Last week, on the day Amy Winehouse died, I sat down and wrote a eulogy that several people, including my wife and online employer, found unnecessarily ghoulish. And while it's true I thought it was amusing to quip that London officials had banned Amy's cremation for fear of a nation-wide contact high, I was pretty sure I wasn't the worst person in
He's made such a joke of himself in the process that it's easy to miss the immense balls required to do what he does in public, and get away with it. At a certain point, you have to take a step back and marvel at the rap-sheet of dick-headed insanity he's managed to put together.
I'd like to step in to the guidance vacuum left by Oprah when she disappeared. I freely admit that part of this decision comes from my deep concern for the physical and spiritual well being of my fellow man. I somewhat begrudgingly admit that I'm also interested in the billions of dollars Oprah made serving in this capacity.
It's Valentine's Day, the first heartbeat of spring. I am a strong advocate of any holiday that puts pretense aside and encourages celebrators to trade pricey gifts for sexual favors. When affection can be measured in real currency, I always win because my love is deep and so are my pockets.
Bill Murray has become the urban equivalent of Bigfoot -- a mythical figure who generates sightings anywhere people are too drunk to totally trust their memory. Instead of being half-human, half-ape, Bill Murray exists somewhere between celebrities and the rest of us.
You have taken some heat lately from the press for your website, for your spontaneous music career, and for just generally being you. I imagine your self-confidence is a little shaken and that you would gladly wish it all away, if only you knew how wishing for things worked.