Valentine’s weekend. Thoughts of moon. And June. Also cash. The four-letter word rarely considered anymore is love.
In Hollywood, a second anniversary already considers you an old married couple. Here’s today’s passion movie star-style:
They meet. Maybe in a bar, over the Internet, walking a cat, maybe they’re leftovers from someone else’s two marriages ago. Accustomed to three-minute takes, they’re into heavy-duty romance in an hour.
They date. Attend events together but, so paparazzi drool, it’s arrive and depart separately. Their late-night action is for sure not separately. Soon they cootchy-coo publicly. Travel together. Their p.r. gnomes exchange phone numbers. Cuddly photos hit refined publications like “Up Yours” or “In Hers.”
Comes an argument. A breakup. Magazine stories. She’s with someone else. He’s with whoever’s, pardon the expression, handy. Following their idols Rihanna and Chris whatshisname, they’re back together. Closer than Obama and a teleprompter. It’s move-in-together time. Proposal. Bridal shower. Engagement. Jeweler who for publicity gives discounts. A ring. An announcement. A double-page news spread.
And baby makes three. Everyone outside a nursing home parades a baby. Can’t make one — buy one. If that helps nail a TV sit-down, they get another baby. Can’t buy one — rent one. Give it an interesting name like Grilch or Juicenberry.
Next, a dog. Dog-walking makes picture-esque Sunday weekend sections. Chihuahuas look neat in a tight head shot.
To appear socially conscious and philanthropic — even if your housekeeper’s an alien, you cheat on taxes and haven’t spoken to your mother in six years — one must glom onto a charity. Like weddingless educationless fatherless moneyless jobless husbandless pregnant females who have four other children. Always good for a line in a gossip column.
The publicity’s working, but the career’s not. The dude’s getting turned down even for walk-ons in Schwarzenegger movies. Your relationship’s going south. Viagra may turn him on, but you won’t. Besides, he wants you to perform other four-letter words. Like cook. Dust.
Stories leak about the breakup. In-laws speak out. Friends talk to the morning television anchors. Then you begin dating even Britney’s rejects. Comes the divvying up. Who gets custody of the scrapbooks? Next the trying together again. Then fights. Lawyers. Divorces.
Hey, an ex-beau named Bert dumped Kelly Osbourne on Valentine’s Day. On the phone, yet.
Important. Married ladies must learn the cardinal rule. Forget checking the husband’s secretary’s neckline. Gents have now segued from a steno pad to an iPad. Today’s twinky is the yoga instructor. Everybody’s graduated from personal trainers to yoga instructors. Alec Baldwin’s newest wife? Yoga instructor. Socialite Henry Silverman’s newest wife? Yoga instructor.
See, wives can’t intrude while gents are getting their yogas yogied. Should a Mrs. hear him murmur, “More . . . more . . .” the session can’t be disturbed. What’s happening on those mats, don’t ask. They’re soul mates. Basically, we’re talking communing, cleansing, purifying. It’s meditation, spirituality, closeness.
Birds do it, bees do it, he’s and he’s and she’s and she’s do it, but, kiddies, do you know who Saint Valentine was? Mother will tell you. When Christianity became Rome’s official religion, the church marked the festivity with February 14’s martyrdom of Saint Valentine. Priest Valentine wed lovers secretly when Emperor Claudius II ordered men not to marry so they’d stay free for his battlefield.
Imprisoned, awaiting execution, he signed farewell messages, “From your Valentine.”
Anyway, today everybody memorializes the old saint with flowers and chocolates.
Henry Winkler: “I’ve never licked chocolate off a naked woman’s body, but I’m certainly open to the suggestion.”
Alicia Silverstone: “European chocolates are better than sex.” This at least I can understand.
A cheaper gift is just a smooch:
Jessica Alba’s first kiss was age 10. So he’d pick her for his baseball team.
Helena Bonham Carter: “Woody Allen’s kissing is awful. Upfront he says no exchange of liquid permitted. No tongue encounter. He makes no effort at all. His mouth is a no-go area. Like what it must’ve been to kiss the Berlin Wall.”
Carmen Electra’s lovey name for Dennis Rodman was “Choo-Choo.” Who knows why? Maybe it’s to do with a nice ride, a well-oiled engine or a great caboose. Anyway, they’re no longer Mr. & Mrs.
Pamela Anderson called Tommy Lee “T-Bone Steak.” Why? I don’t even want to go there. Figures she doesn’t either. That marriage also over.
A Christian Slater quote: “Lots of women called me ‘Thumper.’ I don’t know why.” Yeah, right.
Hugh Dancy’s first love? “I was 6. I rose from my little chair and told my teacher I loved her.” And she said? “Thank you, sit down.”
Happy Valentine’s weekend.