Green Onions

Let it be known on this 30th day of May, with tidings of joy but mostly utter shame, that I am in fact, a reality tv show JUNKIE. Rock Of Love is my crack and Daisy you are one crazy ass loon. Bret Michaels, even though your show makes me want to take a shot of penicillin and a hot shower, why must you play with my emotions? See what I mean? I love me some crap TV. Remember when the Real World was totally awesome good stuff when it first came on a million years ago? Now there's a reality show on every 5 minutes and most of them are BAD NEWS BEARS. But not in the "aww shucks, well at they tried their best. What a bunch of little rascals!" kind of way.

Enter Celebracadabra, a wonderfully putrid show I just discovered, chock full of "celebrities" who you haven't seen on TV since choosy moms chose Jif. Guess who's on Celebracadabra? C. Thomas Howell- no relation to Thurston. I'm talking PONYBOY, bitches. A jog down memory lane, if you will:

Ponyboy then:



And while we're not even talking about The Outsiders, what makes me stabby about that movie is that even though it was about a bunch of young greasers, the cast looked more like they were supposed to filming the Karate Kid. I hate when costumers and hair stylists get it all wrong. HAPPY DAYS, I'm talking to you too. Tight bell bottom jeans in the 50's? Sigh. Fonzie, I thought better of you. You can go SIT ON IT sir, and take Leather Tuscadero's feathered Joan Jett hair with you.

Ponyboy now:



Hmm. I'm not sure how I feel about this. While C. Thomas Howell has aged ok-ishly, he looks like a creepy Mormon dad with 12 children whose names all start with the letter "B". No offense to Mormons. Or even the creepy ones for that matter. And on top it, he's really kind of a weenie on the show and not at all ponyboy-ish, which is the slap into reality that reality stars are real people too and how many more times can I say "real" in a sentence?

Ponyboy, I spill out my Colt 45 for you homie, and may your aging, creepy ass not keep me up at night any longer. Stay (sweatin' to the) Golden (oldies).

PS. Give Matt Dillon my number.