Dalton Ross on Boy George’s cruel and unusual punishment
It’s August 1, 2006, as I write this, and it is as hot as a motherf—er! Like, 104 degrees hot. And none of this wussy dry-heat stuff — this is wet, humid, and nasty. New York City has turned into Gnarlytown, USA. And what do you do when you kick it in Gnarlytown, USA? You get your ass indoors — quick.
I write this not as a complaint, but as an observation. Because I am concerned. I’m concerned because in less than two weeks a familiar (if heavily made-up) face will be far, far away from the air-conditioned luxury of a Manhattan high-rise, and will instead be toiling away in triple-digit temperatures. Yes, it seems someone really does want to hurt Boy George after all, because the former Culture Club singer is getting ready to serve five days of New York City street-trash removal. This humiliating episode is the end result of an only slightly less humiliating encounter in which George called the cops with a phony-baloney burglary report, only to have them then search his apartment and find cocaine. (Whoops!) He eventually pleaded guilty to false reporting of an incident and was sentenced to community service. That’s where the trash comes in.
Evidently, the 45-year-old gender bender will be issued a shovel, broom, plastic bags, and gloves on Aug. 14 when he is assigned to sweep streets somewhere in Lower Manhattan. Now, I have a few issues with this. First off, why a shovel and a broom? That seems a bit unwieldy. Plus, I lived in the Lower East Side for 10 years and I never saw anyone rocking a shovel (unless they were using it to beat the crap out of someone, but that’s another matter altogether). Let’s face it — the shovel is not practical, and frankly, is just going to slow the whole job down.
My second problem is one of location: Making Boy George serve his sentence in hipster-happy downtown only serves to humiliate him in front of his main fan base. (I’m actually not sure if he even really still has a fan base, but if he does, the headquarters are no doubt in this vicinity.) Put the man somewhere where he won’t be recognized, for Pete’s sake — somewhere like the Bronx or Harlem, where he can clean cigarette butts and human feces in peace (actually, I suppose the shovel could come in handy for that). I have in-laws in the Bronx and I guarantee you they don’t know their ”Karma” from their ”Chameleon”. (Nor do they leave their feces on the street, it should be noted. At least not that I’m aware of.)
My third issue is just general concern for Boy… or Mr. George… or whatever the hell his name is. Personally, I always found him to be only the second-coolest androgynous ’80s popster (behind a young Annie Lennox, yet just ahead of the dude from Dead or Alive), but he still doesn’t deserve his luck of the past few years. His patented locks are long gone; he composed and starred in what just may be one of the worst plays ever, Taboo; and now he has to walk around in 100-degree heat cleaning up half-empty Taco Bell bags.
What I’m getting at is this: I don’t think Boy George should have to go this alone. I’m calling upon my team of New York City spies to scour Lower Manhattan beginning Aug. 14, find Boy George, and send out an alert as to his location — then we can all go help him pick up some trash. Yes, a few of us may suffer from heat exhaustion and have to be carried off (by shovel, perhaps), but think about all he has done for us: Think about the good times, the good laughs, the good music… okay, maybe not so much the music. We can do this! And once we set him back on the path to glory, we can go track down Pete Burns.
OBSESSION OF THE WEEK
They should end CBS’ Rock Star: Supernova right now. Not because Dave Navarro and Tommy Lee continue to shamelessly hit on all of the female contestants. Not because host Brooke Burke annoyingly insists on referring to all the people as ”rockers” instead of ”singers.” And not because Jason Newsted is just plain creepy. No, they should end the show because the winner is so damn obvious: Dilana clearly deserves to be the singer of the Lee/Newsted/Gilby Clarke alleged supergroup. Her week 1 version of Nirvana’s ”Lithium” scared the crap out of me… in a good way, and she recently proved she can slow things down as well (and we all know how important the ballads are when you’re fronting a cheesy metal band). I kind of want to like Storm Large because she encouraged us all to go find nude pictures of her on the Internet, but it’s clear that my latest obsession, Dilana, has the complete package. (And when I say ”package,” I’m not talking about her body. Okay, maybe just a little.)
I often wonder what became of Ken Ober. He was the host of my favorite ’80s game show, MTV’s Remote Control. Other people on the show, like Colin Quinn and Adam Sandler, went on to bigger and better things, but Ober kind of disappeared. And then there is Kari Wuhrer. She was Remote Control‘s resident babe. After the show, she popped up on a few programs, like Sliders, Married…With Children, and Beverly Hills 90210, but she basically made her mark as a B-movie queen. I’ve only been fortunate enough to catch her ”work” in a few films (The Hitcher II: I’ve Been Waiting and Eight Legged Freaks being the most recent), but perusing her résumé makes me realize I’ve been missing out on something truly special. Which is why this week’s List is The Top 5 Kari Wuhrer Films I Need to See Based Solely on Their Titles.
1) Sex and the Other Man (1995)
Ah, the Other Man — so forbidden, so alluring, and yet so dangerous.
2) Red-Blooded American Girl II (1997)
The oddest part being that there apparently is a Red Blooded American Girl I out there, and that it somehow demanded a sequel.
3) Thy Neighbor’s Wife (2001)
Are we sure this isn’t somehow related to Sex and the Other Man? Because this feels like familiar territory to me.
4) Kate’s Addiction (1999)
Doesn’t sound terribly juicy in itself, but the U.K. title for this movie is Circle of Deception, and when you put addiction and deception in the same room together — BAM! — all hell breaks loose, baby.
5) Do It for Uncle Manny (2002)
Considering the tone of some of the other entries I can’t help but wonder exactly what — or whom — is being done in this film, but my guess is Uncle Manny has a big-ass grin on his face.
I love Glutton readers. For one thing, they help keep me employed. But the range of suggestions on how to finally meet my coworker Stephen King that came in response to last week’s column was truly astounding. I wish I could print them all, but here are just a few of the e-mails. We’ll start it off with Cynthia, who offers her ”Top 5 Ways to Get Stephen King to Notice You.”
5. Write a horror story with Stephen King as the central character. Of course, this also requires finding a publisher for said story, which sounds like a lot of work and heartbreak to me, but you never know.
4. Get over your reluctance to appear shirtless. Offer to do any shirtless photo shoots for EW and make sure your new ”I [heart] Stephen King” tattoo is prominently displayed. Of course, your wife might not go for this, but I leave that to you to work out.
3. Name your dog after Stephen King and write a column about how he’s the worst dog in the world. Oops, ”Marley and Me” kind of beat you to the worst dog in the world concept, but maybe naming a large obnoxious dog after SK would attract his attention.
2. Haunt the area where Stephen King dropped his daughter off at Smith until the local newspaper writes a story about you. Maybe you bring the dog named Stephen King with you!
1. Wearing a white T-shirt with rolled-up sleeves, stand out in front of the EW office building and yell ”STEPHEN! STEEEEPHEEEEN!” until he comes to NYC from Maine to see what all the fuss is about. —Cynthia Schmidt
All legitimate ideas, Cynthia, although I think I like No. 5 the best. Perhaps I could pen a Being John Malkovich type of thing, where I take over his body, have him renounce his horror writing days, and become a new cast member of Sesame Street, where he interacts with cute red furry puppets all day long. Oh, the horror, indeed!
Idea on how to stalk… oops, I mean work with Stephen King: I think you go to his house with your office in tow and set up shop. Hey, if EW lets him work from home, why shouldn’t they let you work from his home? It could be EW’s Maine office. (Good luck getting past security!) —Shelby Hentges
I like the way you think, Shelby. Forget about merely becoming coworkers — we should become roomies! And then NBC can make a sitcom about us as a pair of wacky, mismatched housemates that will get canceled after approximately three episodes. They can call it The King and I.
I think the best way to make Steven King your best friend would be to kidnap him and strap him to a bed and incapacitate his legs and pump him full of sedatives. He really seems to like that. —Lora
This was just one in a pile of similar Misery-themed messages. It’s a solid plan, I’ll give you that — but it is a wee bit disturbing how many of you were ready and willing to bust the guy’s legs up just for a little chill time. I’m merely at a ”stalker” as opposed to ”psycho stalker” level as of now. Give me a few years, and that could change.
I too have often dreamt of hangin’ with Stephen King, but then I’ve also often dreamt of working at Entertainment Weekly… Would it help if I appeared shirtless in the magazine? —Amanda
Sorry, Amanda, but last time I checked, this was not Maxim. And — as evidenced by my own various shirtless pics — it certainly ain’t Playgirl either. But dreams can come true, as evidenced by our next letter…
I’d hold the elevator door for Dalton Ross anytime. As I am sure he’d hold it for me. If Dalton Ross said, ”Yo, dog, what up?” I’d say ”Same-as, my man, feel me?” I’d even swap some of my pork rinds for one of Dalton Ross’ Ho-Ho’s, as long as it wasn’t one of those caramel Ho-Ho’s he be holding, and I would never be calling his home-girl a Ho-Ho, just as he would never be calling mine the same, I’m sure I got that right. Because any man who boxed shirtless against Oscar De La Ho’Ya can be in my posse any day, if you see where I’m coming from. And as for this piece, I am so down with it I could put on a top hat and crawl under a copperhead. —Steve
P.S.: I just finished watching 13 episodes of The Wire and I can’t stop talking like this, dog.
Is this from who I think it’s from? Damn straight it is! Seeing as this was sent directly to — and verified by — our Managing Editor (who, unlike me, does happen to be cool enough to hang with the subject in question), it can be deemed a 100 percent authentic response from Stephen Freakin’ King! Now, I have to be honest, his e-mail is a bit confusing. I’m unaware of the existence of caramel Ho-Ho’s and am not sure I would ever eat pork rinds even if touched by the spooky hand of greatness, but this, my friends, is the start to what I hope will be a beautiful working relationship. He even promised to hold the elevator door for me! Of course, every silver lining has a cloud, and the cloud in this case hangs over the head of ”Pac Man Fever” composer Jerry Buckner, who now slides down a notch on the Glutton Celebrity E-mail Tote Board to No. 2, but let’s be honest — Cujo can kick Pac Man’s ass any day of the week.
Are you down for helping Boy George pick up trash? Seen any good Kari Wuhrer movies lately? And what’s with Stephen King getting all gangsta on me? Send in your questions, comments and quibbles to firstname.lastname@example.org, or just fill in the handy-dandy order form below. Hey, if it’s good enough for Stephen King… (My new motto, by the way.)