Tag Archives: Rachel Bilson

What’s in the celebrity box? Ooh, lemme guess, lemme guess.

A box arrived by mistake at our house yesterday. The address on the label was correct, but the mailman delivered it to the wrong place, that’s all. 

Anyway, en route to the store mid-afternoon I decided to drop it off to its rightful owner. Didn’t know who that was, mind you, because the intended recipient was strange:  the name of a Beatles tune, followed by three initials. Odd, right?

Turns out that the address was movie-star Rachel Bilson’s house! You know her – the future Mrs Hayden Christensen. Or maybe she’s already married him, I have no clue. Now, I’d better not give you the name of the tune, in case it means something really important and I have to show at least some neighborly allegiance, but the initials in brackets were hers, I now realize.

First, I rang the bell on the gate. There was a car parked in the garage, so I knew someone was in. However, nobody answered. So then I walked around to the side gate, tried that and….oh my lordy, it was open! Friends of ours used to own this house, so I’d been through here many times. I walked in, went up to the front door and paused. Should I knock? What if I did and Rachel herself answered the door – what then? She’d look at me and say, “Who the hell are you?” and I’d look at her and say, “Why the hell was I nervous about knocking? I have no idea who you are or what you’ve done.”

In the end, though, that never happened. Assuming whoever was in there didn’t want to speak to callers, I dropped the box on the step and left.  

And what was in the box? I can’t tell you, obviously. It was very light, had the outline of a sneaker on the side, and was about the size of a woman’s shoe, without actually containing a shoe. So now you know.

 

http://www.cashpeters.com

Cash’s New book: Naked in Dangerous Places. Watch video below.

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Is it wrong to steal a celebrity’s fruit?

I ask, only because our prestigious (I’m told) and extremely popular (I’m guessing) actress neighbor Rachel Bilson has an ornamental Japanese fruit tree in her front yard that overhangs the sidewalk.

Every April, the tree is a prodigious producer of yellowy, rubbery fruit called loquats, most of which drop to the ground, turn bad, and get squished. So, as a public service to keep the street clean, when my partner and I go for our evening stroll, he will usually reach up, pick a couple, and eat them – while I walk ahead in a jaunty manner, whistling, and trying to pretend nothing illicit is going on behind me, just as I do when he decides he needs to pee urgently and rushes off into someone’s garden.

Anyway, in the event of a court-case, let it be known that I neither approve of stealing, nor participate in it. Not for reasons of conscience, but because I happen not to like loquats.

Still, the qesstion remains: is my partner really committing a felony here?

My lawyer would say no. And if he didn’t say no, I’d fire him and get another. Here’s why.

Being in movies, Bilson – who is marrying Hayden Christensen, for reasons not obvious to the rest of us – struts the public stage. In that sense she is the property of us, her adoring (and in one particular case slightly puzzled as to who she is or what she’s done) fans.

Now extend that idea. If she’s going to let fruit hang down outside her home into a public area, doesn’t that kinda make that fruit ours in the same way?

My replacement lawyer, if he knows what’s good for him, would say yes.

Sidebar. Our friends used to own Bilson’s house. They, in turn, bought it from Noah Wylie, the E.R. actor. According to them, he left the place a real mess. For instance, when he had the kitchen installed, apparently, he didn’t buy regular units like the rest of us would do. Instead – again, according to our friends; this is just a passed-along rumor snippet – he had NBC set-builders come in and construct a kitchen set in his house, one that was so badly done that it had to be ripped out in its entirety and replaced with a real, workable kitchen our friends could actually use. 

And before you go rushing off and telling this to people, I am immediately distancing myself from the information. I can’t confirm that it was a TV kitchen set, or that Wylie was the one who installed it. Maybe the owners before him were amateur set-builders and they did it. But I certainly saw the room before our friends did the ripping, and it was pretty crummy. 

Anyway, my point is, the loquat tree used to belong to Noah Wylie, then to our friends, and that’s when we started taking fruit off it. So, in a sense, we’re really just carrying on that same sacred tradition with La Bilson, right? I mean, every tradition has to start somewhere.

At the very least, R.B. should consider this a pay-off for the massive weirdness and inconvenience she’s causing by being popular. 

I say this because in recent weeks the paparazzi have resurfaced in the street. Damn, it’s so annoying. Creepy little weaselly foreign-looking men in unmarked cars hog the curb for hours and hours and hours on end each day, waiting for her to emerge, hoping they can grab a couple of snaps of her walking, or staring up at her loquat tree, wondering where all the fruit’s gone, and sell them to TMZ and Entertainment Tonight

Walking by yesterday, I could tell she wasn’t even there. Her truck had gone, the place was empty. Yet still they sat and waited and watched. It’s very unnerving.

I wanted to go up to them and yell, “Get a life!” Or at least take a photo of them for a change and post it on here for you; teach them a lesson. But I thought they might see me and beat the crap out of me. These little thugs are like a sissy mafia; they’re very temperamental. 

Worse still, we have to make sure they’re not out there with their cameras when we pass the loquat tree. To take fruit under cover of darkness is one thing. To have it appear on the front page of The Enquirer next week is another.     

Oh, the shame.

 

TV Swami – he say YES to fruit theft.

www.cashpeters.com.

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The Ayn Rand Traffic Experiment, Part 1

Someone on Facebook recently told me that the greatest number of hits they’d ever had on their blog was the day they mentioned everybody’s favorite mother of Objectivism, Ayn Rand.

“Oh really?” I said. “Ayn Rand, eh?”

You’ve heard of Ayn Rand. Russian woman. Screenwriter and novelist. Wrote Atlas Shrugged and The Fountainhead. Smoked too much and contracted lung cancer – natch. Got famous by opposing fascism and all absolute forms of rule. In which case, in all fairness, I should be just as famous as she is, because I oppose them too. Alas, I’m not, so it doesn’t work for everyone clearly. 

Anyway, although she died in the early 80s, Ayn’s books continue to sell by the hundreds of thousands – Atlas Shrugged was 1,100 pages long, and therefore makes a handy step up when you’re trying to reach a high shelf; which accounts for at least 80% of sales –  so clearly she’s a popular blog search. Therefore, in the spirit of our quest to draw traffic to TV Swami by hook or by crook, and in particular by mentioning famous people more or less at random – celebrity nobodies Hayden Christensen and Rachel Bilson come to mind – I am throwing Ayn Rand into the mix today, to see how many grazing readers will inexplicably find themselves outfoxed and caught up in this net of intrigue.

A-ha!!

Result tomorrow.

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Everyday life in Celebrity Central.

Oh boy, did we strike gold yesterday or what?

Each day a fair number of people stop by to see what the TV Swami is up to, which is nice. But yesterday, thanks to a clever combination of the tag word ‘spanking’ and the names Hayden Christensen and Rachel Bilson, which are like catnip to celebrity-snoopers, apparently, traffic skyrocketed in previously unimagined ways, and was still heading into the stratosphere when I went to bed.

Why is this? Why are we, the general public, even the remotest bit fascinated with a guy in a yellow Mercedes putting the roof of his car down? Truth is: we’re not. At least, not generally. But fame is a magnifying glass and, as boring as it would be if you or I did it, Lord Darth Vader attempting the exact-same thing makes it seem a thousand times more interesting.

Given that I live in a nice, leafy, high-end part of Los Angeles, it’ll come as no surprise to you that our area tends to be Celebrity Central. I often mention it on my BBC broadcast, much to the annoyance of half the audience. We see them all the time.

For instance, Rachel Bilson’s house used to be owned by Noah Wylie, the ER guy. David Hyde-Pierce from Frasier still has the house on the hill. Danny Bonaduce was a neighbor too, until his divorce. Now he’s gone and the stark prison-camp-like house is sold.

Meanwhile, Courtney Love is holed up along the street. Our neighbors claim she came trick or treating a couple of Halloweens ago (then again, they also swear Robert Downey Jnr arrived at their door one night asking for candy, then danced away up the street when he got some – so I’m beginning to think they’re nuts, quite honestly, and not to be trusted!)

Probably our most famous celebrity residents right now, though, are Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. According to several high-level sources (local gossips who can’t keep their mouths shut), they bought the house next door-but-one from David Hyde Pierce. It’s just a tiny fragment of their worldwide network of homes, so of course, if they do actually live there, we never see them, though I must say their Christmas lights last year were a feast of Hollywood self-indulgence. About twenty trees in the grounds and on the house itself, all lit up and visible from miles around. Stunning.  

Anyway, speaking of spotting people, which is the point of this post….

Yesterday, to celebrate the fevered Times-Square-like traffic of the blog, I had lunch at a local cafe. While I’m eating, in walks a black guy swathed in bandages. Poor thing, he’s obviously been in a horrendous accident, because his head’s wrapped up and he’s wearing a big foam neck brace.  Together with another guy, he sits at the table opposite, then – and here’s where things got strange – began chatting away as if he wasn’t hurt. Moving his head. Moving his neck. Getting up, sitting down. Extremely animated. Which was very suspicious, and led me to believe that he wasn’t injured at all and the bandages and neck brace were an affectation to get attention.

But then I realized – there’s a TV studio complex just behind the cafe. It’s where they film General Hospital and also Gray’s Anatomy. So obviously he was an extra on one of those shows. When he left the set, the continuity person must have told him, “Hey – you. You in the neck brace. Don’t take it off.”  He had to keep the pretend dressings on his pretend wounds, or they wouldn’t be able to match them later in the next shot. 

Or, just as likely, this being Hollywood, he kept them on to let people know he’s on TV. It’s so much more discreet than standing up and shouting,  “Everyone, look who’s just walked in – it’s ME. A total non-celebrity. That guy you wouldn’t notice otherwise, from that show you probably don’t watch anyway.”

Of course now I AM going to have to watch the wretched show to see if I can spot him. Hospital set. Guy in background on stretcher with head bandaged. Should be easy enough.  

TV Swami – he say YES to living a few doors down from Brad and Angelina.

www.cashpeters.com

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Attention! Celebrity Neighbor Alert.

Pssst. Listen up.

So last night I go for my usual evening walk. Around 9.30, after American Idol, to calm down and get my sanity and sense of perspective back. Anyway, I’m coming home again, mind wandering, mouth snacking its way on automatic through a bag of 65% reduced fat Kettle chips, when a car whizzes by and shudders to a stop some way off, just past Rachel Bilson’s house.

A yellow car.

A yellow two-seater Mercedes convertible car. With the roof down.   

And we all know who that belongs to, right?

Hayden Christensen!!! The Star Wars guy. Natch.

So immediately I do what anyone would do. I cross over the street to make sure I pass by as closely as I can. For research purposes.

It’s pretty dark at this point, therefore details are hard to come by. Also, I guess he’s on the look-out for paparazzi or reporters, being as he’s marrying Rachel Bilson ‘n’ all and those scuzzy press seem to care about the both of them way more than the rest of us do. All the same,  he sees me heading his way and hurriedly puts his roof up. One of those roofs that rich people keep in their trunk, and which unfolds at the press of a button, like an awning.  Or the weapons shield on an X-wing fighter, which I guess he’s more used to.

Now, bear in mind, he’s sort of parked in the middle of the street at this point, about twenty feet past his fiancees’s home. All very strange. And I’m walking towards him faster than the roof is closing.

Having sped up to beat the roof, I now slow down again for full effect, while pushing Kettle chips into my mouth in a remarkably casual way, like I’m waaaaaay too hungry right now to bother about celebrities sitting in the middle of the street in cars with the roof kind of open like an envelope flap. But then, suddenly – and here’s the thing – at the last second, when he thinks I haven’t seen him, I swivel my head and stare right into the vehicle. Bang boom bang. Just like that.

It’s like a scene from Star Wars, only without the drama, dark deeds, seductive dialogue, or rip-roaring green screen fights and special effects.

Quite obviously, he’s shocked by this turn of events. Maybe he was going to wait until I’d passed, then reverse into Bilson’s driveway. If so, he scotches that plan immediately and tears off down the road in a panic, disappearing from sight.

But wait! That’s not all.

When he turns at the end of the street, he turns right, not left. That’s a key sign. Left would take him towards the city. Right, on the other hand, takes him in a full circle around the block, bringing him back to where he started – Bilson’s house, only this time without all the hassle of passers-by walking along, eating Kettle chips, staring in his window and thinking, “Oooh, Hayden Christensen, you look so different when you’re not surrounded by droids.”

And that’s it. My exciting celebrity neighborhood exclusive for today.  There may have been more, but I had to rush into the house to pee. Made me think, though – what kind of life is that? Where you can’t even pull up at your fiancee’s house in the dark when there’s nobody around without fearing that that guy eating chips over there is secretly following you and about to pounce? I mean, come on. As it was, his instincts were right on and his fears totally justified. Still, that’s no way to go about things. That’s not freedom, it’s celebrity enslavement. I felt quite sorry for him, actually.

Of course, it might not have been Hayden Christensen at all. That’s possible. It might have been some guy in a yellow Mercedes convertible identical to Hayden Christensen’s who just happened to stop in the street outside Rachel Bilson’s home to put his roof up.

All the same, I am expecting competing bids from People magazine and US and Entertainment Weekly for rights to use this in their next issue.  And you know what I’ll say when they call? I’ll say, “No. This is for TV Swami. Please stop calling me.” And as I put the phone down I’ll be all cocky and puffed up with pride, followed by thoroughly despondent for the rest of the day when I realize how much money I’ve just lost by saying that.

I’m such an idiot sometimes.

TV Swami – he say NO to the pop media jackals.

 www.cashpeters.com

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Boy. Spanking. Bad.

One of the most fascinating aspects of doing this blog is being able to see what many of the people who come here type into their search engines in order to be directed to one of the posts.

The other day, I wrote about Chopping Block, the ghastly Marco Pierre White’s unfortunately-named-in-the-circumstances reality cooking show, being cancelled. The title of the piece was “Bad-Boy Chef Gets a Spanking.” 

Well, that blog above all others received huge attention, and continues to do so, not because of Marco Pierre White or the show or what I said about either, but because there are readers out there, sitting alone in their one-bedroom condo with nothing but their computer and the rest of the world to keep them company, who slavishly type a combo of “spanking” and “boy” and “bad” into Google, often with some other words that have me slightly perturbed, and as a result find themselves  on TV Swami.

There was “naked sexy young boys” (ugh!), “bad boy hard spanking”, “spanking hard tv”, “bad boys need spanking,” and many more variations. There were also, by convoluted means, a couple that related to other posts: “Portia di Rossi naked” and “Chris Evans’ naked body”. They too ended up here, and probably cursed the whole system of tagging as they did so, because quite clearly it doesn’t work.

It’s remarkable, though. And in the case of the first one, disturbing.

But in the same way that merely mentioning that Rachel Bilson, a woman I couldn’t identify if she came to my door and said, “Hi, I’m Rachel Bilson”, was my neighbor brought floods of people checking out what I had to say, dropping the word spanking in a commentary acted as a magnet to pervs globally.

So let me give a shout-out to all the committed spankers out there who were misled into visiting this blog today, under the impression that it was going to be about their favorite fetish. And let me also, while I’m at it, say sorry for doing so.

Oh, and grow up.

TV Swami – he say NO to spanking hard TV.

www.cashpeters.com

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No blog. Car wreck. Sorry.

Normally,  I sit here merrily drinking coffee, eating cake, carping about US TV shows, and loving it. This morning I can’t. 

Yesterday some freak totaled my car on the freeway. I walked away shaken and dazed but unhurt for the most part, which was lucky. It means, though, that I have to spend the morning attending to more boring matters.

If you’re new here, welcome. Sorry our relationship’s beginning on such a sour note. But hey, we’re adults, we’ll push past this. In the meantime, why not take a look at a few of the previous entries, written in more innocent times?

The blog will return Monday.  

Oh, and in the time-honored tradition of this page: Rachel Bilson, Hayden Christensen, Hugh Laurie, and American Idol.

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