If you’ve been following Ree’s career as long as I have you might be dazzled, as I have, at her meteoric rise to success from blogger to big time blogger to book author to TV show host and now, no doubt, to million dollar enterprise a la Paula Deen, Rachel Ray, and The Barefoot Contessa.  Anyone who watches these shows knows that you don’t watch them for the food and cookin and recipes – you watch them for the lifestyle the host is pushing.  The same formula that draws millions of viewers to Ree’s blog every day is the same thing that will likely draw them to her TV show on the Food Network.  But watch out, you might find yourself yearning to be one of those Stepford Wives, you know, an eager to please robotica?

I’m not really here to diss Ree, except to say that her blog and her show are really all about an illusion.  In truth, she is not a mindless, husband-pleasing prairie wife – she is a shrewd businesswoman who works constantly, must micromanage every aspect of the illusion she puts forth, and probably doesn’t defer to her husband the way she does on the show.  So much drama about Ladd’s aversion to vegetables!  She wonders one day if she can coax her husband to TRY something with liquor in it.  He’s so simple, is the message, and no way would he go for the high falootin’ city food she supposedly used to eat back in her big city days (she went to USC for a time and that qualifies her as a city girl who moved to the country – we actual city girls know that old Ree was always and will always be a country girl).

What’s unexpectedly revealing about the show, which supposedly shows a slice of life on the HUGE and powerful cattle ranch in Oklahoma is how dull as soup living in this world must be and how lovely the lens through which we see life is manufactured by Ree – she makes it look a hell of a lot more exciting than it is.

The husband, portrayed on the blog as a silent but intelligent hunk of man candy, his ass sculpted by Lee’s jeans caught by his pretend-horny wife’s camera.  She gives us a world that simply does not exist because it is an imaginary world she herself created.  This comes through more than ever on their TV show, which seems to illustrate how little she has to talk about with her husband (“will you try some arugula?” can only go so far and reminded me of every bad date I’ve ever had with someone I couldn’t talk to), how dressed up their ranch life really is and how they have to find work for themselves to do since there is NOTHING to do.

What we don’t see are the servants who tend to the garden, clean up the houses and probably nanny the kids.  Supposedly they’re homeschooled but so far this little detail is left out of the show, perhaps because nowadays homeschooling comes with a stigma — these people believe the world is flat?  Sooner or later they’ll have to address that but I wonder how they’ll do it – she’ll probably make an awkward joke which won’t be funny and will be followed by her uncomfortable laughter, which can be heard throughout the show.

Admittedly, Ree isn’t an actress – she would never pretend to be. She did a few awkward TV spots on Good Morning America and the Today Show before she got this gig but where Nigella Lawson and Ina Garten are naturals in front of the camera Ree is rigid, too controlled and doesn’t seem to be willing to show the world who she really is – this is also the problem — but ultimately the success — of her blog.  There is no there there.  Except that she is brilliant at what she does, has mastered the art of running a website in every way.  She is, one must conclude, anything but an idiot.

Will Ree learn to loosen up?  Will she start to show that she can actually have conversation about something other than butter? Butter butter butter butter – she pushes the stuff the same way all of the cooks on the Food Network do.  What they don’t seem to get is this simple fact: we all know butter tastes good. We love butter.  If we could eat butter all day long we’d be happy. But guess what? America is fat!  Help us out, Food Network!  Really?  With the butter already?  Isn’t Ree afraid she’s going to kill her husband with all of that saturated fat? Imagine the shit that dude must take every morning!

And while we’re complaining, I hate hate HATE how she has to always be the foil of every dumb joke – like “look at Ree try to herd horses,” “Look at Ree try to paint!”  Meanwhile, she has zoomed ahead of every hick within a 100 mile radius, and that includes her own husband.  Is this really how they want to show Ree is actually human?  ”See, we degrade and humiliate her on a daily basis, isn’t ranch life fun?”

But for some reason it’s hard to not watch Ree and her silly little life she’s trying to pass off to us all.  Okay, Ree – you want to dish up a fairy tale, I’ll take it.  Because guess what: life is suffering, as the Buddhists say, and why not indulge in a fairy tale now and again.

I just … can’t even go there except to say that: drug addiction does terrible things to us. It isn’t just the “bad” drugs that have us addicted either: we are a species easily addicted to things. Not surprising that it is so easy. Surprising that it’s still surprising.

But the odd and compelling thing about the Charlie Sheen cabaret show was that it started out as a provocative uncorking of the primal male. At least, this is what appeared to be on Twitter where the Charlie Sheen explosion could be measured in real time. They flopped around like happy fish trending the catch phrases, #winning, #tigerblood! Both terms had been used by Sheen in an interview on 20/20 that exposed the uncensored celebrity for all to see.

But once Sheen got that tattoo WINNING! and started broadcasting himself 24/7, yammering on like a generic crack head in the last gasps of a morning bender — the sun coming up, melting the wolf mask to reveal a wild-eyed baby conjuring his Charlie Sheen words – Morlock! Troll! The other shoe dropped. There were a few men and boys unwilling to give up their dream of a guy who could nail two bimbos with washboard abs and an eternally hard cock on the one hand and father his many children on the other. But they suddenly had to. Some of them are still leaning, reaching, flopping — can they be Sheen? Can they unleash? A population of anonymous commenters, angry white men, all feeling the rules pulled apart with a seam ripper: Charlie.

And he shall call it Sober Valley Lodge. And he shall have goddesses to serve his needs, and sometimes serve each other’s needs, which also serves his needs. And it shall be a happy place with rocks of cocaine, a workout room, mirrors on the ceiling, pink champaign on ice.

Some saw it as a manic episode: get the man some brain drugs and call it day. Some saw it as drug addiction: get thee to rehab. Others saw it as an unleashing of raw angry power not unlike Peter Finch in Network.

There is some truth in there but there is also a mental fracture. What really gnaws at me when watching Sheen – both at the outset and then later, after the party was over because Sheen got fired and then acted like he was in on the joke –was that he WAS clearly freaking out but pretending like he had it all under control.

It was sad to watch Sheen break down like that, but it was even sadder, I think, to see how much we lapped it up. Partly we’re just plain old celebrity obsessed but are we also part savage still, banging the gong when the flesh is cut and blood pours out. We like to watch the sacrifice and the beast is starving for it.

Twitter has gone quiet now. There isn’t even a faint drumbeat. One of the goddesses left, but, it was reported and then re-reported and then retweeted and facebooked, the goddess had returned. The babies, Sheen’s twins, have been taken away and given to their mother. Sheen is no longer admired. The worm has turned. Its mouth is open wide.

My guess is that he will go into rehab. He’ll come out cleaner and more sober than ever. He’ll have gained a little weight, he’ll apologize to everyone, especially his own worried father. He will be “reformed.” Rock bottom in America is always a great place to start.

But every so often he will grin and pin us with his two wild eyes and he’ll call us out for being stupid trolls. We can’t argue there.

Oh Lindsay. Except for the beauty, fame and fortune I was you. I remember being so young and confused. I had bulimia and I’m guessing that’s what your Nexium prescription is all about. I was depressed and I’m guessing that’s what your Zoloft and god knows what all prescription is about. You are going to kill yourself if you continue this way. Why doctors are allowing celebrities to double and triple dip on their meds even after Heath Ledger is a mystery to me. But if you want the drugs you can get the drugs. You should not be on any drugs. Underneath all of that hair dye and freckles, you are a normal young woman.

Your mistake right now is in thinking you are the victim. How dare you compare your situation to human rights abuses around the world, though. This is something you might feel deep shame about later in life and you should feel deep shame about. You are a spoiled, entitled, badly managed celebrity. And you are the one the public wants to see take a fall. When the beast has the taste of blood it will be relentless until you either die or fail so miserably at your career you end up shaving your head and hitting an SUV with a baseball bat.

1. Quit all of the drugs. You do not need them. What you need is some peace and quiet. Can you get it? Maybe if you sober up, do lots of yoga and start reading actual books and talk to a therapist, one who won’t stuff you full of drugs. You are a drug addict. A textbook drug addict at that. You are someone who is only not using now because you have been forced to stop. Once they get off of your back you will go right back down that road again. This will kill you and it isn’t going to make the public love you the way they did Marilyn Monroe. You are not Marilyn – and thank god for that, right?

2. Go to College. That’s right. Enroll in a university and learn a thing or two so you won’t be such a dumbass. Being a pretty celebrity is not a good long term plan. It doesn’t last and you are past your sell-by date. You’re not even thirty but you look forty. Moreover, the public isn’t going to give you a break – no matter how good your performances are. Go to college. Get an awareness of the bigger picture. Partying with assholes is only going to get you so far.

3. Lose the luggage. The hangers-on are the worst of the worst. They are there only to tell you what you want to hear. Your mother loves you but she is too willing to see you as the victim and not make you accountable for your actions. Perhaps because she feels guilty for selling her daughters to fame. Or maybe she feels guilty for some other reason. But right now, she is not a healthy influence on you. Get clean and free of the people who make excuses for you.

4. Stop dyeing your hair blonde and puffing up your lips. You are too young and too pretty to start destroying yourself. No one looks at you and thinks, “wow, she’s so hot.” They look at you and they think, “god, how sad.” Get a grip or you’ll be headed for porn.

5. Stop the sleazy photo shoots and sleazy movies. This is not helping your career. You think this is the way to go because, maybe, you get more attention this way. You are getting the wrong attention. You are getting attention from people who have no loyalty. They will turn on you the second someone else walks by who is hotter. And there are hundreds of them, Lindsay. Hundreds. Think: what do you have to offer the world that is unique? You can act well. That’s pretty much it. Fill up your soul and your mind.

Or die.

It’s your choice. But trying to wriggle out of this jail sentence because “it’s NOT FAIR!” is just going to land you in much more trouble. Accept that you took advantage of the courts (who were already being too nice, in my opinion), suck it up and deal. You are not the center of the universe and no one cares if you whine or cry. As I said, the public is invested in seeing you fall.

These have to be Photoshopped. Megan Fox at the premiere of Jonah Hex looking like she’s worried about something:

There I was, a quick run down to Whole Foods to buy some stuff – you know, hadn’t showered and all of that. It was the small Whole Foods in Valley Village (or Sherman Oaks or whatever you want to call it). Tiny store. So small you can’t really walk past people without rubbing or bumping. It is awkward. I have seen many a celeb in there before but no one with the kind of star power of Mel Gibson. Nevertheless, there was that familiar voice. And I turn around and there is Mr. Gibson. He is chattering on his cell phone and acting fairly “normal,” if it’s possible to act normal and be a celebrity.

I started nervously sweating, as one does when one encounters something rare and famous and well, let’s face it, to say Mel Gibson has been in the tabloids is to greatly underplay. I was doing what I always do when I have to dwell in the presence of someone really famous like that — not make eye contact, barely acknowledge their presence. One has to completely ignore them because otherwise one falls victim to one of the biggest sins here in Los Angeles: acting impressed by celebrities. You have to pretend they aren’t famous. And they are probably grateful when you do.

And yet, every time I turned around, there he was. I kept hoping he was one but there he’d be walking down the coconut water aisle. There he’d be in the fish section. There he’d be in the vitamins area. I think he might have been getting baby stuff. That would make sense.

He was quite amiable, conversing happily with one of the clerks. My overall impression of him, despite the news reports to the contrary: really nice guy.

At one point I was staring at the soy sauce shelf and I whipped around and Mel and I locked eyes briefly before flicking our eyes away and shopping. It was in that moment that I saw real fear in his eyes. That moment could have played out in several ways. The way it should have played out: I smiled graciously and said “excuse me.” He smiled back and all is right with the world.

His worst nightmare would have been me acting shocked and trapping him on the spot, “Oh my god! Are you MEL GIBSON?”

Or worse, “Hey, why did you dump your baby mama?”

Even worse, “Did you really call that cop sugar tits?”

So the frightened-eyes-darting-away option wasn’t so bad. Him asking me for my phone number was definitely not going to happen, even though I am quite busty — and I peg him as a breast man. He wouldn’t much care for me because A) I’m an atheist. B) I’m half-Jewish. C) I am too tall for him.

I have to say, I found him quite attractive. But that could be due to the fact that he was the source of most of my teenage lust back in the ’80s. The Year of Living Dangerously, Mad Max, Lethal Weapon. He was my ideal sex god. I still think he is the most good looking man ever to grace the big screen.

But yeah, homeboy’s got issues.

After leaving the store, I scanned the crowded parking lot for Mel’s car and sure enough, sitting as out of place as the actor himself was a truly sick midnight blue Mazarati.

And in another universe, in a different body, I would wait by the car, pretend to have trouble getting my groceries out of the car and Mel would come walking out — and very kindly help me load the car. Very shortly after we’d be contorted in all sorts of tawdry positions in the back of his Mazarati, sweat pouring off of my sugar tits, my ’80s sex fantasies realized at last – his blue eyes—.

What really happened: as I was driving out of the parking lot Mel came out with his two grocery bags very earnestly carrying them to his car. I drove by and pretended not to notice him.

But this is what he looks like – posted on Guys with iPhones:

And this is what he looked like when he turned my bones to liquid:

Not all celebrities can do everything well. Some celebrities can Twitter, for instance, and others can’t. Having an online tete-a-tete with anyone is usually either successful, or a total disaster. Some people can be more easily squished into the online world, while others need the vibration of real life around them to be totally understood and absorbed.

I really think some people come off better online than others. That’s my theory and I’m sticking to it. I prefer my own online persona, for instance, than my in-person one. I think I’m nice and all, and I’m sure people like me (really really like me) better in the flesh. But me, I like me better in the non-flesh. I like me better with words and words only at my disposal.

The celebrities I think that come off better on Twitter than one could ever imagine have managed to use the medium to raise their careers are step higher. Those would be Demi Moore, Ashton Kutcher – the two most commonly associated with Twitter. They’re fine on Twitter. Demi Moore is more than fine. She’s cute and gracious and non-overbearing. Just a lot of nicey nice with exclams.

And for some reason it makes me like her where before I maybe didn’t think much about her at all. Well, let’s just say the irritating Demi is long, long gone – the Disclosure/Indecent Proposal/Striptease Demi. In her place is this pocket rocket activist cougar.

So that’s the good.

A few others I’ve been following I really like more now than before BECAUSE of their Twitter. And those would include Errol Morris, David Lynch, Diablo Cody, Ben Stiller, Jason Reitman.

The bad is that I was crushed to discover complete and total despair over Jim Carrey’s Twitter. Here all of this time I thought he was a nicey nice guy with vast intelligence. But I’ve discovered him to be self-centered, self-absorbed and not that witty online. I think he must be surrounded by a lot of yes-men, yes-women who make him think he’s all that. And then there’s the money.

One of the disappointing things about him is that he only follows one person. With so many brilliant people out there saying brilliant things and pointing out links, not to open yourself up to that part of Twitter is to miss the whole thing.

I need to follow more celebrities on Twitter so that I can judge them bitterly from afar. And here is the perfect site to do just that.

On a lark, I decided to drive up a car full of people to Neverland Ranch, not unlike Richard Dreyfuss in Close Encounters except my version of a mashed potato monument was a lot more like a box of jewels; what kind of people were lingering outside the gates of Neverland the day after news outlets announced that there would be no memorial in Los Olivos? It was bound to be a scene of media and fans. The overlay, though, was that it would be a pretty drive no matter what. The drive up to Santa Barbara, cutting inside the coastline towards the Santa Ynez Valley, up to Los Olivos and then deeper in to where Neverland, and many other breathtaking ranches, called home.

We knew from the outset that we wouldn’t get in past the gates. Maybe someday they will open up Neverland to tourists and fans; hard to imagine those residents out there in quiet and private Los Olivos allowing such a thing to occur. Still, it’s even harder to imagine getting rid of it, remodeling it and selling it – with Jackson’s estate controlling it, who’s to say how it will go. I would imagine that if they could provide a separate route to the Jackson ranch, a separate parking lot far, far away from the quieter homes, maybe it could work.

Looking at a Google’s-eye-view of it, that seems possible, as least topographically speaking. They would get a fight from the residents probably, who no doubt moved there in the first place to “get away from it all.” The genie is out of the bottle now.¬† Neverland Ranch, I suspect, is there to stay.

After the mountainous drive through Santa Ynez, and a great view of the ocean and all of Santa Barbara, past fields of golden grass, horse pastures, cows roaming free, and everywhere oak trees looming like crippled monsters in the heat — there is Los Olivos.

Los Olivos, the town where Miles kind of loses his mind in Alexander Payne’s Sideways, is a small and if there ever was a town that deserved the word quaint, this one was it. Every window displays an invitation to sample wine. They had set up a makeshift florist on the corner off the main road to Figueroa Mountain Rd., where Neverland was.

We joined a procession of cars for a half mile or so. This was a quiet and well maintained road. Horse country. Cow country. And the odd little school. It is more Malibu and Ojai than it is Little House on the Prairie; this is most definitely where the well-to-do either retire or raise families, probably families with second, younger wives who prefer living on sprawing acreage rather than penned in a suburb, even a nice suburb. The livestock are happy here. This is in direct contrast with the way livestock are displayed on the i5 towards Bakersfield; standing sadly in the harsh and direct sunlight with fifty or so other cows grouped together miserably. The Santa Ynez livestock have it made.

It wasn’t far up Figueroa Mountain Road that we found Neverland. My GPS helpfully announced, “You have arrived at your destination.” But there were so many media vans there, fans sleeping on and in their cars, vendors offering t-shirts with Michael Jackson’s image, and even someone selling pearls out of the back of their van. It wasn’t as crowded as it might have been had CNN and other outlets not announced that there would be no memorial at Neverland Ranch. It was subdued mostly and it was late in the day, going on 5pm. Still, there was enough commotion to justify our long trip. Why did we take it, we didn’t really know. We just knew that it would be something interesting to do.

No one in our car was a die-hard Michael Jackson fan. We were caught up in the news of it, like everyone else, not quite hostile yet about the coverage. Michael Jackson may be the last big rock star to die and to die so suddenly, and of course, to die of a drug overdose. Madonna doesn’t seem like she’ll ever slow down much less become addicted to painkillers and accidentally end her life. Although if she did she would enter the immortality zone, as Michael Jackson now has – all of his past has erased; no one cares much about his plastic surgery and skin changes except in the way it makes us all feel so badly for him and his unending self-loathing. There is nothing sadder, or more absolute, than a narcissistic self-loather.

We found a decent enough parking space so as not to offend the dozens of police vehicles patroling the area and we walked up to the gates. By this time, it looked as though the media, probably shooting b-roll and waiting for anything of interest to happen, reporters had taken refuge in their van conversions or their campers; there were many visibly napping on the job, collecting a tidy union paycheck all the while. This was the day Matt Lauer was there and Larry King. We suspected that this winnebego, allowed past the gates at Neverland, was King’s. I guess we’ll never know.

What we didn’t see were any recognizable faces. What we did see was the kind of baffled confusion and sadness of human beings who have lost an idol. There were flowers and cards, even a water gun with a glove draped on the side of it in tribute. There were two Michael Jackson impersonators. One was complaining that he’d had to take the bus up there and was worried he’d miss the bus back to Los Angeles, sweating under his Jackson military-glam garb and heavy makeup. Still, he danced to Beat It as a few in the crowd mumbled the lyrics. Someone with a laptop played it on their itunes, crappy sound and all.

Funny that no one seemed to know all of the words to Beat It.

You Have To Show Them That You’re Really Not Scared
You’re Playin’ With Your Life, This Ain’t No Truth Or Dare
They’ll Kick You, Then They Beat You,
Then They’ll Tell You It’s Fair
So Beat It, But You Wanna Be Bad

Just Beat It, Beat It, Beat It, Beat It
No One Wants To Be Defeated
Showin’ How Funky Strong Is Your Fight
It Doesn’t Matter Who’s Wrong Or Right

We snapped our photos, trying to capture – what…something? Some chunk of Americana and the celebrity experience, some portion of the grief so many were sharing and always coming back to the question of why. When we’d get back to Los Angeles no one would really understand why the trip to Neverland. An arbitrary drive up to Los Olivos to see the freak show was not a satisfactory explanation. Neverland the word conjured so much for different people and the own way they’d settled who Michael Jackson was in their minds: child molestor, a forever child, a brilliant artist, a black man, a boy man. One of my sisters recoiled in horror at the thought of visiting Neverland, the site of all of the supposed and accused abuse. The other sister felt sad about Jackson and never believed any of the molestation stuff. Once we decided we’d had enough and that it was time to leave we had no choice but to consider Jackson and his Neverland. What was this place out in the Santa Ynez Valley? What was it for? Whom was it for?

Children. And the answer kept coming back, children.

My friend Craig, a devote Michael Jackson fan, had called me and texted me when I twittered that I was going to Neverland. He thought I’d gotten in past the gates and was at the actual home. No, I had to tell him. And he began telling me how innocent of all crimes he thought Michael Jackson was. I wanted to believe it too. I thought that my mind was starting to play tricks on me, that I believed Michael Jackson’s sprawling paradise really was there for kids – sick kids, poor kids — his great gift to childhoods everywhere, to make their tiny and impossible dreams realized for a day.

The car drive back we discussed the Jackson case in depth. I was saying how there hadn’t been any concrete evidence or accusation of any physical abuse except tickling. We decided that at least some of it was a shakedown. But we couldn’t let go of the idea that Jackson was stuck in time. When he fell in love with the pre-teen Latino-looking boys who became his closest friends, who slept in the same bed with him, who, at the very least, saw him naked, we had to decide that either Jackson was a pedophile or he was a boy who never grew up, or maybe a gay man who never allowed himself to realize this inner truth and thus, had no choice but to keep the company of those who wouldn’t judge him.

Either way, it all seemed beside the point, just as it brought up the returning debate of whether or not an artist’ personal life should effect how we feel about him, his music, his life, his death. Did it matter that Jackson had committed crimes against children while also giving children so much? Perhaps we expect too much of our idols; we want them to be created in our image so that we can have them close enough to touch, but when they are all too human we resent them, or worse, reject them.

We went to Neverland for no reason at all but came away with many. Michael Jackson thought he was Peter Pan and that he would never, could never grow old. His dream came true.

FULL FLICKR

This interview with Mike Bay popped up on my favorite gossip site. Supposedly he said about Megan Fox’s comment that Bay focuses more on the special effects than on the acting:

“Well, that’s Megan Fox for you,” Bay tell the Wall Street Journal. “She says some very ridiculous things because she’s 23 years old and she still has a lot of growing to do.

“You roll your eyes when you see statements like that and think, ‘Okay Megan, you can do whatever you want. I got it,’” he goes on.

But that doesn’t mean Bay thinks the same way.

“I 100 percent disagree with her. Nick Cage wasn’t a big actor when I cast him, nor was Ben Affleck. before I put him in Armageddon. Shia LaBeouf wasn’t a big movie star before he did Transformers — and then he exploded. Not to mention Will Smith and Martin Lawrence, from Bad Boys,” he points out.

Bay thinks Fox could be a little more grateful, though.

“Nobody in the world knew about Megan Fox until I found her and put her in Transformers,” he says. “I like to think that I’ve had some luck in building actors’ careers with my films.”

He’s right about Megan Fox, no doubt about it. She’s smartly building her career on the outlandish things she says in interviews, a la Jolie. BUT when Bay says that he “made” Nic Cage and Ben Affleck one has to laugh. Nic Cage wasn’t a big actor?? Rumble Fish, Valley Girl, Raising Arizona, Peggy Sue Got Married, Moostruck, Wild at Heart, Honeymoon in Vegas, Leaving Las Vegas (for which won a goddamned Oscar) were all before The Rock.

I think Bay meant to say: Nicolas Cage’s career didn’t “dive into the crapper until I got a hold of him.”

And as for Ben Affleck…Good Will Hunting was before Armageddon – but I suppose one could make the ludicrous argument that Michael Bay “made” Ben Affleck – you know, if you wanted to bathe in that delusion.

The fact remains that Michael Bay’s films make money almost by default; they are each and every one of them, with the possible exception of The Rock, terrible, awful films. I couldn’t even make it through the first Transformers and I’ll watch almost anything. Fox is right about the special effects; they are the only things that work in his films. If there happens to be good acting it is because he chooses good actors to work with. Sometimes. Maybe? Or is it just a lucky fluke?

Just Jared has the pics.

Not quite sure what Lindsay Lohan is doing with herself these days or where she thinks this will all lead. My advice stands: get thee an education and get it fast. Being the “it” girl lasts two seconds and then you’re done. Perhaps it has something to do with the contrived nonsense surrounding Megan Fox, a very lame wanna-be, and Diablo Cody who is trying hard to sell their upcoming movie, Jennifer’s Body. So Cody says about Fox:

“So many actresses in Hollywood are just these little coat hangers who want to be America — sweetheart.

“Megan has no such designs. She’s a badass, she’s a maverick, she’s not interested in pleasing people. She does her own thing.”

The screenwriter has also revealed that Fox was the only actress who was considered for the lead role in the upcoming teen-horror comedy Jennifer’s Body.

She added: “I’ve seen a lot of men with that kind of swagger. Maybe it’s time for the ladies to burn some bridges.”

Funnily enough, I’ve seen Fox in real life a couple of times and she really is a little coathanger. There is no swagger there. It seems to come alive on camera and she looks good, it’s true. But she borrowed this from Angelina Jolie who has figured out that it doesn’t last. But back to poor Lohan. I’m wondering if she’s not aiming to be in the same class as Fox with all of this dark eyeliner and sex hanging out. She just turned 23. It’s time for her to take a good look at where she is at 23. She’s going nowhere fast. She ought to enroll in NYU and get her degree so she can put some substance into that head. Either that or she’s headed for reality-TV, Playboy or complete obscurity.

After the news of Michael Jackson’s death came pouring out, celebs took to their Twitter. JustJared posted their tweets. Suddenly it seems like a very small world.

Miley Cyrus: Michael Jackson was my inspiration. Love and blessings.

Demi Moore: I am greatly saddened for the loss of both Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson. Especially for their children!

John Mayer: I think we’ll mourn his loss as well as the loss of ourselves as children listening to Thriller on the record player. Dazed in the studio. A major strand of our cultural DNA has left us. I truly hope he is memorialized as the ‘83 moonwalking, MTV owning, mesmerizing, unstoppable, invincible Michael Jackson. RIP MJ.

Ludacris: If it were not for Micheal Jackson I would not be where or who I am today. His Music and Legacy will live on forever. Prayers to the fam R.I.P.

Jesse McCartney: RIP Michael Jackson. He was the King and the reason I started singing. I will miss him.

Lindsay Lohan: NO OMG … sending my love and prayers out to Michael and his family … I feel sick.

Joel Madden: This is a sad day. Take a moment for Micheal and remember his gift to us all. He was truly great. May he Rest in Peace.

Diddy: Michael Jackson showed me that you can actually see the beat. He made the music come to life!! He made me believe in magic. I will miss him!

Ashley Tisdale: So sad. Saying a prayer for Michael Jackson. I have to say, the 6 of us from HSM were very lucky to have met such an amazing man. I will remember that moment forever. RIP Michael

Dane Cook: I’m dedicating my show 2night to Michael Jackson. THRILLER got me laid. Well… At least that’s what I told my friends.

Jenny McCarthy: Michael Jackson has passed away. His spirit and creative influence will live on through his music that we have loved for decades.

Jordin Sparks: “Omg I’m bawling right now. Michael…. My heart hurts.”