes, no hookers, crack, or most surprising of all, fraud -- I can no longer gaze upon him without wanting to hurl. Could be his advanced age (old men should never, ever have hair that resembles a Ken doll’s) or it could just be that after thirty years of intermittent gawking at his bellowing and parishioner-flinging (as some of you may have witnessed, Angley is famous for shrieking “heal!” and then knocking the disabled believers onto their asses by the sheer power of his healing hand) , it has, like Angley, gotten too old for anyone’s pleasure.
That, my babies, was only eight people out of the hundreds and hundreds of People Who I Love But Are Beginning to Freak Me Out. More to come. But I think I'll wait until I'm good and drunk for the next go-around; being this mean while lucid puts too much of a drain on my conscience.