Tami Erin, an actress whose sole claim to fame was playing the title role in The New Adventures of Pippi Longstocking 25 years ago until she recently made headlines by shopping around a sex tape she shot with her former boyfriend. As with the case of all quasi-celebrities with home-made porn to sell, she claimed that she only put the tape on the market to prevent her ex from doing it first to maintain her respectability (although she wasn't above doing promotional pictures making out with bona-fied porn star Joslyn James, who is an ex-lover of golfer Tiger Woods), reportedly netting a $100,000 payoff. Considering she made all that scratch from a single evening of filming her snatch, that makes Ms. Erin one of the highest paid actresses on an hourly basis in history; significantly more than she made playing Astrid Lindgren's pig-tailed adventuress. Ms. Erin's bio on IMDb.com describes an impressive acting career that saw her constantly rub elbows with entertainment professionals who have worked with people far more famous than Tami Erin despite the fact that she has only four acting credits in the years following The New Adventures of Pippi Longstocking, most recently something called Tim and Eric Awesome Show, Great Job! Chrimbus Special made in 2010. It scarcely seems like an impressive enough réumé to me to warrant six figure for some grainy footage of a blowjob and a few orgiastic grimaces in extreme closeup, but that doesn't take into account the perverts out there who long to rub one out to the oh-so-innocent Pippi Longstocking giving oral sex (a scenario that I guarantee most of those sickos have been playing out in their imaginations for the last two decades). I haven't seen the tape myself but for a hundred grand, I hope she's at least wearing a wig with the Pippi Longstocking braids and talking in a little girl voice. I still don't think it's worth the kind of money they're paying her but it's something that I'd at least take her out to a fancy dinner for. If she brought along Tiger Woods' ex-girlfriend, I'd even spring for dessert.
The Boston Red Sox, who won the World Series on Wednesday night. I have nothing against the Red Sox being the world champions; they were clearly the best team in the series and outclassed their opponents, the St. Louis Cardinals, with relative ease. What takes me aback about the Bosox is the players' taste in facial hair. I am a great advocate in well-groomed beards and mustaches to give a man's face some character, but these guys look like insane hillbillies who want nothing more than make Ned Beatty squeal like a pig. The Sox' Grizzly Adams whiskers became such a craze during the series that fans showed up wearing massive fake beards to support the team, none of which were nearly as thick and bushy as the fur sprouting from the players' chins. With such outlandish facial hair, I sometimes wondered what kind of pubes the players were sporting, but fortunately David Ortiz would smack an extra-base hit at around that time to get my head back in the game. It is all about baseball, you know.
Bro Joe, with whom I attended Knott's Scary Farm, a variation of the Knott's Berry Farm amusement park that exploits Halloween by erecting a series of spooky mazes in which teenagers wearing rubber monster masks jump out of the shadows to scream "boo"at the patrons. Joe and I quickly learned that between us, we had brought monster bait and monster repellent to the park. The bait was my famous porkpie hat, which the terrifying creepy-crawlies were all anxious to discuss, touch, and try to snatch from my head. The repellent was Joe's personality, which we discovered drove the creatures away when he verbally prodded them with his Obnoxious Meter set to 11 when they approached us to mock my hat. Many's the time during the evening that we were making our way through the crowd when a latex-faced fiend would lunge for my chapeau only to be driven away when Joe stuck his face between us to try and engage the ogre in what he considered to be clever wordplay, only to see my aggressor run away in fear. My hat and I owe our lives to Joe's repellency that night, a debt I was able to repay when we learned that the only way to escape one of the mazes was for me to devour a worm. It actually wasn't that bad, considering that I'd been tasting bile in my mouth all night.
Eddie Frierson, who had a perilous journey from Branson, Missouri (where he is appearing in the musical Wartime Romance) to make it home in time to celebrate Halloween with his family in Los Angeles. Mr. Frierson described a hellish experience of being the only person at Chicago's Midway Airport during a lengthy layover to a mind-numbing delay in Vegas before finally arriving at the candy corn-flavored teat of his loved ones on the morning of All Hallow's Eve. We have all heard songs and seen movies describing an odyssey to get home in time for Christmas or Thanksgiving, but this was the first time I'd ever heard of a nudnik killing himself to be home in time for Halloween. It makes sense, since this is the holiday of ghosts and goblins so nothing would be more appropriate than Mr. Frierson pushing his limits so badly to be home on October 31st that he drops dead of a cardiac arrest the minute he enters the door and immediately arises as a groovy ghoulie, poised to haunt the very house that he was hoping to give out candy in. That would be a Halloween worth coming home to.
The West Hollywood Halloween Carnavale, which I attended last night (dressed as God) along with Bro Joe (as the devil), my mono-ped buddy Kiki Wistone (as an angel hit by a 747), the evil genius Lars Fargo (in a truly amazing costume as Khan from The Wrath of Khan) and Tawdry Baubles (in a get-up she threw together minutes before leaving that even she wasn't sure what she was supposed to be). I've gone to the Halloween Carnavale for several years now because of the ingenuity of the costumes being shown off there, the relative ease of walking around the closed-off main thoroughfare of West Hollywood, and above all the feeling of safety I felt walking through the crowds there. I knew things had changed when Joe immediately disappeared from our group to hit on 20 year-old girls in fishnet stockings, feeling that somehow his guise as Lucifer gave him cart blanche to do or say whatever he wanted (fortunately, the approximately 387 other devils we saw roaming the streets didn't ascribe to that professional code). Then, we saw a fistfight break out just in front of us as the crowd closed in on the combatants to get as good a view of the bloodshed as possible. Shortly after we arrived (and Joe had mysteriously fled the scene), the masses of people became so intense that we were at times unable to move forward for more than a fleeting step at a time (I became so frustrated with the over-crowded throng of humanity that at one point I screamed "Soylent Green is made out of people!"which is a funny reference for fans of bad, early 1970s science fiction). But we really knew that we weren't in Kansas anymore when, easily ten feet in front of us, somebody set a guy on fire. And I'm not talking about a few smoldering embers; I mean that he was engulfed in flame. At first, we thought it was some youthful holiday hijinx (it happened in the blink of an eye) until the young man began frantically tearing off his burning clothing and disappeared into the horde of people. A news story described the burning as "an accident," which I'm sure made all the difference to the guy running through Santa Monica Boulevard as his flesh melted. At least Joe had a good time.