An Intervention With Britney Spears

Britney,

I think it's time we had a little talk. I know you're a tad bit emotional these days. There's been the birth of yet another no-necked monster, and the divorce from K-Fed. Honestly, we were all hoping that break-up would happen soon enough, but sometimes you just have to let friends make their own mistakes. He was never right for you, and we all thought JT would have been a better choice.

But now we're really worried about you. What's with the shaved head? And are you in rehab or not? And who's taking care of the kids? Obviously not you.

Look at where you came from, Brit. You had it going on. Graduate of Star Search and The Mickey Mouse Club. It was a dream-come-true for every little girl who ever over-acted her way through Over the Rainbow in the school talent show.

Yeah, I admit it took me a while to take you seriously and get past the squeaky-clean, bubble-gum pop image you started out with. But it was catchy stuff, and you had some style that Christina didn't seem to have. Each single seemed a little better than the last. Oops I Did It Again. Toxic. I'm a Slave For You. Me Against the Music. And all the while you were kicking Christina Aguilera's dirrrrty ass. (You know, I used to call her Christina Got-bad-haira, but at least she's got hair now.)

You were sexy and hot. You had a fan base that was starting to extend beyond junior high girls and pedophiles, and through your association with Madonna, you could have continued to build your gay audience. Don't you see it? You were poised for greatness. Let's face it. Madonna isn't going to be around forever, and YOU could have been the one to take her place.

And you're blowing it. You have been given a great and powerful gift, and you're fucking it up.

You're having a full-on Michael Jackson meltdown, and if you keep hanging out with Lindsey Lohan and Paris Hilton and showing your snatch in the backseat of limos, you'll lose every bit of credibility you worked so hard for. And don't think it can't happen. Michael Jackson used to be the King of Pop, and look at him now. It's heart-breaking, isn't it? He couldn't sell a record now if he wanted to. Don't let that happen to you.

Every pop princess has a history of poor decisions. Mariah Carey and Glitter. Janet Jackson and a wardrobe malfunction. Some decisions can be quickly forgotten, but others simply won't be ignored. You still have time to get off this runaway train of self-destruction, and become the powerful pop diva you were born to be.

So here's what you need to do. First, put some pretty panties on. Then, get Madge on the phone. Apologize for whatever it is that you did that made her not your best friend anymore. Even if you didn't do anything, apologize. She's a reasonable woman and she'll hear you out.

Ask -- no, don't ask -- BEG for her help in turning your burning carnage of a life around and get your bald ass on the first plane for England. The next step seems like it should go without saying, but given your behavior lately, I'll say it - don't forget to pack the kids. I think Sean Preston and the other one (I can't remember his name and you probably can't either) will get along famously with Lola, Rocco and the adopted one.

And while the kids are playing together, you and Madonna can get caught up, do some yoga, talk about life as divorcee (she's been there a time or two), detox, let your hair grow back, and you can take advice from the one who first made it okay to royally fuck up, get some really bad press and still not alienate her fans.

If you do this right, you can look back in five years and see this period as just a big bump in the road. You'll have the respect of your friends (remember, Paris Hilton is not your friend), your family, and your fans -- and most importantly, you'll have the respect of your children.

You are somebody, and you are somebody's mama. It's time you started acting like it.

Sincerely,
Skipper

Show & Tail

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Preserving the Past

So what does one do on a snow day? Well, besides watch Martha and eat grilled cheese sandwiches. One of the more productive things I found to do in the late afternoon was to scan pictures.

Think about it. Back before there were digital cameras, we actually had to take snapshots, and then take the rolls of film to the nearest drug store, wait almost a week for them to be developed, and then we stuck them in a photo album to drag out whenever we had guests. Or how about your third-grade class photo, the one where you were missing a front tooth and there was a gap in your bangs where you had tried to cut your hair yourself? Or your mom and dad's wedding picture?

Now we have boxes and envelopes and albums full of family photographs, and those hardly ever see the light of day now, because we're all enamored with the prospect of digital immediate gratification.

I have a box of photos going back to high school, and I also inherited a couple of the family photo albums a few years ago. The kind of albums where black-and-white photos are stuck to heavy black paper with photo corners. And it's scary that those photos, beside memories or the memories of relatives who were there, are the only proof those days even existed. If something happened to those pictures, they're gone forever.

So I spent the afternoon, scanning photographs if no other reason than to preserve them (assuming my computer doesn't crash again). And a quite of few of those photos deserve posts of their own.

So here you go. Skipper: The Early Years.

That's me in the sailor hat. And I wonder where my uniform fetish comes from.

Snow Day

The snow day should have been yesterday. The forecast Wednesday night was for a wintry mix, which meant that Mother Nature was just going to take all the precipitation she had at her disposal, and hurl it in the general direction of Memphis, Tennessee.

And I was just as tickled as June Cleaver with a bucketful of buttholes (no, I don't know what that means, but it's a phrase that makes me smile) when I heard the "tick-tick-tick" of frozen rain and sleet hitting the roof Wednesday night, and I just knew there would indeed be a snow day on Thursday.

In fact, Hotass even made the customary run to the grocery store to pick up snow day staples - milk and bread. I'm not sure if this is a phenomenon in other parts of the country, but here in the South, at the very whisper of the word "snow," there is a mad dash to the nearest Kroger or Schnuck's to wipe them out of every gallon of milk and every loaf of bread they have in stock. We never have snow last more than a couple of days tops, but if there ever is a blizzard, can they really fend off starvation with just milk and bread? At any rate, Hotass and I were prepared for French toast.

When I woke up yesterday morning, I didn't even have to look outside to be disappointed. I could hear traffic on Park Avenue, and it was moving way too fast for there to be any amount of moisture on the streets. I pulled back the curtains and cursed.

Nothing. Not a flake. Not an icicle. Not even a coating of frost on the car windshield.

I kept vigil near weather.com all day, which promised white stuff and ice throughout the day. But still nothing at noon. Nothing in the afternoon. Nothing in the early evening. But about eight last night, flakes began to fall. And the kid in me made snow angels in my heart.

Snow in Memphis is a lot like men - you never when it's going to come, how long it's going to last, or how many inches you're going to get. So after being disappointed one to many times, I went to bed without high expectations.

I woke up before seven, and I listened carefully for the traffic on Park. Silence. Silence in the way that only snow can create. No swish of cars through puddles and slush. Just the muffled sounds of Memphis under a blanket.

A few minutes later, Hotass knocked on the door and told me that schools, the courts, and University of Memphis were closed for the day. I peeked through the curtains and I squealed.

And then I jumped out of bed.

I can't remember the last time I jumped out of bed before 8 a.m.

I fired off an e-mail to my staff and boss that the Memphis office would be closed today due to inclimate weather, and I had my coffee and French toast in my comfy chair.

Alas, today wasn't like the snow days of childhood. I had my work laptop and cell phone with me so I did manage to get a little bit of work done, but I still had The Today Show, Rachael Ray (honestly, I can't stand her), and Martha on in the background.

And, in true Memphis fashion, the snow melted by noon. But I had already forgiven Mother Nature for screwing me over the day before.

Happy Potter and the Sorcerer's Bone

I have to remind myself to tread lightly when talking about how attractive the young man at the left is. He is, after all, only 17, and he is the young man that the rest of the world knows as Harry Potter.

All of England is abuzz about Daniel Radcliffe's decision to pose nearly naked for the promotional photos for a London play, Equus. In the play, he plays a young stablehand with an erotic fixation on horses who is undergoing an psychiatric evaluation after he blinds six horses with a hoof pick. And, aside from the dramatic integrity of the work, Radcliffe shows off his wee-wee in a scene of full frontal nudity.

Parents are outraged, and believe that he should remain clothed since he is a role model as Harry Potter. Apparently, he should never be allowed to step off his Nimbus 2000, and should forever be the boy wizard. Even when he's in his forties.

He says in an interview that he wants to shake up the public's perception of him. "Just shove me in a blender," he says.

So should he have steered clear of the role until he finished the Harry Potter series for the sake of the little English ankle-biters? Heck naw. Not that I've been a fan of the Harry Potter movies lately, but his decision to explore the talent more deeply has piqued my interest in the movies. So I might actually make a return to the theatres to see the next Harry Potter movie.

Which comes out this July, 10 days before his 18th birthday. And then I'll make some vile and nasty comment.