The inconsistent, contradictory ramblings of Scarlett the Harlot

Dear Robert Pattinson (RPatz to your fans):

Full disclosure, I've started this letter off at least three times in my head and each time it began "I hate your stinking guts" or "you make me vomit" or thereabouts. But I realized maybe I was being a little unfair and decided to reign in my particular brand of raging sewer harpy. I started thinking about exactly why you make my teeth itch, that's adult, right? I mean, sure, you don't bathe. You do look like an furry-headed candy corn (cause you're head's all triangular). And your overall, broody brand of emo-surliness does not a good actor make. 

But none of these things are really your fault.

Except the not bathing thing. Dude, you've got to see to that. Even the cro-mag male beat his fur against a rock. Maybe you could...with your head... okay, okay, I can see how that would be bad.

I digress. None of these things are the "really real" reason, as my eleven-year-old cousin would say I can't stand you. The really real reason is simple: Twilight. Fucking Twilight. Dude, you were completely forgettable to anybody but the Harry Potter fans after the twenty minutes you were in that universe, but did you have to sign on for Twilight?

And there again, I can see how it arguably wasn't your fault. Back when it was just the first book and maybe New Moon, nobody really understood what a scourge on the earth phenomena Twilight was going to turn into. Sure, it had it's fans. But then, Harry Potter had fans. They weren't cutting themselves over Rupert Grint's pubic hairs or anything. So you signed on for three movies. I don't blame you. You're a "strapping lad", as the Brits say. I can use English slang, I read Dickens. You saw Kristen Bell and went "wow, she's hot", or, you know, however you guys say it. Probably has a word like "shag" or "knackered" in it.

But there were still those damn fans.

Those...whatdoyoucallem. Twihards. Hormonal bacchae, if you will. Willing to tear you limb from limb just to hear the sound of your voice, to steal the lisp from your lips, to catch a glimpse of your manly collarbones of truth--well you get the picture. I mean them's some scary bitches. And I know from scary bitches. I was thirteen once. I had my own crushes. I would cut a bitch over Isaac Hanson. True story. Of course, you never saw me making an entire family schlep to wherever the hell Hanson's from just so I could breathe the air of Oklahoma City or whatever (I have no idea how I pulled that city out of my ass to this day). But those freaks of nature Twihards are a different breed, man. They'll make their families go to Forks, WA for a family vacation and not think twice.

Want to know what's in Forks? 

A shrine to Twilight.

And a zillion girls all worshiping at the altar of Edward Cullen and throwing out random Wuthering Heights quotes completely out of context. Not, you know, real Wuthering Heights quotes because that book is actual literature and while it's also badly written, it's badly written for a Victorian novel which means it's scads more intelligent than Stephanie Meyer will ever hope to be. So they quote Wuthering Heights as it was quoted to them in Twilight and have no idea that Heathcliffe was the original emo asshole.

I guess what I'm saying Edward Robert, is that I think I get you now. If I were you and I'd suddenly stepped into a cult phenomena that nobody really saw coming and I didn't necessarily wish on myself and while I didn't mind being a hearthrob in theory (because I'm a guy) I'd want to be a hearthrob for me, and not for, you know, a 109 year-old sparkly-vampire-virgin who is completely safe and will cuddle and kiss and pet and hold a girl for months but never, you know, try to stick it in because the peen is evil, I'd probably stop bathing too. I'd do exactly what you're doing. I'd call the writer of the series a bat-shit soccer mom MORMON who basically fanficced herself and tried to touch me inappropriately in the bathroom (not that you did that last bit, I'm just offering a suggestion). Like an abuse victim I'd try to appear unattractive so no one would want me and I too would fade into the wood work. I'd probably go Ancient Greek on their asses, shave my head, dress in sack cloth, and smear my face with ashes lamenting the sad state of...I don't know, something important. I'd become a sculptor wherein I collected different kinds of poo from varying species and unveiled these specimens at a chic gallery in SoHo and call it "Abstinence Means Doing Anal". 

In short, RPatz, I'd make a point to very publicly loose my shit.

Pretty much what you're doing, only quicker and on a bigger scale.

So I'll close by saying I think I know where you're coming from a little bit. I have no idea if I'm right or not. But I feel for you man. 

My condolences,
Scarlett the Harlot

PS: did you know there's a Twilight dildo? I know where you can get some sack cloth for cheap. I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'.

Dear Directors, Producers, Agents, Actors, and Fucktards,

Roman Polanski is a rapist. He is. Just because Switzerland finally decided to arrest and extradite him does not mean he deserves a walk, nor does it mean he didn't do it. I get that it smarts. I mean, he was in Switzerland specifically to go to the Zurich film festival to get a lifetime achievement award (I actually appreciate the irony, "oh, you thought you were getting a gift? Too bad, enjoy your cell!" ) but to begin a campaign to free him, to add your name to a petition, to insinuate that he didn't do exactly what he pled guilty to isn't just immoral, it's actually pretty fucking stupid.

Especially if you're Woody Allen. Hey Woody, how's your step-daughter wife?

Listen, I get that Roman Polanski had a tragic life. I cannot imagine what he went through as a child, he lost his mother to Auschwitz and he himself barely escaped the Nazis. There aren't words to losing your lover and your child at the same time to Charles Manson & Family. And I can even see how the former gave him a serious fear of authority and a persecution complex. This does not, however, excuse him from committing a crime. A few crimes, actually, but he pled to the one so the others would be forgotten.

This is what Roman Polanski, your hero, did: he took pictures of a thirteen-year-old girl--those pictures were topless and/or completely nude. He said they were for French Vogue, but if he hadn't said that, then wouldn't that be, oh, I don't know kiddie porn? He then gave said thirteen-year-old an endless supply of champagne and a third of a qualude. Other news outlets are calling it a sliver, but frankly there's a big fucking difference between a sliver and a third. Call a spade a spade. He then got into a hot tub with the girl while they were both naked. She, being appropriately skeeved out, said she was having an asthma attack and had to go home. He ignored her. They ended up back in the house (owned by Jack Nicholson), whereupon he put his face in her vagina even though she said no. He then proceeded to have intercourse with her. She said no. He asked her if she was on The Pill. She said no. He asked her when her last period was. She said she didn't remember. Mind you, this is all while he's fucking a doped up adolescent who asked him repeatedly to stop. When she said he couldn't remember when her last period was, he then sodomized her so she wouldn't get pregnant. The entire time this is going on, she's saying no, and asking him to stop and take her home. Needless to say, he ignored her.

That my friends is rape. It's not a little rape. It's not maybe rape. It's not even "rape". It's fucking rape. The man raped a thirteen-year-old girl. I don't care if he's Moses. He raped her. He might still be a talented film-maker, but rapist is on his resume.

He was indicted and charged and pled to "sex with a minor" which is basically statutory rape. Why? Because he knew if he didn't plead to something he'd be convicted of something worse. Then, before he could be sentenced he skipped town. For thirty fucking years.

This is not the action of a man who believes himself to be innocent. This is the action of a coward. Who rapes thirteen-year-olds.

Then, knowing if he set foot in the United States he'd be facing jail time, he went and had a merry old time in Europe, living the high life in Paris, traveling to basically any country that didn't have an extradition treaty with the United States, making movies, and giving the girl a settlement when she sued him (because he raped her). Also, he played the victim rather nicely the entire time.

And he continued to make movies.

When he filmed Lolita (irony of ironies), he famously said of his relationship with Natasha Kinski--then only 15 herself--"I don't know why you're surprised. I thought you all knew I liked them young." If that isn't a blatant disregard for the fucking law then I don't know what is.

Even if you don't want to acknowledge that the man's a rapist, you have to acknowledge the fact that he's been living on the lam. There's a reason the man hasn't been back to the United States. Because he'll be arrested for skipping town. Sad, but true. And you're right, he did already plead guilty to the rape. So he's pretty much going to be charged with bail-jumping or whatever. Good. He should be in prison.

For a while there were rumors of judicial misconduct and the possibility of an appeal. This would have happened, the LA District Attorney was even willing to let it happen. But Roman refused to show up at trial. So it didn't. He had his chance. 

Now a lot of you are saying that because the talented artist's victim wants to let it all go, water under the bridge, blah blah blah the rest of us should too. But that's stupid. For two reasons, one, he broke the law and he should be held accountable finally, and two, because it sets a horrifying president to force victims to forgive their aggressors so the aggressors won't have to go to jail. "But my son [Chris Brown?] would never do that. You should forgive him [Rihanna?] because it's just not in him to do that bad thing [beat you like it's Mario Cart?]"

See? That makes everybody uncomfortable. Except Hollywood. Because it's been a tragedy that Roman Polanski couldn't work there while he was in exile eating dry bread and expensive cheese off of gold plated dishes in his big shiny mansion in Paris. It's a horror that he's faced vilification by his peers. Even though they hid it well by giving him an Oscar and a standing ovation a year or so back. It's an unthinkable mess that he had to accept said Oscar in absentia because he'd be arrested.

Want to know how you don't get arrested? 

You don't break the fucking law.

Want to know what I think is a tragedy? 

That a little girl has to deal with the scars of being raped and sodomized by a man who she was supposed to be able to trust.

That at the time Angelika Houston, who I normally love, had the nerve to say "I don't think he's a bad man, I think he's a sad man" when she was in the house for part of the time.

That people are still throwing out the tired bullshit that the girl was a Lolita or her mom was a bitch. It. Doesn't. Matter.

The girl said no.

No halfway decent mother would want her child exposed to that.

Also, the age of consent in California was sixteen. It's now eighteen. The girl was thirteen. That means she couldn't legally consent even if she had been sober. Roman Polanski broke the law.

So many people today lament the fact that the idea of justice is relative. That Justice is not color blind, or class blind, or opposed to taking the occasional bribe. I'm one of them. I can't think of a person who hasn't complained that the rich have a different set of rules. And so far, that idea has proven true. And when you think about it, Hollywood is lamenting the same thing. Only they're doing it from the opposite side of the argument. I want Roman Polanski arrested because, as a rapist, he deserves it. They want him let off because, as an artist, he doesn't. The problem is, Roman Polanski does deserve justice. Unfortunately for you people Justice for Roman Polanski is a prison sentence.

Cordially,
Scarlett the Harlot

PS: This is what a rapist looks like:

Dear Fashion Industry*,

I just want to take a minute to tell you how amazingly cool I think you are. I mean, I know we've had our differences in the past, and you might have felt that I was being a little bit bitchy to indict the entire industry as a hole for something as trivial as airbrushing (because let's be honest, everybody does it and nobody should be penalized for making someone look as young and teensy as possible) but I've seen the light. I have. Also, I was on my period that week and eating way too much chocolate. So, you know, hormones. Also, I think I was a little upset because I missed a bikini wax. I can't remember, I'm on this new diet where I only eat three crackers and one cup of water a day and my memory's a little hazy. But damn am I dropping the pounds!

Anyway, after hearing about the goings on over at London Fashion Week I had to send you a note letting you know about bygones and how we're buds now. Seriously, how terrific is it that when Mark Fast tried to put some "plus size models" on his runway somebody quit in protest and somebody else was fired? I mean, first of all, can we just call them cows? Oh, and while we're at it, can we be sure that if they have to be seen in public, we're going to put them in something that's two sizes too small with underwear that cuts them a new waist line? Because that'll ensure that they look truly craptacular in the dress and nobody is going to want to hire "that girl" to be seen with, well, normal people.

You know, this is what has made me want to be in fashion. I think you are one of the only industries in the world (second only to Women's Clinic nurses and technitions) who can look at your job description and then refuse to do it. Do you know how much I would like to get told by my boss that I had to prepare some project for a big event wherein hundreds of people are going to be looking and go "you know what? I don't feel like it today." And still be golden. That's just...astoundingly avante garde.

I mean look at that girl! She looks miserable. And she's in a fashion show! She's not just normal, model miserable. She's actually miserable. How does she get off feeling that way when she's wearing a designer dress and killer shoes? I mean sure, the dress is too small, you wouldn't let her wear a bra so we can all see her nipples, and her thong is digging into her hips in a way that can't be comfortable, but she's being allowed to walk with skinny people. I mean, what do us fatties think, that we should be allowed to wear clothes that fit or something? The absolute nerve.
I mean, okay, so granted I've got a sneaking suspician that Mark Fast doesn't so much care about plus sized models as he does about selling his clothes. I mean, the controversy over the fashion-savvy staffer who just up and quit rather than tell those girls where the freaking lipstick was is sure making headlines and making sure people know his name. Likewise, having to fire another stylist for straight up passive aggressive, bitchy behavior is enough to make me want to check out his website. I mean, he cared enough to make sure those girls were treated with respect. Even if, you know, he couldn't give them clothes that fit. So Mark Fast is officially off my myspace buddy list. I mean, how dare he. It's like those fatties expected to be treated like people or something. 

This is the thing, bottom line: plus sized models shouldn't be around regular sized models. Anybody who was in that audience will tell you that everybody was uncomfortable when those girls walked out--they looked miserable and their clothes didn't fit. So double props to you, fashion industry for making an example of those girls and being sure that everybody knows that curves have no place on the runway. 

I'll let you know how my diet works out.

Love and awe,
Scarlett the Harlot




*If you think for one minute I've gone over to the dark side and this letter is anything but absolute sarcasm then why are you reading this blog? Obviously hunger and dehydration have made you delirious. Go eat a cookie.

Dear Fashion Industry,

It's me again. I know you're surprised to hear from me considering the last time we had words. It wasn't pretty, I'll admit it. And it's hard to look someone in the eye after they've basically told them to sit on it and rotate. I know. I feel for you. But I'm back. This time with links.

What I'm talking about is the recent hullabaloo over the September issue of Self Magazine and Kelly Clarkson.



For those of you looking at that cover and saying "Wow, Kelly looks great." I think you should know, that's not Kelly Clarkson. That is a digitally enhanced image of Kelly Clarkson. This is Kelly Clarkson:



Self shaved, tucked, slimmed and hid the real Kelly to make a pretty cover. Note the obvious size differences in the upper arms, the chin, and the way they stuck a big circle over her ass to hide, well, her ass. And they're proud of it. To hear Lucy Danziger tell it (Lucy's an editor at Self and the blogger who's entry you'll read if you click that link) they love Kelly's "style" and her "love of her body" and her "joie de vivre", which is a bit strange considering they Photoshopped all that right out of that picture. One of hte awesome things about Clarkson is the way she embraces who she is and rocks her body and wears great clothes no matter what her size. Self had the ability to truly showcase that. Instead they chose to hide behind the bizarre idea that "a cover tells a story". To which I find myself asking, "what story exactly?" If I look at that cover, the story I'm seeing is a picture of a faux Kelly next to a REALLY BIG AD for how to slim yourself down. Oh, and a thing at the bottom about body confidence.

More troubling, if you continue reading that convuluted excuse for a lie that is Lucy Danziger's blog entry she goes on to say that she photoshops her own pictures if she's going to be say, sharing them with her peers. What the hell does that say about the industry in which she works and what shes' been made to think about herself. Should she really be working for a magazine that's supposed to be ostensibly about finding yourself or gaining self esteem or whatever it is Self even stands for? 

Airbrushing in the fashion industry is certainly nothing new. I think my generation especially has internalized the idea that beauty standards are impossible to such an extent that not even the models can live up to them. Of course we know that the cover shot isn't really what that woman looks like. Remember when Faith Hill was on the cover of Redbook and they basically erased her face? At the time, Jezebel did a truly hilarious, and truly depressing, breakdown of the pictures. In fact, airbrushing has been around so long they don't even airbrush anymore. Now, because we're in the digital age they do something totally different with a Raster image editor. Anyhoodle, you're they fashion police so you already know all this. My point is that the problem has become so pervasive that certain political parties have started to get involved.

Not in this country of course. America's too busy being afraid of fat and old age. No, but in Great Britain, Parlimant is talking about making advertisements have disclaimers if they've been airbrushed specifically so we'll know we're not looking at the real thing. Think about what that would mean for a second--instead of seeing pretty, perfect Tyra Banks or Jennifer Love Hewitt on the cover of whatever magazine and being completely appalled when we see them on the beach in the tabloids. Why? Because the tabloid picture is the real, candid shot. That's what they really look like after all.

But you people. I swear.

Okay, so in response to the whole British Parliament/Photoshop Disclaimer thing, Nigel Barker felt the need to weigh in:

The reason why talent in the modeling industry is so young is because of this desire to have flawless-looking women. But with good retouching, you can have older-looking women working longer. You can show her maturity, but perhaps you don’t show every wrinkle and line. What you are seeing are older models having longer careers that they never would have had because of retouching.

Really Nigel? You're going to make it sound like you're doing the models a favor? Wow. That's big of you I guess. But I find it really fucking douchey of you to claim that you (the fashion industry) have no control over what goes on the covers of magazines or what is deemed hot or attractive. I call serious shenanigans.

Do you remember a while back there was a little book published called The Devil Wears Prada? Remember how the story was the writer was actually an assistant to Anna Wintour, head fashion editor at Vogue and Goddess of Garb? Remember how Anna's PR people denied that she was a bitch to work with but she still showed up at the premier of the movie wearing Prada? My point here is that in that movie, based on the book, based on reality, there was this gem of an exchange between Andy the Assistant and fashion hick and Miranda the Garb Goddess:

Miranda Priestly: [Miranda and some assistants are deciding between two similar belts for an outfit. Andy sniggers because she thinks they look exactly the same] Something funny?
Andy Sachs: No, no, nothing. Y'know, it's just that both those belts look exactly the same to me. Y'know, I'm still learning about all this stuff.
Miranda Priestly: This... 'stuff'? Oh... ok. I see, you think this has nothing to do with you. You go to your closet and you select out, oh I don't know, that lumpy blue sweater, for instance, because you're trying to tell the world that you take yourself too seriously to care about what you put on your back. But what you don't know is that that sweater is not just blue, it's not turquoise, it's not lapis, it's actually cerulean. You're also blithely unaware of the fact that in 2002, Oscar De La Renta did a collection of cerulean gowns. And then I think it was Yves St Laurent, wasn't it, who showed cerulean military jackets? I think we need a jacket here. And then cerulean quickly showed up in the collections of 8 different designers. Then it filtered down through the department stores and then trickled on down into some tragic casual corner where you, no doubt, fished it out of some clearance bin. However, that blue represents millions of dollars and countless jobs and so it's sort of comical how you think that you've made a choice that exempts you from the fashion industry when, in fact, you're wearing the sweater that was selected for you by the people in this room. From a pile of stuff.

In all honesty I hate quoting a tell all but there it is. You people control everything. You know you do. Maybe not Nigel Barker personally, he's too pretty and he's just a shutterbug, but if Anna fucking Wintour suddenly decided that size was sexy and put Steve Tyler's other daughter on the front cover of her magazine without making her go on a crash diet to get down to 150 pounds (like she did Oprah--true story, look it up) then trust me when I tell you other magazines would follow suit. Suddenly plus size would be in. Kate Moss would be out of work. Young girls wouldn't feel like they had to go on a diet in the third fucking grade. I could find clothes that actually fit in straight sizes. There would be dancing in the streets.

It wouldn't be considered politically subverssive to be fat.

How fucking bizarre is that?

Here are a few statistics for you:

• It is estimated that 8 million Americans have an eating disorder – seven million women and one million men
• One in 200 American women suffers from anorexia
• Two to three in 100 American women suffers from bulimia
• Nearly half of all Americans personally know someone with an eating disorder (Note: One in five Americans suffers from mental illnesses.)
• An estimated 10 – 15% of people with anorexia or bulimia are males

Upset yet? Well how about these:

• Anorexia is the 3rd most common chronic illness among adolescents
• 95% of those who have eating disorders are between the ages of 12 and 25
• 50% of girls between the ages of 11 and 13 see themselves as overweight
• 80% of 13-year-olds have attempted to lose weight

Or these:

• Rates of minorities with eating disorders are similar to those of white women
• 74% of American Indian girls reported dieting and purging with diet pills
• Essence magazine, in 1994, reported that 53.5% of their respondents, African-American females were at risk of an eating disorder
• Eating disorders are one of the most common psychological problems facing young women in Japan.

Here are some celebrities that have been diagnosed with eating disorders:

"I've always thought Marilyn Monroe looked fabulous, but I'd kill myself if I was that fat."--Elizabeth Hurley

Dear Fashion Industry--

Fuck. You.

It wasn't enough that you had to set a completely unattainable beauty ideal--seriously, how is having the body of a ten-year-old-boy sexy?!--but now that you think you've got to spend a little extra money you're going to stop making "plus sized" clothing altogether? You've got to be kidding me. So what're we supposed to do? Walk around wearing potato sacks? 

Listen, I get that there's a recession going on and things are expensive but take a minute to think about what you're saying when you've got the nerve to imply larger sized clothes cost more money because it takes more "yardage". Big girls aren't that big. Even those of us that are morbidly obese don't have to actually wear a circus tent. So things cost more money, why not add a few extra dollars to the price tag? Trust me when I tell you, we buy clothes. We have to. Public nudity's a crime. Especially for us apparently.

I don't think you realize what a chore it is to shop when you're not a regular size. It's not just the public humiliation of the dressing room, though there is that. It's having to dig through racks and racks of size 2's and under to find one article of clothing in my size. It's the annoyance at realizing the "plus size" section is actually also the maternity section. It's buying maternity clothes because they're actually more fashionable than "plus sized" clothes--what the hell is that Target? women who are only temporarily fat get to look cute, but those of us who are actually fat have to dress like somebody's grandmother?--it's knowing that even if we go to stores that are specifically for women that are our size we're going to have to pay $40 for a tee shirt when skinny girls can get the same tee shirt (only better made and better looking) for less than half the price at a pricey boutique.

And let's talk about "plus sized" fashion.

I sew. I know how to make my own clothes. And I know what looks good on my body type. So how come people that have a degree in drape seem to think the only way to make a full-figured body look good is with an empire waist? That doesn't look good on everybody and frankly, I don't like every single article of clothing in my closet being a "wraparound". It makes me feel like they don't make buttons big enough for me. And then there's the ruching, those little built in ruffles are only flattering for so long. And the dresses and shirts with the sewn in parts for the boobs. Lookit--I know where my boobs go, I don't need a cloth diagram. And frankly, sometimes my boobs are too big for those little cut outs. Do you know how tacky it is to wear a top with tit-ruching only your tits are flying south of the border? That's not sexy, that's sloppy. And we don't really have a choice because almost every jersey knit thing at Lane Bryant and Avenue has those kinds of things conveniently sewn in to give the appearance of... what exactly? We've already got boobs. Of course, ours are naturally big so they're not necessarily perky, but that doesn't mean we want to feel like we're sportin' cow udders, you know?

I understand that you're trying to run a business and you only care about your bottom line, but completely ignoring 56% of women is not a good way to go about it. Okay, a lot of working class moms with kids won't be interested in shelling out however much for Anne Klein, but they're not really your target demographic anyway, are they?  I would say your target demographic is twenty to thirty something singles and professionals and frankly, I'm a twenty-five-year-old single professional who happens to be fat and would like to look amazing at work. Is your stuff pricey? Yes, but I'll pay it. Why? Because I'm single and I don't have a family to support so I'll have arguably more money than your average working-class housewife who's got three kids and a husband to dress. And because I've got to wear something and one pricey button-down is worth more to me than ten not-so-pricey button-downs from Wal-Mart that are going to shrink three sizes in the wash.

Actually, that's another thing. Just because you're making clothes for fats does NOT mean that you should buy cheaper fabric or skimp on design. If I pay $40 for a tee shirt from Lane Bryant, I don't want to throw it in the wash and find out that after one wear I have to give it to my skinny next door neighbor because it's shrunk so much I can't wear it. That's enough to make me not shop at Lane Bryant. So maybe you're seeing a cut in your money not from lack of people shopping, but from crappy product. Just a thought.

And speaking of crappy product, I'm fat not blind. You should be able to design a fun and flattering outfit for a fat girl without having to drip it in added embellishments. Lace and sequins and cameos and flashy metallic screen prints make it look cheap and like you weren't trying. Or worse, cheap and like you felt the need to cover me up, but you knew I wasn't going to buy a potato sack so you made it shiny. Because fat girl are like magpies or something.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that we're consumers too. Just because we don't fit your ideal body type (and frankly who does?) does not mean that we don't deserve respect. You've made it blatantly obvious through your products and your marketing (why are "plus size models" only size 8?!) that you think we're somehow less than. You've ignored us. You've given us crap not even our invalid maiden aunts would wear and we've had to buy it because we don't have another choice. You've chosen to believe that to be fat is to be shameful even though many of us are happy in our size and actually aren't trying to diet away our pounds.

For all this and more I say fuck you.

Yours,

Scarlett

Dear Brett,

Surprised to hear from me again? Don't be. 

I hold you personally responsible for this:

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Thanks, ass.

Love,

Scarlett

Dear Bret,

I remember you! You're the guy from Poison with the pretty-pretty hair who looked like that hot guy from Skid Row's poutier, slightly-less-attractive cousin!



How you doin', man? 



Oh.

But hey, I love how you're still rockin' the bandana. Although, to be honest, it looks like you're using it more to hide your hair extensions than to tame the wild locks of old. But don't worry. That pouty guy from Skid Row's face got all puffy, so you're even. So to speak.

Now I'll bet you're wondering why I'm writing this letter. I mean, we're not really pen-pals and to be Frank, you're not really my favorite. I was always more of a Mötley Crüe girl. Of course, even then, I'd've traded both of you in for Guns 'n Roses pre-Insane-Axl so there you go. No, sadly this isn't a gushy fan letter. I figure you get enough of those.

This, good sir, is an intervention. You have fucked with the image of the majesty that is (or can be) metal and you must be stopped. I tried to say something when Ozzie did it, but frankly I'm afraid of Sharon.

Have you no self respect? Have you completely lost what sense (and talent) God gave you? Have you really sunk so low that you have to rely on reality tv ratings? Come on man. You were/are the front man of one of the biggest hair-metal bands in music history. You were that pretty man-boy from Poison, for Christ's sake!

Now look at you.

You're stuck with a confessional camera, fish-lips, and a tattoo of the VH1 logo on your balls.

I didn't say anything during Rock of Love Pt. 1. I bit my tongue during Season 2 because it made for a good trainwreck and you chose that cool chick with the hot pink bangs (that was Season 2, right?) so I figured you had at least one brain cell left. 

I rolled my eyes when you called for your insulin. I grunted when you called it "dia-beeee-dus", I mean, come on, what are you--Wilfred fucking Brimley? I threw things at the tv when you let Lacey talk and I let it go when you let the girls gyrate all over you, cause come on. You're a lead singer. Duh, you like the groupies.

But enough. Enough. Enough. 

Last night I watched the season premiere of Rock of Love Bus. On the time when it actually premiered.

I'll grant you, I only did it because I left the remote in the kitchen when I went to get my cold pop-tarts and I was on the couch and I was too lazy to get up and manually change the channel. Besides, I figured it was good for an hour-and-a-half of trainwreck televison.

But that, sir, was beyond trainwreck. That was some airplane-in-a-wheat-field shit right there.



Why, Bret? Why do you have to do this to yourself?

You're a smart guy. You're even talented. You know how to write songs and you've got a record deal, and you're an actual, honest-to-God touring musician. You don't need this shit, man. I'll argue you're even better than this shit, though don't expect me to do it with a straight face.

I mean, okay, I get it. Arguably this is every male fantasy come to life--twenty women falling all over themselves in a closed space to be with you. But you're Bret Michaels man. You don't need reality television to make that happen. Have your Big Butler guy put an add on craigslist--you'll get the same kind of response.

I just don't get it. An infant would get the premise of the show (the Bachelor meets Whiskey A-Go-Go), I'll give you that. But you've been doing this show for two seasons already. If you haven't found your "Rock of Love" yet, you're not going to unless you change your criteria. As of right this second, it appears that either you or the producers choose the twenty trashiest women they can get their hands on (or twelve trashy women and eight okay ones) and put them all in the same room. These women run the gamot of jobs, some are nurses, some personal shoppers, some strippers, some porn stars, some Penthouse Pets, some run escort services, they have to be smart to run businesses after all.

But did you have to make them so... shiny? These girls are cinched, plucked, waxed, pulled, tucked, pierced (not that there's anything wrong with that), extensioned, bleached, inflated and sucked within an inch of their lives. A few actually look like men.

And good lord, the boobs! I have not seen boobs that big outside of a Bush Whitehouse in my life.

You know Bret, it really makes me wonder if your quest is taking you to find a girlfriend or a Cheif Groupie. I mean, if the premise of the show is to be believed, you really are looking for your one and only. If this is the case, then awesome. If the opposite is true and you've just reduced yourself to whorring out to reality television, well then...

If you're interested (and i don't think you are) Ariel Levy wrote an amazing book titled Female Chauvenist Pigs: Women and the Rise of the Raunch Culture. Normally, I wouldn't bring it up. But as I was watching the season premiere last night, I found myself quoting whole passages like a tween-fangirl at a Cullen siting. Basically, the book posits that our culture encourages women to objectify themselves by constantly bombarding them with a Girls Gone Wild-style media frenzy.

Not until last night, when I saw the reaction shots of the other contestants because one of your "potential girlfriends" gave a test tube body shot by way of her vajooter did I really understand exactly what Ariel Levy was talking about.

I don't care if you've never seen anything like that in 22 years of touring. You encourage it by the very nature of your show.

You sir, are a part of the problem.

Which brings us to the crux of the problem. The mystic of rock 'n roll is in the stories. Stories of drunken debauchery and weird-sex-things pepper rock and really it's part of what makes it so cool. The occassional youtube video (or, in the case of the Go-Go's) sex tape, just adds to the mystery. But, by making it a reality show, you're killing it. No more can we romanticize and imagine. No, see, now all we have to do is tune in once a week and we get to see some collogen-injected Barbie doll suck vodka straight out of another collogen-injected Barbie doll's navel, and there's you with a camera to the Glory Hole.

I guess what I'm trying to say, Brett is the thing that makes Rock Stars sexy is the mystery. That heir of Too-Cool-For-You that permeats everything from the Aqua Net to the leather pants. And the best ones, the ones that don't just proclaim to be just about the music but the ones that actually are about the music, are above all this shit.

You've lowered your standards and we can smell it. Reality TV Star is who you are now, and you've got to remember what happens to Reality TV Stars. We're not smirking together at a shared joke anymore, Brett. Now the joke is you.

Stop while you still can,
Scarlett

I like to think you guys look forward to my open letters. Generally I think I'm pretty good at writing the scathing venom.

However, this does not merit an open letter. This merits an open post-it.


To Whom It May concern,

You're not funny.

Love,

Scarlett

PS: Blondes aren't the only ones who can't type and utilize lol-speak.

PPS: No, I'm not actually blonde nor am I upset that I've been "left out". 

Ass.

Dear Right-Wing Nut-jobs,

Hi. How are you. Did you miss me? It's me, Scarlett. Or Ava. Or Stephanie. Depends on who you ask. I like to keep you guys on your toes, you know. I know now is probably not the best time to be writing this letter, what with your epic fail on the presidential race, your crumbling system of economics, and the loss of your patron saint of bullshit, but this really can't wait.

Fuck your "War on the War on Christmas". No, seriously. Fuck it.

There is no "war on Christmas", there never was. There is a "controversy" sure, but there usually always is when you people won't listen to reason.

Lookit, I get that you're upset that most major retailers have started saying "happy holidays" instead of "merry Christmas" and I get that you're pissed because people are forcing Borders to have a Hanukkah corner. Fine. It sucks. But you know what? There actually are other holidays in the month of December. Likewise, 90% of what you associate with Christmas is actually taken from other decidedly pagan rituals. Christmas tree? Pagan. Yule log? Weird, European, and not at all an American tradition, but also, decidedly pagan. Pretty Christmas wreaths? Yeah. Go tell a neo-Druid you came up with it and see what they say. Misteltoe? You can thank the pagans for the free grope session, kids.

Now, I know this is a hard pill to swallow and I'll bet you're wondering why I'm pissing all over your holiday. I"m not trying to. I'm just irritated. Check it, Christiany has a LONG history of taking what it needs from other places. I know, this is not your fault. Blame the Jesuits. But I can't help but feel you've got a lot of pent up rage and aggression and you're really aiming your bile at the wrong people.

Example: Tom Piatek asserts that the main people behind the "assault on Christmas" actually "prefer Hanukkah." Also, that Hanukkah is a fake holiday, like Kwanzaa.

Well, that's pretty blatant who you're blaming that one on, huh Tommy? Well, correction my friend, Hanukkah is a real holiday and it's been around longer than your holiday. And no, it's not the Jewish Christmas. We aren't all copycats.

Likewise, Kwanzaa is a real holiday. And it deserves just as much respect as yours. Maybe you're just a little bit upset that these two holidays occur over a span of time and you just get the one day? Do I sense some sour grapes?

But let's just get one thing straight: Christians in this country are not being oppressed. They're not being hoodwinked or hijinxed into changing their beleifs, nor are their civil liberties being trampled on just because the neighborhood doesn't want to see a giant plastic light-up baby Jesus in your front yard.

You want to know what religious oppression is? Girls getting kicked out of school because they're wearing their hajibs. Getting told you're hiding your horns well. Being asked if you really do drink baby blood. People getting shot at or strung up because they insist on following their religious rituals. People being woken in the middle of the night to a flaming cross on their front lawn because they choose to honor their Sabbath differently than you do. Being spit on because of your nose. Being spit on because of what you call your God. Being forced to renounce your beliefs so you can maybe speak to a lawyer.

That's religious oppression and frankly the Christians in this country aren't anywhere near that. As a matter of fact, they're not even in the same world as that. But let me tell you something, that world exists right alongside this one. As a matter of fact, if you look closer, that world's not very far away at all. But you're so busy blanketing yourself in the idea of Religious Freedom that you can't see the fact that the only religion you'll allow yourself to protect is your own.

I'm sure your getting sick of getting called hypocritical. So I won't go there.

I'm just going to close with this--X-mas is not a potshot at Christianity. It's an abbreviation of your own fucking holiday deriving from the Greek letter "chi", or "X" that starts of the greek for "Christ". So GET OVER IT.

Yours,

Scarlett

PS: Santa is not Satan. Rudolf is not the anti-Christ, and Bing Crosby really was a child-beater. Deal.

Dear Gloom Cookies of America:

Congratulations, today is most definitely your day! After years of searching, of moaning, of complaining that no one really understands the darkness and pain in your soul, finally, finally all of your black lace tinted dreams come true. Today, today, Twilight is wide released in theatres.

I'm so excited for each and every one of your bloody hearts! I mean, who would have thought that your secret yearnings and fantasies would ever be understood by another? But wait, there was Stephanie Meyer, a thirty-five-year-old married, Mormon mother of three who understood your pain and struggle. Yes, she had the same dream. And she was haunted by this dream, young ones. She knew she had to set it to paper because it was a beautiful dream full of darkness and light and lions and lambs and the power of good over evil. Also, there was glitter in her dream, but it was the glitter of skin so it wasn't stupid glitter or anything, it was sexy glitter.

Stephanie Meyer worked hard to translate her dream to a language mere mortals could understand. She somehow managed to bottle all your most secret fantasies and use this ephemeral liquid as ink and that ink managed to grace the pages of not one, not two, not three, but four books! Stephanie Meyer knew she could not rest until her story was told. And now, in the same year that you've seen her vision to it's startling conclusion, you're going to actually see her vision on the big screen! You must be so excited. I know I'm excited for you because there's never very much excitement in the life of a goth kid. So lick it up, babies, lick it up.

I remember back when I was your age (roughly between the ages of eleven and eighteen, some of you are much older but I won't tell! It was a lot harder to dress the part, let me tell you. There wasn't a Hot Topic in every mall just dripping with merchandise. I know, right? And the Hot Topics we had access to weren't all ironical and full to the gills of Invader ZIM and Nightmare Before Christmas and Ruby Gloom and Lenore and what not. I mean, sure, we had access to those things but we had to go to this place called a comic shop.

Also, it was a lot harder to be a goth. You had to feel it. You had to smoke. You had to be willing to risk derision from the entire student body. You had to perfect the ironic stare. You had to be willing to not wash your hair for weeks, or make an entire outfit completely out of ripped up tee shirts, or special order your vampire fangs. You couldn't just, you know, go to the mall.

You had to know how to sew and you had to know your way around a package of RIT dye, let me tell you.

Actually know, let me tell you. Do you have any idea how many of my dresses and frilly girly christmas presents from grandma I had to put through the washer with dye? Huh?

Our parents were not accepting of our "life style choice". Fuck that. They called us freaks to our faces and begged us to put on the Laura Ashley and turn off the Misfits. We peirced ourselves. With safety pins that we put over a BIC lighter first. If we got tattoos it was because had fake ids. Not fake tattoos.

But don't think this is the bitter rambling of a used-to-be-fad-girl to a bunch of consumer monkeys. Oh no. I freely admit I'm jealous. You guys have it so much easier! You don't have to actually read Billy Shakespeare anymore. You can just go to Barnes and Noble and pick up the "Quote a Day: Bard Calendar" instead. And forget reading Marlowe or the Marquis de Sade! You don't have to! You can just rent Quills.

No, I would kill to be one of you. It's so much easier to simply buy what people tell me instead of thinking for myself. I mean, it was so hard to find music I wanted to listen to that really seemed to drip the right amount of blackness and death back then. But now you've got nu metal and Ozzie's touring again, so there you go! I mean, you can buy you're own pre-ripped fishnet clothes! Do you know how hard it was painstakingly ripping ours so it looked artful? Now you don't even have to do that!

AND you don't even have to think about what kind of goth you are! You can just buy the tee shirt that says it! Or not, you can just pick up a little black crying My Little Pony tee shirt with words like "I has a sad" printed underneath it in glitter!

And you don't have to worry about the fake ids because Hot Topic sells faux peircings now too!

God, I'm so jealous.

Anyway, this is just a little note to remind you kids to be careful tonight on your special premiere night. It's like a Merry ChrisKwanUkkah for you, isn't it? Well, enjoy Twilight and I'm glad someone truly understands you. Now go have a party in a graveyard and don't forget your steaming cups of chai tea or whatever it is you kids are drinking now. Enjoy your Evenescence and I know I don't have to worry about telling you not to drink or smoke--you're so socially aware I know you won't.

Lots of love,
Scarlett

 

Dear Brooke--

I would like to start this letter off by expressing the thought that's been running through millions of people the world over since you first opened your Leno-like-maw oh so many seasons ago on Hogan Knows Best's inaugural run: You are not cute. You are not a vixen. You are not clever. You are why the terrorists hate America.

Not just that, but your family is a blight on Miami and VH1's Celebreality in general. You are the very real equivalent of driving bamboo shoots under someone's fingernails and then forcing that person to drag their own fingernails down a blackboard. Yes Brooke, you're that bad.

I know this sounds angry, and I admit it is, it may even sound a little bit bitchy, but frankly Brooke--I'm sick of your shit. I kept my mouth shut when you started your "recording career." I bit my tongue when your father made you check in every fifteen minutes on date with a guy he picked out (I mean hey, at least daddy's paying attention, right cupcake?), I refrained from kicking a puppy when you set the woman's movement back fifty years ("You know what? I am actually not that much into voting. I think it's kinda crazy that a woman is running, because I think that women deal with a lot of emotions and menopause and PMS and stuff. Like, I'm so moody all the time, I know I couldn't be able to run a country, 'cause I'd be crying one day and yelling at people the next day, ya know?"), but I've had enough. And I mean ENOUGH of your shit.

The fact that you are still receiving attention never ceases to amaze me, Brooke. Especially since your grasp of the English language is minimal at best. I mean really, you need two editors for your myspace blog, darling. And that's just to make it quasi-coherent. You cannot form a sentence without using the word "like" extra-grammatically at LEAST five times, and I realize that this is not just a problem with you, but a problem with the fame-whore generation in general. You cannot, will not, won't, make a statement without a limp-wristed, shoulders-slumped pout, and you have the unmitigated gall to think this makes you cute and/or sexy.

You want to know who was sexy? Mae West.

You want to know who was cute? Debbie Gibson.

You want to know what they both have in common? They're both better than you.

But this isn't the reason why I'm writing to you today, Brooke. No, better writers than I have already skewered you for the above reasons. No honey, today I'm writing to you because you insist on beatifying your brother. I just want to point something out to you, Brooke: Nick Hogan is a shmuck. He's a shmuck who got drunk and drove his car on more than one occasion. On the final occasion he  wrapped said car around a tree and put one of his best friends into a coma. This isn't fabrication, this is public record.

Now, your family would have us believe that not only is there some massive conspiracy by "the haters", but that a) the boy in question was not a friend of Nick's, but a total mooch who was actually kindof an asshole, b) it was somehow the passenger's fault that Nick wrapped his car around a tree, and c) he's better off in the coma with half his head missing. You yourself have written countless blog tirades on this subject, your people have vilified the poor kid's character in open court and in front of his grieving parents. Then you have the audacity to wonder why Nick gets sent to jail.

Now that Nick is in jail, you still can't stop talking about what a sweetheart your brother is, how he's misunderstood, and how you just know that mean old judge was too hard on him. It really stinks when people are forced to take responsibility for their actions, doesn't it?

Which brings me to Exhibit A:



And Exhibit B:



Seriously, Brooke? Seriously?

I understand what you're trying to do here, I do. But it's still neither cute, or sexy. Mainly, it's just stupid. Aside from the fact that your fictional mugshots seem to be written in lol cat speech and employ random capitalization (something I don't think the Department of Corrections is quite ready for) I don't think your many fans are going to understand exactly the point of these little snapshots.

Who "beat you" up, honey? Why are you so pouty about it? Was it a "sexy" beat down? Did it happen while you were drunk? Are you going to rip these pictures from your myspace as soon as you realize that the world is laughing at you, only to realize that mainstream media outlets (in this case AOL) has picked up the pictures, and this is an embarrassment you cannot hope to over come? Probably not on that last one, if only because it seems your modus operandi is to post something then take it down once the bloggers are talking about it. The stupidity and insensitivity behind these photos boggles the mind and if I really think about it, my head might "esplode", to use the vernacular, so I won't.

However, in an effort to help you, I'm going to do something that I doubt many people have done for you before. I'm going to take you seriously, Brooke Hogan.

Yes, I know, you're probably shocked. I can't tell if you're shocked that people haven't been taking you seriously, or that I am, but I digress. I'm going to take you at your word. You want to be in prison with Nick. Understandable that you miss your brother, and even more understandable that that pesky "but you're a girl and he's a guy" question hasn't been broached because you're a woman in the way that Orlando Bloom is a man, you know, not really. So I understand that logically, were you sent to prison you'd end up in the same cell as Nick.

So Brooke, I have a step-by-step, easy to follow instruction sheet for you:

1.  Get roaring drunk with your bff-who-looks-like-you-and-is-your-same-age-but-still-inexplicably-dating/fucking-your-dad. This will not be hard, I'm sure you've done it before.

2.  Get in your over-priced car.

3.  Start driving.

4.  Wrap said car around a tree, or a bush, or a restaurant. Making sure that you've already passed out and the passenger side receives most of the damage.

5.  Pretend to be contrite while your bff is in surgery.

6. Seem surprised when she's missing half of her head.

7.  Lie in court. Also, pout and flirt. Judges like that.

If this doesn't work and you just get probation, no sweat, sweetness. Your mom's got a boyfriend who's also a friend of yours. Just read these directions through again, and repeat.

Lots of love and kisses,

Scarlett

PS: Yes, I am a hater. Congratulations, you caught me. You caught "the hater."