13 August, 2008 by Lee.

When you are a megastar like Paris Hilton, then nagging little lawsuits will be filed against you, such as the one filed yesterday in Miami on behalf of the now-defunct Worldwide Entertainment Co. There is little to wonder about how a company ends up broke and in receivership, once you learn that it paid $1M for the “acting services” of Paris Hilton. She did, however, act her part in that yuckfest “National Lampoon’s Pledge This!” and it was a performance worth a million kernels of movie popcorn.

The suit, filed by the receiver, alleges that the actress known as Paris did not fulfill her contractual obligations to provide “reasonable promotion and publicity services” for this film a’la comedia. That little t*art supposedly had agreed to go on “various talk shows,” but Paree “failed to attend any talk shows.” Those appearances, though, were contingent upon her “professional availability” and her “approval,” according to the contract attached to the suit papers.

In fact, the contract is more interesting than the suit. It includes the signature of Paris, which looks like a big P and a big H, with maybe a little a between them, P a H. On top of that million $ in pay, Paris was “entitled to receive one videocassette of the movie, for the “Artist’s personal, non-commercial use.” She too was provided with a “first-class sedan/SUV and driver for Artist’s exclusive twenty-four hour use,” along with “exclusive use of a multi-bedroom penthouse apartment on South Beach …while at the Shooting Location.”  Was it that Crown Vic, with the old guy standing next to it all night, outside that six-story Deco refurb?

Those gratuities and amenities came with a hook, such as, that Paris’ approval for “any Artist nudity (or doubled nudity) or Artist simulated sex scenes (or doubled simulated sex scenes) in the Picture” would not be “unreasonably withhled or delayed.” Only an Artist with the prior filmography of Paris would know what “doubled simulated sex” is all about (possibly explains the need for “exclusive use” of a “multi-bedroom” penthouse).

When will these little people learn to leave the big people alone?

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6 August, 2008 by Lee.

Trials in Texas have grit. Lawyers in boots, beltbuckles worthy of Brighton, catchy colloquialisms aplenty, judges empowered by a mere robe, recriminations and protestations about guilt and innocence. You’ve heard a story or two about these goings-on between the longhorns and the shorthorns at the bar.

Today, they’ll try to seat a panel of jurors honest and true to hear about how an icky spilled liquid on a first-class armrest provoked a shoving match between a megavagelist’s wife and a stewardess, along with an elbow to the boob, fractured faith, flaring hemorrhoids. Bet that when you’re called to jury duty you won’t get any cases like this.

But, a bit of backstory. The Houston Rockets used to play ball in The Summit, but when they moved, that arena was adapted to become a mega-church. From a pulpit just past one backboard, Joel Osteen puts forth his telegenic testimony to thousands (45,000 attend weekly) of worshippers. God, pray that I might be able to get lower level seats on the next Super Sunday! Joel, whose fine sermonizing is widely telecast, is married to she-ain’t-no-church-marm Victoria Osteen.

The Lord has ordained that the Osteens fly first class, and since they’re Houstonians, that usually means first-class on Continental Airlines. As a One Passer from way back, I can affirm, indeed testify, that on Continental first-class is First Class. So, during the Season of the Lord, on December 21, 2005, Miz. Vicky boarded a flight to Vail, which is where Jesus would’ve have been born if his parents had gotten a fractional ownership with Emirates Air.

The seat assigned to Miz. Vicky, allegedly, had a spilled liquid on the armrest, and she informed the stewardess to get it off. In the end, it was the Osteens who had to get off, the plane. The jurors will get to hear how the cat fight got to cooking, but allegedly, the denouement was Victoria shoving the stewardess, Sharon, up against the toilet door. Wonder if the person who was in there will testify, or if a lawyer will read to the jury that (high-school flashback) regulation about ‘no congregating around the door to the lavatory.’ Once Vicky had Sharon pinned against the pottydoor, allegedly, she elbowed Sharon in the boobicle. I think I saw Jerry Lawler do that backward elbow up high on some Texas boy in tights during SummerSlam on payperview - was that broadcast from The Summit before it was Osteens’ church?

Now, stewardess Sharon’s suit says that being boob elbowed by preacher’s wife had “damaged her faith” and caused here to question the legitimacy of spiritual leaders and churches. Oh, and not to forget, the episode caused her hemorrhoids to flare up. What sort of icky evidence is used to prove that to a preponderance for the jurors? If I was the jury foreman, I’d tell the judge “we’ll just take her word for it, and not look at any photos.” The better evidence of the damaging conduct was that Victoria paid a $3,000 fine to the FAA for disrupting a flight, proving the value of the recommendations of the 9/11 commission (those that were adopted, at least).

Naturally, and providently, the Osteens are represented by an attorney, who has seen as many criminals walk out the door free as any warden. Rusty Hardin. He’s recently famous for assuring us that there was no evidence, none, to support any allegation that Roger Clemens can even spell ’steroid’ much less bare his behind to someone needling him with something he thought was a vitamin shot. So, guaranteed, there’s no truth to what the stewardess has alleged.   A Houston jury will have heard this before.

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9 July, 2008 by Lee.

The ongoing trial in London about whether a video of a public figure engaging in arguably deviant conduct is grounds for an invasion of privacy claim flies over all bounds of decency. Aside from the salacious details, the case really speaks volumes about how differently the UK and the US treat the claimed privacy of public figures. If those in Hollywood enjoyed anything like the protection that Herr Mosley is seeking in court, then most all of the gossip columns emanating from the Left Coast would disappear. It’s bewildering that a public figure can be filmed by a consenting participant in private conduct, then admit he engaged in that conduct, but still claim damages for invasion of his privacy over the competing right of the press to report news of public interest. Even more bewildering is that Mosley can see a way clear to get on the stand, in open court, and proclaim the goodness and worthwhile character of his misdeeds with five, paid women. His testimony sounds like what a recovered miscreant would discuss with a therapist or psychiatrist.

Trying to unravel the worth of Mosley’s legal claim involves weighing the competing values at issue. First, the publication did not portray or imply falsely that he’d engaged in a tryst with five hookers - that’s what he did. There then is no claim as with a false story, such as that he’s a dope fiend or a crook. He was shown, and has admitted, participating in a most odd sort of orgiastic affair. Next, Mosley testified, indeed proclaimed, that there is nothing wrong with the conduct that he engaged in. So again, the pictures show conduct that Mosley testified is acceptable, permissible and non-criminal. Third, Mosley denied that the affair had any bearing on his work as FIA president. That can be viewed as an admission as much as a defense.

Mosley’s claims are that what he thinks is acceptable behavior was miscast in the publication as having “Nazi” connotations (which he testified was something he finds “unerotic”). Along with that claim of mischaracterization of his conduct, is that the tabloid sensationalized his private, consensual, adult conduct, and that there is no public interest to be served by publishing his private proclivities. As said in my prior post, Mosley admits he’s a perv, but he’s incensed that the paper would say he associates with Nazi nuttiness. What? Mosley even upped that comment, observing that if he’d wanted the ‘party’ to have Nazi connotations, then he’d have ‘ordered’ that - it’s apparently on the menu.

It remains bewildering, this, it’s not a “Nazi” party defense. One of the women wore a Luftwaffe jacket, much of the dialog was in German, including Max and others saying “Sieg heil” and other responding “We are Aryan, the blondes.” Perhaps Mosley and his quintet could have Nazied it up even more, but come on, this ain’t “The Producers.”
The jumping-off point for Mr. Mosley’s claim is that he may well win the suit. The endgame may be like the rule in an earlier case involving Naomi Campbell. She insisted in press reports that she didn’t take drugs, which was false. The tabloids published photos of her going to Narcotics Anonymous meetings, and overstated the details of that. Among the rulings were the finding that a picture tells more than words. The paper could refute her denials, but to publish the photos invaded her privacy. So here, the tabloid could write stories about Max Mosley and his private proclivities, but to put the video on the web and publish the photos, that may have invaded the old perv’s privacy.

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4 July, 2008 by Lee.

Too many reviews of Gonzo: The Life and Work of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson cast fault at the unanswered questions: the angles not pursued, and even, that it’s a stand-offish documentary. Consider Gibney’s directorial dilemna. To stand back and let the story and friends tell the story, makes for a documentary, it’s journalism, capece. To instead infuse a viewpoint into the stark reality threatens to make it a gonzo journalism film. While it’s wise to keep the mode from overwhelming the straight story, doing little more than a fly-over of HST’s life, and filling the film with what’s previously-known and seen, takes a bite away from the measure of homage that this filmstory gives to the man and to the voice in his work. These reviewers forget, or do not forgive, one limitation of the documentary form - that it’s a compilation of known material. There was no camera on Dr. Gonzo and his attorney when they cruised the Strip. Only the fragments that were filmed, or can be retold, can comprise a genuine, documentary film - that’s why they’ve never made a good one about any of our Vice-Presidents.

The top of the masthead review by Roger Ebert shows him hung up on the query: ‘what about the hangovers?’ That’s a marginal point, since the film documents a life, not the morning after. The review at thedeadbolt.com posits HST as a “tortured soul who was bound by his own extremes yet masked his fears through drugs and alcohol while using his talents to create his own mysterious asylum”. That’s not captured in my recollection of his writings. The closer to the bone remark calls HST “at odds with society and himself”. The reviewer at redorbit.com concludes with a quote from HST’s colleague, “he captured certain truths about human perversity that will never lose their sting”.
All over, if the life or the film desired by reviewers is only going to expand on the public service spot, ‘your brain, your brain on drugs,’ then it wouldn’t be worth the price of a free screening. Bulletin to critics: lives of many artists involve angst, some agitata and self-medication, etc., - but, telling their story truly is to reportray their art overlaying their human existence. Here’s how the HST story might go.

HST - no, the Gonzo persona, is Americana. He’s a derivation of a 007 James Bond racing down Route 66, willing to stop off for a diversion. The reader of HST knows that the only knife to have is a Gerber, and the only pistol is a .44 magnum, etc., just as a Bond-fans knew and wanted an Aston-Martin, shirts of Egyptian cotton, a proper Martini, and a Walther pistol. Bond, Batman, Dr. Gonzo each had the power to surmount tall buildings, and always to leave behind tall tales. Man as superman, unbounded by conventions that hinder other mortals - but still a mortal, still in conflict with common mortality.
When first I read Fear & Loathing, I lived in the Mojave desert, I drove a convertible Impala, I knew the un-patroled road to Las Vegas - so, armed with a revisionist view of how a stranger interacts with a strange town, two of us got in that convertible and headed off though the desert.
The power of HST’s words provoked images of lunacy, but swirling among truths. I never saw him there, or anything like he saw, but here’s what it made me know.

That what drives you to, or away from, a compelling situation can be a car or bike driven very, very fast. It will not get you faster to where you supposedly want to be, but it’s just faster, and that affirms the conviction of your compulsion. It affirms trying to make a change, or fight against what needs to change, and shouts throughout your guts that I’m in an all out pursuit to do this.
Yes, HST shouted at this world, but only a transitory murmur came in reply. Once he tried to blend with the world, it became Krytonite to his muse. He had flown closer to the edge of the sun than his readers, but after he’d lifted them, it all came flatly back down to the earthen reality that, again, the wax between this Icarus’ wings had too melted, and that gravity would not yield.
If Gonzo’s writings compelled any one of us to act, or to see what action was needed, then hindsight now tells us whether what we were pushed to do was a mere momentary compulsion, or an act of social disobedience, or that Thompson’s experiential words had pushed us to do something that otherwise we might not have thought of or had the guts to pursue.
Words, will, disgust all can empower when we feel no power. One’s view can open a million eyes, and so he did. HST forced a lot of slugs to get out of their shell or crawl from the muck around them, and go wholly in pursuit their meaning. “I’m going to ride this strange torpedo out and see where it takes me.” HST railed against what held so many down, and cut free thoughts and resolve that can envelop each new reader.

If most all of this was not documented in the Gibney film, then it’s a higher form of a VH-1 “Behind The” piece - an artless, meatless rehash. The copy is never going to be as worth watching as the original.

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3 July, 2008 by Lee.

Plaintiff has “distinguished itself in the high-end denim market” that is, “denim wear,” which at retail runs “from $170.00 to in excess of $300.00.” No wonder I’ve never heard of the “True Religion” brand of jeans. All this j’wear “bears an emblem of a smiling Buddha strumming a guitar.” It’s been worn by “top celebrities” such as the “entire cast of the television program Desparate Housewives.” Hot pants, huh? It even was “featured in films such as … Dukes of Hazzard.” You know you’ve into high fashion when you’ve reached that stage.

With a hot property like jeans with a smiling fatass Buddha on them, it was only a matter of time before some other would-be denim guru started to sell “inferior” jeans with “similar” designs across the boo-tay roundels. Nothing like lounging about in some faux Guru jeans, an unauthorized Marley tee, and watching a bootleg of d’Despa’ Hos’wives, after you’ve called in sick to work your shift at the convenience store.

Surprisingly, the complaint runs scores of pages, even though it’s a case about hot jeans and thievin’em. 
See the full case file at Guru Denim v. Dress to Impress, 2:08CV4174 (C.D. Calif.).

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1 July, 2008 by Lee.

One knowledgeable concert fan told me that the surest way to identify artists who’ve ’sold out’ are by the amount of official merchandise is being sold in the lobby of the concert venue. The ‘man’ to whom they’ve sold out usually hires Pinkertons to police the neighborhood and ‘discourage’ any unauthorized vendors. This business model presumes that the dry goods in the lobby are authorized, but perhaps not.

An airbrush artisan, Jurek, created and licensed some Marley images to Bob’s ‘people.’ You would perhaps be familiar with the look of Jurek’s copyrighted works “Rasta Dreads” and “Lion Zion” if you’ve been to a reggae show, or a flea market, or looked inside random panel vans parked along arterial roads around Miami. The “Dreads” work is a hyperrealistic image of the late Bob, while the “Lion” is a split-screen image with Marley’s profile facing left and a lion facing right with these two half-heads sporting the same set of dreads. Jurek’s work is displayed online at jurek-art.com.

In his suit, Zamoyski v. Fifty-Six Hope Road Music, et al, (D. Mass.), Jurek claims the works were licensed to JIG for redistribution, but later JIG told him all redistribution agreements with defendants were “revoked,” but defendants kept on selling merchandise bearing his artwork.

Don’tcha hate when no one cares about your art, but then it gets hot and everyone wants to steal it - what’s worse, being irrelevant and obscure, or being a victim.

One spot of crap that often sticks to the shoes when pursuing these cases is that T-shirt vendors keep crappy sales records -it’s in the nature of their free-cashflow business model. It’s cooler to flip out the cashola than the AMEX when you’re in reggae company. Folks give their dreads-boy or dreads-gal two twenties and a five, and loan them the car to go to Reggaefestarama, where they slap down one twenty and the fiver for a tee gloriously emblazoned with the dead Marley in dreads. Unsuspectingly, they have been drawn into the web of, no say it ain’t so, copyright infringers! POX! What’s a mon named Marley doing with a airbrusher named Zamoyski pushing tees to downtowners with fake Jamacian accents holding splifs?
Those pesky infringers, there outghta be a law or six to preserve purity throughout the music trades.

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20 June, 2008 by Lee.

Were it not for the 1st Amendment, all that those infesting Hollywood would have to do would be to present engaging stories, with compelling themes, using scripts and scenery that, in confluence, impress us aurally, visually and viscerally. But, being protective of their 1st Amendment rights, those that keep the accountants and lawyers in Hollywood working can devote themselves to business models built around celeb gossip, half-truths, licentiousness, and invasions of privacy. It’s all ‘a living.’

Being the persona that is Perez Hilton must pay a princely per diem, since he fritters a fair fraction of that away on lawsuits. One pending case, brought by Splash media {a/k/a the ‘paparazzi’} alleged that his Perezness gleeped their photos to use with his scoops on celebs. It is alleged that he used one Splash photo of ‘outakes’ of Jennifer Aniston’s top-half wearing nothing to ‘lift and separate’ two areas of her stardom.

Now, in that suit, the parties have agreed to a stipulation of “confidentiality” that enables them to exchange documents relevant to the case, but without the rest of us seeing the stuff. But puzzle me this, what expectation of confidentiality attaches to photos or facts about celebs’ private lives, especially when those matters have been reported by the gossipanistas. If a star flatulates in church, there are stories already circulating on the internet before the service concludes - some reporting that celeb A actually even goes to church, and others claiming to know why the still air was broken.

The stipulation of confidentiality in the Splash v. Perez Hilton suit has two levels of secrecy, with the higher order being for “Highly Confidential” documents and information. Like what, Jennifer A. out of her holsters; or, how the dirty-eye cameraman captured the shots; or, how Perez learned about it all in time to put the photos in his story. The 1st Amendment protects expression, not news or facts, which are in the public domain. The 1st allows Perez and Splash to avoid liability for falsely ridiculing or invading the privacy of “public figures” like Jennifer or Britney or Paris or Lindsey, or of depicting them exposing themselves. There’s nothing confidential in all that, is there?

The Hollywood gossips take liberty with the truth or with privacy rights, based on a fundamental tenet of our liberty, the 1st. Of course, many read the reported drivel, indeed, they seek it out from every web link and search engine. If it is falsely reported that Victoria Beckham is an alien, then inquiring minds want to explore that, and to wonder if someone with an expressionless look and apparent thinness concealing a robotic frame, might actually be an alien. Of course, Pish Spice or whatever she was, is not an alien, but could SPICE be a cyborg coded acronym for space personage in camoflaged exoskeleton? We many never know if the answer is in the “confidential” information exchanged by Splash and Perez.

The case is Splash v. Lavandeira, 2:07-CV-2668 (C.D. Calif.).

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