A paradox! An oxymoron! A paradoxymoron!

So all the old mainstays of rock are releasing new albums soon. Or touring while their drummer passive-agressively bitches about it via blog. Or transforming a formerly promising teen actress into a clone of his ex and then fucking her onscreen while blood spews everywhere.

Among those doing the album-releasing thing?

The Smashing Pumpkins.

I sorta had this information swirling in the back of my head. Then I saw a bus bench ad.

The album's title?

Zeitgeist.

Oh, that's fucking rich.


A brief swig of the dictionary tonic reveals Zeitgeist as "the general moral, intellectual, and cultural climate of an era."

I own a calendar. It's not the 90s, upcoming Spice Girls -- sorry, Spice "Women" -- reunion tour notwithstanding.

Which was the last time Smashing Pumpkins were within a 10-mile radius of the zeitgeist. Hell, it's the last time they were even in the same galaxy as our zeitgeist.

There was that one good song on the Lost Highway soundtrack and then a dozen abortive side-projects and "new" bands.

Also, Mellon Collie and the infinite double album that had the cool Georges Méliès-jacking (er, "homaging") video was one of those albums that I bought because I thought I had to to be cool and music-savvy. But I never really listened to it. Not really. Because double albums are usually filler, filler and more filler. The only recent exception I can think of is NIN's Fragile.

Plus, naming your album Zeitgeist is just a weeee bit hyperbolic and setting yourself up for failure. I mean if this record doesn't capture and define our time, then it looks like a failure.

The only 90s musicians I care about their pending comeback? Courtney Love (and her backing band, her misspelled personal demons). Seriously, get clean, get the record done and fucking make me 16 and angsty again and feeling like I heard "Doll Parts" for the first time.

VICTORY IN OUR TIME!

I guess dreams really DO come true...

She's back in jail! HUZZAH!

Okay, now I'm going to visualize a pony and winning the lotto.

i'm gonna be a celebrity....

That means someone everyone knows....

A few weeks ago, I decided that pretty much all I wanted for my birthday - besides Clive Owen and a bottle of Scotch - was for Paris to go to jail. And stay there.

I had other dreams, too, of course -- a rocking party, a fabulous life and Clive Owen. But I've been kinda in the doldrums and not that much in a "MY LIFE IS TOTALLY KICKASS! I ROCK! WOO! CELEBRATE ME!" mood.

But if there's one thing that I never tire of, it's taking pleasure in others' misfortune. (Didja know schadenfraude tastes like strawberries?)

Sadly, as you may have heard from now, Parisite is now free to walk among us.

Damn it. This is intolerable.

I know my Oscar post was about unironic celeb worship and them NOT having to be "just like us". But there are limits. And she crossed them. She keeps crossing them. Quite simply, she believes that the rules don't apply to her and the world keeps reinforcing that belief.

Sadly, I know too many people in town who have gotten DUIs. And they had to take their punishment accordingly. But not Paris. Never Paris. Because she is either made of 95% Teflon or Satan herself. Scandals that, in the past, would end careers (or at least shame a prominent family) - sextapes! drugs! herpes! -- seem to only make her stronger.

Alas, I am not (yet) a celebrity and have to deal with being treated like a normal human being sometimes. Most of the time, actually. I have to deal with astoundingly bad service at dinner at one of my favorite restaurants in town (Hungry Cat, FWIW).

At a place where I have been many, many times before and spent lots and lots of money. (Last summer, dinner and a movie meant Arclight and Hungry Cat). At a place where I've taken parents, tourists and lovers. A place where the burger and drinks are so goddamn good that I'm almost willing to forgive them for making little to no effort in providing us quality service for a birthday dinner.

I don't know if it was a bad table, the fact that we were young or not hip enough or what.

Or simply, I'm not important enough. Because I'm not a celebrity.

Paris, meanwhile, doesn't even bother to pay the bill. And I'm sure she'll keep getting invited back into the VIP room and landing the best tables.

So screw this plebian shit. It's time for me to be famous -- not just internet famous, but actual famous. Because, well, why shouldn't I be?