Insight, Foresight, The Clock on the Wall Reads 3 Hours Past Midnite...

Okay. I'm bored. It's, like, 3:30 in the morning and I just got home from DJing to a near-empty club thanks to (a) snow-zilla, and (b) Augie finals next week. I'm not quite ready for bed yet, so mebbe it's time to use this blog AS a blog and just do a stream of consciousness post.

FIRST OFF... Why, why, WHY am I fascinated by celebrity? I should be above it. And I'm not saying that like I'm ego-boy columnist or something. I'm saying that I (hopefully) have a brain in my head... and that should mean that I should care less about Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, Donald Trump, etc. Right? Wrong.

For some reason, I'm drawn to the gossip. I honestly think this stems from my childhood. My mom harbors the same bizarre fetish. My grandmother harbored it, too -- that's why every week, she went out and bought the Enquirer, Star, Weekly World News, etc. And after my grandma was done with 'em, my mom -- not wanting to be embarassed in a checkout lane -- would heist them back to our house. And when Mom got through with 'em? You guessed it -- straight to my bedroom.

This, I hope, is the reason why part of my daily ritual involves quick stops at TMZ.com and PerezHilton.com, two of the most voracious gossip sites on the internet.

So the subject of much concern in the world of celebrity gossip these days has been our girl Britney Spears. Since the "tragic" split with the K-Fed, our Brit's been keeping herself busy accidentally exposing her nether-regions in drunken hazes across America. Friends are publically calling for an intervention. The gossip rags are tired of putting her pics up 12 times a day. And even I have to wonder about the well-being of her two rather young kids.

And today was an exceptionally exciting day in Britney-Land. First came the word that Britney had checked into an undisclosed rehab facility (rumored to be the Caribbean facility founded by Eric Clapton.)

Then came the scandalous report that Brit had checked herself in, but ALSO checked herself out within 24 hours and headed home to Los Angeles. THEN came official denials of the whole sordid affair from the Spears publicity machine.

Well, tonight I get home and hit Matt Drudge's website (I'm a liberal, which means I should hate DrudgeReport.com -- but I'll be honest, it's the best way to get ALL the news headlines in a glance -- you've just got to weed through the conservative slant of it all.)

Anyways, I get home tonight and check Drudge. And what's the top news story? Iraq? The presidential race? Maybe even some Anna Nicole fodder? Nope.

Top story is Britney.... BALD.

That's right. Britney showed up at a tattoo parlor in Los Angeles tonight... bald as Telly Savales.

This will certainly NOT help her cred right now. Britney needs to have a serious sit-down with her Image Control Staff (and only someone like Britney likely actually HAS these sorts of people in her employ.)

I don't know how the next few days in Britney gossip-land are going to play out, but it's going to be interesting and quite likely scandalous and ugly. And I'm secretly excited about getting to see it all go down.

That said... here's my weird confession:

I think Bald Britney looks pretty hot. No, I don't know why.

I'm definitely an oddball, that's a given. And sure, I listen to some eclectic music and grew up surrounded by the kids they used to call "corn chips" -- big hair and/or no hair, punk rock, body-pierced, Cure-obsessed alterna-youth -- but I'm not the kind of guy who goes for freaky looking girls just because they're freaky looking. In fact, I'm kinda put off by girls with enormo tattoos and such.

I've never thought baldness on a girl was hot BEFORE this. Sinead O'Connor? Never did a thing for me. Natalie Portman, when she went bald for that one movie, looked downright yucky to me.
Britney, on the other hand? I dig the bald. I might be the only person on Earth who's gonna say that -- and that's okay, because that might be the ONLY way for Britney to even know I exist. Just suffice to say, toots -- I'm here for ya.

And here IS my apartment, which is the best part about tonight. I made it home.

I love the locale of my apartment, I really do. It's 2 minutes from the District, it's 7 minutes from the Dispatch office, I've got fast food options galore within blocks, it's my little slice of Rock Island Heaven. With only one problem:

The short driveway to my parking lot shoots uphill at about a 45 degree angle. This means that, if there's more than a couple inches of snow on the ground and the plows haven't come yet, I'm not getting home. And if I can't make it up the driveway, the nearest place to park is about 2.5 blocks away and a long walk down a snowy sidewalk to my place.

Happily, tonight's snow has been a lot more fluff than substance. Even though we definitely got a few inches, its the kind of snow that you can plow through fairly easily -- even in a Beetle. So I made it up the driveway tonight -- albeit losing half of the rubber from my tires in the process, coz I was spinning all over the place trying to get traction.

I'm coming to terms with the fact that I really don't like winter much. I mean, a nice snowfall is super picturesque and all, but it's the icy aftermath that I really despise. I have absolutely no coordination -- I learned to walk before I learned how to crawl. Some scientific minds think that kids who do this inadvertently stunt their coordination. I think it's more to do with the fact that I spent my formative years NOT outdoors playing football or shooting hoops, but rather indoors fighting ninjas, demon warriors, and large space-rock-weapons that yell "I am SiniStar!" before crushing you to death.

Anyways, as a result of me being a klutz, all I have to do is walk NEAR ice in order to perform a Three-Stooges-esque pratfall at least once a year. I have yet to make my painful pratfall this year, so every day is like sheer terror as I walk on ice just waiting to biff it.

But tonight I'm home. And right now, I need my couch and my cats and some horrifically bad 3:30 a.m. television. Have a great weekend, all -- even YOU, Bald Britney.