Courtney Enlow

For my final HoboTrashcan article as a regular, I thought to myself, “Self, I could rail against Lindsay Lohan, or wax poetic about the tao of Patrick Swayze or perhaps talk about film and television circa 1994. You know. Things I always do.” But the universe had more in store for me. The universe didn’t want me to tell some shiny snarky viewpoint of the world of entertainment and celebrity.

Instead, the world gave me a hooker.

This past weekend, I went bridesmaid dress shopping with my two best friends (Item You Won’t Miss #1: Brief references to my upcoming nuptials that are incredibly brief because I don’t want you judging me for talking about my wedding, and still something I do because as a bride I am physically incapable of not referencing my upcoming nuptials). That task was completed very quickly, so we immediately moved onto hotel room ’90s dance parties and a trip to Gold Coast for some costly libations.

We decided to go to Tavern on Rush, a place that seemed far too grown-up for most of my time living in Chicago. But on this night, filled with adult bride-liness, I felt comfortable joining their ranks. Proper grown-up cocktails. I wore heels and eyeshadow and everything.

We saw her the moment we entered.

We saw a table that had been very recently vacated. Quita, the bravest (drunkest) of the three shot herself at the table like a lawn dart. But she’d been beaten to it by a very beautiful woman, possibly Pakistani, definitely wearing a Cleopatra wig.

The woman was alone, and we didn’t think much of her after that, as we were still stuck standing in a very busy room, holding our drinks and scanning the tabletops for checks that indicated we might possibly be able to sit soon.

About thirty minutes later (which is 2.5 hours in stiletto time) a douchey guy with a curly faux-hawk finally realized there was no one there for him to date rape, so he tossed a few dollars on the table, and we attacked it like a pride of lionesses and it was a broken legged gazelle we could sit on because our feet hurt.

We noticed that the pretty girl was still sitting alone, and we felt sorry for her. I thought, “She got all fancified and then got stood up.” She was wearing a very tight dress, obviously somewhat expensive, and distractingly sparkly shoes, covered in crystals. She sat alone, nibbling at a salad, sipping a pink cocktail. I felt bad for her. Being stood up didn’t seem fun.

Oh how naive I was.

After she’d been sitting for about an hour, this couple approaches, greeting her with hugs and kisses. I audibly said, “Finally. Jesus.” I was so pleased for her that her group had finally arrived.

I don’t remember which one of us finally figured it out, but things get very clear after this.

The couple was the exact couple you can imagine purchasing an evening with a relatively high-class call-girl. He was a bald man who worked out too much, dressed in the finest threads from the Ed Hardy business casual collection – a black button-down with a silver dragon on it. She was the kind of woman who was obviously incredibly beautiful fifteen to twenty years ago and is reluctant to mature, wearing an inappropriately short white skirt for her age, or my age, or my 12-year-old cousin’s age, and sporting a pair of fake breasts for which I’d request a refund, complete with nipples pointing directly to her own face. The kind of couple even my middle-class background looks at and thinks, “New money.”

Not exactly the kind of couple who has 25-year-old Middle-Eastern friends who wear tight dresses and sparkly shoes.

From the moment we realized what was up, we were riveted and I don’t think we looked away for the rest of the night.

One thing that is incredibly important to note, and was, perhaps, the biggest giveaway: the couple was all over each other. Did you ever see that clip of Billy Bob Thornton and Angelina Jolie on a red carpet when they first got together and she’s rubbing against him like a kitten, completely high, and he says they just had sex in the car? This couple was exactly like that. The wife was leaned back into her husband the entire time, hands everywhere, hers completely disappeared beneath the table. Cleopatra-hair sat very businesslike, until she stood up and started dancing a little, then wrapped her arms around the wife, who responded by rubbing her very awkwardly.

At this point, things were getting a bit uncomfortable, and we ended up leaving. Not due to the discomfort, but it didn’t exactly keep us around.

I’m not a prude, and I am fairly neutral on the issue of prostitution. If a consenting adult wants to peddle her “skills” to the highest bidder, and it’s not a tragic tale of desperation to feed her family or meth habit, then it really doesn’t affect me and she can do what she wants. I felt sorry for the wife.

We watched these people for a while, and, yes, with the aid of a couple glasses of champagne and a gin and ginger ale, I become a big fan of creating stories for people that will then become fact, but I really felt like this husband, this obviously douchey man, got his wife to participate, even want to participate, under the promise that it would make him attracted to her again. This did not appear to be a woman confident in herself or sexuality, trying something new that interested her. This was a woman desperate to stay attractive and interesting to her husband, even if that meant sharing his (and her) body with a stranger.

My excitement at seeing my first real life upscale escort was eventually overshadowed by this sad, possibly fabricated backstory. What was fun and new became a little depressing.

Which leads me to my feelings about leaving HoboTrashcan. (I majored in segues at the School for Conversational Laziness).

I am very excited about my new gig with Pajiba (as well as all the personal life and real-life job stuff) and I hope my loyal readers (I know you’re out there, even if you don’t comment [is what I tell myself on slow days]) will stay loyal to Hobo Stu while still checking me out over there, but HoTrash has been part of my life for three years, when I wrote my very first OOTIC – a dry little piece about indie backlash, very clean and free of the fuck words that would pervade my later work. I’ll miss it around here, and I want to thank Joel for all he’s done for me, throwing a bone to a random chick with a snarky MySpace blog back in 2007.

Those who’ve read me most of this time, thank you. Stay with me, stay awesome, and watch The Crush. You won’t be sorry.

Courtney Enlow is a writer living in Chicago and working as a corporate shill to pay the bills. You can contact her at courtney@hobotrashcan.com.

Courtney Enlow

Well, my little blueberries, next week will be my last week writing for HoboTrashcan, as a regular at least. I’ve had so much fun over the past three years, sharing my tales of horrific nocturnal Wii-playing neighbors, bewilderingly beloved vampire tween porn, horror movie posters that outshone the films they were intended to advertise and liveblogs, liveblogs, liveblogs.

But above all else, there’s been Saved By The Bell. Lots of Saved By The Bell.

I hear you out there clamoring, and with two weeks left to go, I’m here to deliver. I will spend my second to last Outside Of The In-Crowd discussing the best “one-off, never to be seen again” characters in the history of our favorite TNBC program.

The “most-likely-to-have-died-under-mysterious-circumstances” characters can be divided into three categories. The first?

Eternal Lifelong Forever Loves (of exactly one episode)
Zack wasn’t meant to be with anyone but Kelly. The PTB of SBTB knew that and showed it by making Zack a complete manwhore of AIDSy death herpes levels. There was Christy, the lady-wrestler with whom Zack learned a valuable lesson about gender roles and the ability for women to do anything. There was Melissa, the crippled girl with whom Zack learned a valuable lesson about the abilities of the disabled. There was Ginger, played by Veronica Vaughn from Billy Madison who was balls out mentally challenged. There was Slater’s ex-girlfriend, the USC girl who I’m pretty sure raped Zack statutorilly, and a bevy of other skanks who were all Morris’d.

The second is more tragic …

Close and Beloved Family Members (who went the way of Chuck Cunningham)
Jessie’s dad married a busty, blonde, Palm Springs aerobics instructor. Naturally, she was never seen again, but she’s not the issue here. The problem lies in the busty, blonde, Palm Springs aerobics instructor’s son, a New York Jew, who attempted to ruin the lives of Zack and Slater and film an implied sex tape starring his new stepsister. It’s okay. He apologized. He also fell madly in love with Lisa and they promised to give it a real shot as he wasn’t going anywhere.

He went somewhere.

Over time, numbers of siblings went up and down like Kirstie Alley’s blood sugar. Also, Mr. Belding’s wife had a baby and they named it after Zack, adding another bulletpoint to the list of reasons Belding should have been on Chris Hanson’s call-list.

Finally, I give you …

The Rest of the Bayside High School Student Body
In the episode with crippled Melissa, Belding alerts the senior class that they need to complete their senior class project. And by that I mean he alerts Zack, Slater, Screech, Lisa and Lesbian Tori and they’re the only ones who do anything. Fellow students come and go and disappear and reappear and do nothing except serve as sexual fodder for Zack Morris. Bayside was a brothel, and Zack’s its primary source of income.

The mysterious world of Bayside High was a Bermuda Triangle of death and destruction. And we only wish we could have been offered the chance to sail its terrifying seas (what I’m saying is, I wanted to have sex with Zack Morris).

Courtney Enlow is a writer living in Chicago and working as a corporate shill to pay the bills. You can contact her at courtney@hobotrashcan.com.

Similar Posts:

• Outside of the In-Crowd – Saved By The Bell: Two decades of unanswered questions
• Outside of the In-Crowd – Screechless: People Magazine’s revisionist history
• Outside of the In-Crowd – Looking back fondly
• Outside of the In-Crowd – Cooties aren’t real
• Outside of the In-Crowd – Everything I know about being single I learned from TV

Courtney Enlow

There is something inherently familiar about famous people. Being so ubiquitous and showing so much emotion in their works and performances, we feel as though we know them, even though they are complete strangers. Naturally, some of us desire to know more.

The problem with finding out more is that it often involves high-powered lenses and a lot of hours spent in their bushes, and frankly, I just don’t have the vacation time. So we turn to the world of gossip magazines and blogs.

For some, this is not enough. We crave more. MORE I SAY. We want to know their secrets. And since the darkest of secrets could lead to a lawsuit if not wholly provable, that is where the celebrity blind item comes in.

Celebrity blind items, if you are blissfully unaware – and I say “blissfully” because they are like sweet, sweet, candy-flavored crack that will devour your very soul, leaving you an empty shell of a smug bastard – are basically riddles, telling salacious stories purported to be about well-known celebrities, scattered with tiny details that can lead us, the reader/bad people, to figure out just who the story is about.

These can go one of two ways. They are so true that they would never want anyone to find out, or they are a really legal way to libel the shit out of some innocent person.

Basically, here’s how it works:

This A-list actress is known for her two famous marriages, one to an impossibly strange little man, and the other to a more down home type. She swears she’s never gone under the knife, and her forehead tells us that’s not true, but she also swears she’s not half lycanthrope. That’s not true either. During the full moon, our girl is truly to die for … and from!

Yeah, they’re a lot like that. See, I could legally tell you Nicole Kidman is a werewolf and she can’t sue me, see, ’cause YOU deduced that it’s her. I never said it was. I’m free of legal ramification.

Also, I’ve yet to receive proof that Nicole Kidman isn’t a werewolf.

While a lot of these are incredibly interesting, like the one about the tween sensation who went to a party, did all the coke and blew a guy in front of everyone, or the certain “high flying” multi-talented actor who has a penchant for male spa attendants and hair plugs, some are difficult for stars to shake.

Raise your hand if you think Jake Gyllenhaal is gay. Keep it up if you think Angelina Jolie still does heroin. If your hand is up, it’s probably because of Ted Casablanca, E! Online’s fancy king of blind itemry.

Now, I have no way of knowing if either of these are true or false (though I think we all know who the real Toothy Tile is. It’s Fyvush Finkel). But they’re incredibly pervasive, and in the case of Jolie’s, potentially reputation damaging.

Blind items are the most cowardly way to fuck someone over ever. I mean, all you have to be able to do is write a semi-convincing story and slap a description of some rando famous person in it, and BOOM, you have a blind item. Some, I believe (I love you, Lainey Gossip). Some, I don’t (unless the theory is correct that CDAN dude is Chunk from Goonies I don’t buy most of his stuff – and if the A-lister who does coke in front of her kids and left one kid in the car for hours while she got high with her dealer is true, then go to the police, not the ‘net).

For those who have not yet given in to this dark, dark guilty pleasure – and, oh, is it pleasurable – this is a non-issue. But to those of us who’ve gone down the blind rabbit hole, our perceptions are completely skewed. For us, everyone’s gay, everyone’s on coke at the very least, everyone’s cheating on everyone (often with the same sex because see “everyone’s gay”) and everyone is an absolutely awful evil person. And maybe they all are and maybe that’s that. But until we receive proof otherwise, let’s let them be innocent until proven guilty. Then as soon as we receive the tiniest implication of guilt, we can begin the lynchings as needed.

Courtney Enlow is a writer living in Chicago and working as a corporate shill to pay the bills. You can contact her at courtney@hobotrashcan.com.

Courtney Enlow

If you’ve been reading my stuff at Pajiba, you know I’ve been spending a lot of time talking about chick flicks lately. Yes, friends, my mind has been particularly estro-festy lately. I love good chick flicks, and hate the bad ones (a.k.a., most of them) to the point of physical violence against a plastic DVD. I feel that movies geared towards women should be celebrated, but only if they’re good. I’m not going to high-five Twilight just because people happen to like it. Wrong people, at that.

Weeks of lauding the good in chick flickery and celebrating the world of femme film has been leading to this one moment: the moment in which I discuss the most hateful character in the whole genre, perhaps even in film history.

I am talking, of course, about Julianne Potter, as portrayed by Julia Roberts, in the film My Best Friend’s Wedding.

In the film, Julia Roberts portrays a restaurant critic (aren’t they all?) who hasn’t spoken to her supposed best friend in some time. We’ll consider this Point #1 when the time comes. Wait for it.

Her best friend, the infinitely tappable Dermot Mulroney (#2). He tells her that he is about to marry 20-year-old Cameron Diaz (#3) and she immediately goes into relationship-murder mode. She spends her time as maid-of-honor (#4) engaging in lame sabotage involving karaoke (#5) and faux homo fiancéism (#6). Finally, she just macks on the guy (#7).

Remember. She is intended to be the hero of this tale …

#1 - Look, I have two wonderful best friends, both of whom live far away from me. I’ve never gone longer than a few weeks without talking to them. If I had, well, then they wouldn’t be my best friends anymore, would they? Erroneous titleage.

#2 - When you’re friends with Dermot Mulroney, you hit that so hard bones break. If you fail to do this, then that is your fault.

#3 – That said, maybe don’t lust after guys nearing 30 who marry 20-year-old college students. Creepy.

#4 – And really don’t become the chick’s maid-of-honor. Why don’t people ever just say no in movies? You can say no, you know. I mean, it’s a big responsibility and involves a great deal of money and time.

#5 – Ignoring the cruelty of attempting to humiliate a poor sad 20-year-old and the ignorance of assuming hearing her sing poorly will end their relationship, I’m most bothered by this scene’s responsibility for all the various film scenes of Cameron Diaz singing and/or dancing that have occurred in the last 13 years.

#6 - Bitch.

#7 – Slut.

What bothers me most is that this character really swung the pendulum of romantic comedy female leads from neurotic and interesting in a positive way to shrill and beastly in the worst way. This film and this character really started the trend of annoying-as-endearing that seems so prevalent in the genre today. And there is nothing I hate more than the Type A Evil Bitch You’re Supposed to Root For.

I hate the fact that romantic comedy heroines are all awful terrible people, in theory struggling with the notion of work-vs.-relationship, which no one in real life actually struggles with all that much, and if they do, it’s usually an excuse for the real reason they can’t hold one down. I hate the fact that men in romantic comedies are either laid back and completely fine with everything in their life, or irritated by the irritating female lead, and we’re supposed to disagree and root for the two to get together. Ridiculous.

Stay tuned next time when I address other current and timely topics such as the Wings series finale and Monica Lewinsky’s taste in haberdashery.

Courtney Enlow is a writer living in Chicago and working as a corporate shill to pay the bills. You can contact her at courtney@hobotrashcan.com.

Similar Posts:

• Outside of the In-Crowd – It’s like they’re not listening to me
• Positive Cynicism – Writing a romantic comedy is easy
• Outside of the In-Crowd – Why Date Night needs to be amazing
• Outside of the In-Crowd – Romantical
• Outside of the In-Crowd – The sad state of chick flicks

Courtney Enlow

8:00 - We open on a big close-up of Eminem’s face with a black hood. Shades of Palpatine. Or, he’s having a not-so-fresh day and could really use some Vagisil.

8:02 - Interestingly enough, the stage is covered in a tent of stretched out maxi pads. And Rihanna’s hair is period red. Now the whole stage is red. It’s all about themes.

8:03 - Rihanna is dressed like an angel in a mid-90s music video. Puffy skirt and combat boots. A.k.a., how I wanted to dress in the mid-90s.

8:04 - Riri has yet to hit a note.

8:05 - Chelsie Handler is hosting. She has an opening bit that involves people smacking her ass, then Lindsay Lohan comes out. Lindsay, honey, I know it’s overstated at this point to say you look rough, but SERIOUSLY, you look rough.

8:07 - Perhaps it’s my just-not-that-into-you feelings towards Chelsea Handler, but I’m so over Lady-Gaga-wears-crazy-shit-on-her-head jokes. They’re as old as Lindsay Lohan drinks a lot jokes.

8:09 - Handler is the first female host in 16 years. The last one was Roseanne. I vaguely remember that sucking.

8:11 - I haven’t read her books. Are they funny? I just don’t think she’s very funny. Sell me on her. I like bitches; she’s just not that clever at it. It’s an awful lot of “I’m drunk. Black guys. A midget.”

8:14 - Best Female Video is up first. If Ke$ha gets anything, I will cut a baby.

8:15 - Lady Gaga gets it. Of course she does. Gaga is the light and the way. Oh, what? You’re over Gaga? YOU’RE SO INTERESTING AND UNIQUE.

8:17 - Best New Artist nominees are Ke-Just Go Fuck Yourself, Seriously-ha, The Biebz, Broken Bells, Jason DeRulo (who I like to think sings his name every time he introduces himself) and someone else who I think sings the Annie Lennox song.

8:24 - Jackass is still a thing. So that’s good for them.

8:25 - Best Rock Video. MGMT, Florence + the Machine and that Muse song that sounds like the Doctor Who theme, oh, shit, and then they lost me with Jordan Catalano’s band and Paramore. Then I think I saw Steve-O’s penis. Then Jordan Catalano won. I could have done without everything I’ve just said.

8:27 - Jordan Catalano can’t read. He is also unable to speak.

8:28 - Kim Kardashian is afflicted with the same problem. Her lips are very shiny though. They distract me from her eighth grade musical line readings.

8:29 - You know, when this Bieber kid’s balls drop, his fans are going to be real disappointed.

8:30 - That said, people probably said the same thing about Nick Carter of BSB, and his never did, and my love remains. So maybe I’m just a crabby old lady.

8:31 - OH MY GOD, TINY DANCING CHILDREN. Apparently Biebz was bummed about being the shortest person onstage so he hired some six-year-olds.

8:32 - Oh, fuck, he’s drumming now. Like, not well, but it’s cute. And now there’s streamers and he yelled like Special Ed.

8:33 - Thirty-three minutes in and I’m pretty ready for that big deal thing we’re going to talk about for a week now. I need a Lady Gaga performance like I need oxygen.

8:38 - Gross. It’s Kesha. I can smell her through my TV. Oh, and she’s illiterate. Shock and aw.

8:39 - Oh, it’s Urrshur. I am of the understanding that he has the beat to make your booty go *thwack*. He hasn’t 100 percent lived up to the whole Second Coming of Michael Jackson hype he had circa “Make Me Wanna.” Also, he hasn’t sung a single note. Britney has gotten a lot of shit for lip-syncing over the years, which is apparently bullshit, because this guy’s not even moving his mouth. This is basically his high school dance recital. I mean, he has a ninja danger mask over his mouth right now. So, no, he’s not singing. And he ended his song with a safer-for-TV “Oh my gosh.” So dangerous.

8:44 - Katy Perry’s body is sick. And we’re seeing all of it. She’s wearing, like, glitter body paint. She is presenting with Nikki Minaj, singer of aforementioned Annie Lennox song, and she’s my new favorite person, because she’s a nutty one. My friend Kelly alerts me that she has a song lyric involving putting her pussy on someone’s sideburns.

8:49 - I’ve decided that I’m going to mainstreamize this Katy Perry look. Glittery tit paint at work tomorrow. With sensible slacks to keep it business cazsh.

8:52 - Damn, Chelsea Handler just made the same Jason DeRulo joke I made earlier. I just like when people announce their name at the top of their song, in case you didn’t know who you were listening to.

8:53 - Ashley Greene barely has a nose. Jordan Catalano = still illiterate.

8:53 - I am not yet over this Florence + the Machine song. I like it lots. Despite its prevalence in shitty commercials for shitty movies. She has blue dancer people. I’ve ALWAYS wanted blue dancer people. I just love her voice. I’ve noticed that despite my rampant ginger-phobia, I tend to really tend towards red-headed singers with crazy awesome voices. My iTunes has a lot of ginge on it. This is a really outstanding performance.

8:57 - A gentleman emerges rapping and I thought it was Aziz Ansari. Apparently it isn’t. My friend Kelly tells me it’s a Gym Class Heroes guy, I think the one that used to nail Katy Perry, that does a song about being a billionaire. I hate that song.

9:04 - Oh, glee, it’s the only people from Glee that I can tolerate. Jane Lynch mispronounces Kesha, because Jane Lynch has no time to bother with that trick.

9:05 - Best Pop Video also goes to Gaga. Frankly, it does feel unfair to nominate anyone else in the world. She’s the only one doing it right.

9:06 - Gagz is wearing Sonic the Hedgehog on her head. I hope she rolls into the crowd and kills Kesha, stabbing her with her boob blades.

9:07 - So, okay, they started Taylor Swift’s song with a video of her being interrupted by Kanye. Then she sang a sad song. So, is the implication that this is a sad song about being interrupted by Kanye West? Lady, he was impolite. He didn’t harm you in any way. Get over it.

9:10 - It is a pretty song. I’ll give her this. Singing’s not her strong suit, though.

9:17 - Commercial comment: I’m super excited for Easy A. Don’t disappoint me, movie.

9:19 - MTV’s new commercials for their shows are pretty good. It’s kind of like old MTV until you actually pay attention to the shows themselves. Come on, MTV, you know you want to go back to your old ways. Please.

9:20 - Justin Bieber’s hair does look really soft and strokeable.

9:21 - I have decided I really need Justin Bieber to piss off Twilight fans. Twi-hards vs. Beliebers could be epic.

9:22 - Oooh, Drake. My favorite Top 40 artist / Degrassi High student. Apparently there’s rumors about Drake and Nikki Minaj. Perhaps she’s putting that pussy on those sideburns.

9:26 - Drake delivers a shout out to the homeowners. Apparently they are fancy.

9:27 - Evan Rachel Wood scares me. It may be unkind, but she defines “damaged goods” to me. Once you go terrifying-nightmare-pedo-beast, do you ever go back?

9:32 - I have not yet talked about Mickey Mouse DJ. But I don’t have much to say beyond that.

9:34 - Sophia Vergara is better looking than me, but she talks like a crazy person sometimes so I still like her. Best Hip Hop Video goes to Eminem. By my count, only Gaga and Em have won anything all night. Until Kanye performs. And then we all win.

9:42 - I believe the person singing that “Beautiful Girls” song right now is Bruno Mars. He has the beautiful Ritchie Valens hair of a thousand Morrissey cover band singers. I want to make love to it. Hayley Williams pronounces the word “stars” like “star-ars” and this bothers me. That “Only Exception” Paramore song makes me Hulk Smash Rage.

9:53 - Ooh, the winner of MTV Tres’s award? To what do we own this privilege?

9:54 - God dammit I love when people steal applause by yelling the name of the city they happen to be in.

9:55 - It’s Best New Artist. Bieber wins. Don’t bother with the outrage, people. The force of the Beliebers is one to be reckoned with.

9:56 - Emma Stone deserves so much better than to present Linkin Park.

9:57 - Bored now. Is it time for Kanye yet?

10:05 - Cher is here. She’s ten times older than Bieber. She’s here to give it to Gaga, I’m sure.

10:07 - And the VMA for Video of the Year goes to … Of course it does, it goes to Gaga! Damn yeah. “I never thought I’d be asking Cher to hold my meat purse” – what I’d make my yearbook quote if it were senior yearbook time.

10:08 - Hey, there’s Aziz Ansari. See, I wasn’t crazy earlier. Merely psychic.

10:09 - SHUT UP IT’S KANYE TIME.

10:11 - A toast for the douchebags, the assholes, the scumbags, the jerkoffs? OH MY GOD I LOVE KANYE SO MUCH.

10:12 - Suck it, T. Swift. Interesting beats sweet every time.

10:13 - I wish I was one of Kanye’s ballerinas. I wished this before this performance, actually. It just seemed like a good wish.

10:14 - The only thing that would make me happier? If the lights came up on a giant aquarium of gay fish.

And that brings us to a happy end on a relatively enjoyable VMA’s. May you all hold my meat purse. Good night!

Courtney Enlow is a writer living in Chicago and working as a corporate shill to pay the bills. You can contact her at courtney@hobotrashcan.com.