(And NOT the obvious ones.)

Sylvia Plath –– okay, so this is a paper doll, but you'll forgive me this transgression, won't you? Don't make me use that oven.
I just read a very interesting article on the never-quite-risen “cyber flaneur” and the death of wandering through the Internet at the hands of everyone’s favorite scapegoat, Facebook. (I say that without rancor –– I loathe Facebook, and realize that now I sound like a bandwagon hater/bleeding heart Luddite, the latter of which I am, the former I am most certainly not.) I don’t even want to share the article with you because the writer does his job so well that I feel guilty even about recommending anything to anyone, virtually or otherwise, but I will point to the adorability of the fact that, “there were reports of flâneurs taking turtles for a walk.” Can you imagine, Andre Breton walking little Skipperdee?
One thing the writer sort of fails to mention, though, is that unfortunately, a lot of the flaneuristic (neologism alert) works that came out of the surrealists (and various fringe groups) were just pretty bad. They lacked the same thing that Facebook and Twitter do now: a narrative arc. God grant me a plotline!
There is now a category called “Buy Me This!”
This category will keep a record of things that I like so that when I develop a freakishly devoted fan base a la 30 Seconds to Mars (who knew?!) they will shower me with expensive and ridiculous gifts, such as these $1600 shoes, which I will wear when I feel like rendering annoying men impotent.
Is Mercury in retrograde?
I feel strange, and unproductive. Not sad, exactly, but anxious about letting go. My day is over, though –– no hope for finishing one last manuscript tonight –– so I’m attempting to sooth myself to sleep by thinking of things simple and beautiful to me right now: Bemelman’s Bar, pajama t-shirts, Shlomo Carlebach whistling, the ocean (the Surf Hotel on Block Island!), blissfully long airplane rides, the sound of typing, Vladimir Nabokov, e.g.:
“Her painted eyelids were closed. A tear of no particular meaning gemmed in the hard top of her cheek. Nobody could tell what went on in that little head. Waves of desire rippled there, a recent lover fell back into a swoon, hygienic doubts were raised and dismissed, contempt for everyone but herself advertised with a flush of warmth its constant presence, here it is, cried what’s her name squatting quickly. My darling, dushka moya…”
The smell of straight vanilla extract, listening to children speak French, bouquets of hydrangeas, worry dolls, hot whiskey drinks, and Shel Silverstein’s picture of love.
Remind me to tell you tomorrow what my new dream job is.
Goodnight…
In order of how much I wish they weren’t.
7. Anne Archer
She is the sweet brunette mother to Glenn Close’s psychopathic blond stalking opera lover in Fatal Attraction, and I just want to root for her in all things, but I can’t if she is a Scientologist –– and not only is she, but her son, Tommy Davis, is the head spokesperson for the whole shebang. In the novel-length article on screenwriter Paul Haggis’ defection from the church in The New Yorker, Archer actually sounds reasonable and NICE, and then she goes and does something like “describe Hubbard as ‘an engineer’ who had codified human emotional states, in order to guide people to ‘feel a zest and a love for life.'”
Wait… who am I kidding? Archer is cool, but the real Fatal Attraction cast member I’m rooting for is the adorably transgendered Ellen. “RABBITS!” Whatever happened to that little muffin?
[Digression: ANSWER! Here’s her bio from IMDB:
“Discovered at an open call at age six, Ellen was chosen from well over a thousand children to play Michael Douglas’s daughter in Fatal Attraction. She continued acting full time until she left for a VT boarding school at age 15. After graduation, Ellen took some time off to travel, and later began studies in glass at an art school in Oakland, CA. Her mother Anne, lives in New Rochelle, NY, her father Bob, step-mother Lorrie, and 10-year old sister Elena live in Roslyn, NY, and her 26-year old sister Amy lives outside Denver, CO. Ellen has little plans to get back into acting, though will always reflect fondly on her past achievements.
According to another website, she is an “account executive” and while she wishes she could be in Show Biz, she has no immediate plans to return to it. “Plus, it’s kind of cool to be considered a has-been. And kind of sad, too.” Spoken like a true burn out. Remember, Ell, it could have been worse –– you could have tried to clear the difficult puberty hurdle in show business and, in a moment of desperation, visited the Celebrity Center and taken a few courses and before you could blink, you’re rapping about Thetans to your closeted gay husband.]
6. Elisabeth Moss
Like most everyone these days, I enjoy me some Mad Men. Now of course, it would be much more devastating if Jon Hamm were a lover of Xenu, but it’s still sad that Elisabeth Moss, who plays one of the most interesting and multidimensional characters on the show, is just that. And it sucks because Moss is just so good as the kind-of-unattractive, dissatisfied but whip-smart copywriter Peggy Olson, and when I think about her talent, I start to wonder if maybe her ability to act has something to do with her faith and then I get the willies and turn off the TV and go shower. Some other blogger (not worth it) wrote something along the lines of, “It doesn’t change the way I view her or the show” but frankly, I’m either just not that good at compartmentalizing or Scientology is just that toxic that it ruins everything it touches in even the slightest of ways. So, in the name of enjoying television more, I suggest Moss consider Zen Buddhism.
5. Rita Wilson
I know! I know! Crazy, right? There isn’t much out there on her affiliation, but here’s my proof: a few years ago, my family friend, who works as property master on movie sets, had the privilege to work on the cinematic masterpiece Old Dogs (I think.) Now, Kelly Preston, a well known Scientologist, is in the movie, and so is Rita. They were apparently BFFs. At Christmas dinner the year the movie was being made, my family friend regaled us with a story: one day, they were shooting a scene in which someone was supposed to close a car trunk on Kelly Preston’s hands. They had somehow rigged it so that there was a gap her hand could fit into so that the door wouldn’t break her fingers, but Kelly didn’t properly gauge her finger placement and so BAM! Trunk comes down on fingers.
“Now what you may not know about Scientology,” my family friend continued, “is that at a certain high level, they believe they can heal people’s pain by touching or by waving their hands over the wound, and so Rita Wilson comes frantically running up the hill and yells at everyone to BACK OFF and begins waving her hands over Kelly Preston’s fingers and looking deeply into her eyes.”
And this aspect of Scientology has some back-up, also in the (now infamous) Haggis article:
“Brolin says that he once witnessed John Travolta practicing Scientology. Brolin was at a dinner party in Los Angeles with Travolta and Marlon Brando. Brando arrived with a cut on his leg, and explained that he had injured himself while helping a stranded motorist on the Pacific Coast Highway. He was in pain. Travolta offered to help, saying that he had just reached a new level in Scientology. Travolta touched Brando’s leg and Brando closed his eyes. ‘I watched this process going on—it was very physical,’ Brolin recalls. ‘I was thinking, This is really fucking bizarre! Then, after ten minutes, Brando opens his eyes and says, ‘That really helped. I actually feel different!’ ‘ (Travolta, through a lawyer, called this account ‘pure fabrication.’)”
The thing is, Rita Wilson is sort of scarily Botoxed now, and I don’t really care for her all that much, but if she’s a Scientologist that means Tom Hanks is probably a Scientologist, and like everyone else in the world I think he just seems so great and “normal” (the highest compliment one can give a movie star) and like he’s not repressing any homosexual tendencies (NOT THAT THERE’S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT, but if Tom Hanks were gay, I’d just want him to live his tye-dyed-hot-pants reality!)
4. Jason Lee
Just like most brainy and self-conscious adolescent girls growing up in the age of Kevin Smith, I had a minor thing for Jason Lee. He was always the friend of the token hunk, which I related to as I always had a really hot best friend, and he had a quick wit and a cute little gleam in his eye. Who could forget his deep and philosophical explanation of rock ‘n roll in Almost Famous while Billy Crudup produces a few head-turning twangs on the guitar in the background and steals William Miller’s attention? “Some people have a hard time explaining rock ‘n’ roll. I don’t think anyone can really explain rock ‘n’ roll. Maybe Pete Townshend, but that’s okay. Rock ‘n’ roll is a lifestyle and a way of thinking… and it’s not about money and popularity. Although, some money would be nice.” Lee, desperate to be heard, always the dorky best friend. A tragic figure, really. Unfortunately for me, I think I may have fucked up this list –– I forgot Lee starred in My Name is Earl for four years (!!!) He and Elisabeth Moss should definitely switch spots.
3. L. Ron Hubbard
I mean, honestly, the guy was a fucking genius –– how many people can make statements like, “The money isn’t in writing books, it’s in starting religions” and afterward CONTINUE to attract followers and make money? Fucking ridiculous.
2. Beck
This one’s a no brainer. Everyone’s still and constantly brokenhearted over this poor virtuoso, probably the single person on this list you could say was “cool,” and the only consolation we seem to have is that he was raised a Scientologist (mom was Warhol star Bibbe Hansen, dad Canadian musician David Campbell), may have attended a Scientology-run elementary school, and thus didn’t have much of a chance. Beck has only once really gone on record about his involvement with Scientology (New York Times, 2005, in which the journalist writes that he’s so aggravatingly polite “his courtesy acts like a moat”) and he did so in such an incredibly ineloquent way, but again, we’ll excuse it as sometimes savants lack skills outside their chosen fields. Regardless of your past, Beck, hear this: you’re the one we want the most!
Although your mom seems pretty cool, too…
And finally…
1. Jett Travolta
For his sake.
Too soon?
Blogs, as most people know, are places where people act out their fantasies. “I wish everyone would listen to me” –– with a blog, you can imagine a captive audience. “I wish I could go traveling to super exotic places all the time” –– DesignTripper. “I wish I looked and dressed like a celebrity” –– Who What Wear. “I wish someone would recognize my curatorial talents” –– any and all tumblrs. “I wish I were a powerful street evangelist whose voice booms through the masses like the wrath of God” –– The Way of the Master. And then me, wishing people would buy me shit I like, tell me all my conspiracy theories are oh wow, that is brilliant, and my riffs on Scientology and “exhaustion” are hilarious. In that vein:
Why don’t I have this? I’ve wanted it for like, two years. I’ve told multiple people that I covet this necklace. It’s so cute, and a little creepy –– just like I like ’em. Maybe I can do something like find ADVERTISERS and do a “Free Give Away!” thing every Thursday –– with all the free trinkets going to yours truly. What, you think you’d be the winner? Oh please.
*For some reason, the links aren’t working. Just Google if you’re interested in DesignTripper or Kirk Cameron’s second career.
Would you move here with me, my sweet? You can have the white house –– I’m small, and not greedy –– but whenever you like you can walk across the bridge to my blue house. I’ll make you eggs and tea when you come visit; I’ll hug you and tell you over and over again that you are magnificent. I’ll read you stories, and let you nap as long as you like. If you let me, I’ll come visit you, too, and bring my cat and a picnic. Things will be lovely at our house.