By Brian Sack
Recently I was at a relative’s eightieth birthday party, seated with family of some sort whose names and relationship to me I was somewhat unsure of. We were eating our dinners and chatting when I realized I was talking to someone I think was a cousin about The Wiggles. For those not in the know, The Wiggles is comprised of four men, each with their own trademark color (red, blue, yellow, and pur-ple) and their own signature hobby (music, eating, magic, and sleeping, respectively). They sing songs with titles like “Fruit Salad” and lyrics like “gulp, gulp, drink some water.” They make silly gestures and faces when they sing, and they ham up the acting to early William Shatner levels—back in the days when he amused us so often by taking himself far too seriously.
When you watch The Wiggles, you’re inclined to laugh at them until you come to understand that children worldwide absolutely adore them to the tune of somewhere around $40 million a year. Then you realize that these four prancing, jiggly men are making more money than you thought humanly possible, and their work requirement? Being goofy. What had started as mockery turns into envy. Possibly hatred. You fantasize that they have deep, dark secrets to offset the seeming unfairness of it all.
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By Sam MacDonald
When my wife and I moved to Pittsburgh with three-week-old twin boys in 2005, we (meaning I) quickly decided that the Steel City was a land of no-nonsense, blue-collar Super Parents. This was a welcome relief from the frou-frou nancy-pants parents we knew in Washington, DC, who spent more on organic bubble-bath than we did on rent. Sure, most of the steel mills have disappeared from Pittsburgh, and the leading employers are now universities, banks and hospitals. But what does reality have to do with parenting?
A quick drive through some of Pittsburgh’s better neighborhoods confirmed my suspicions. “Look at that yard over there,” I said to my wife. “You see that? I bet that’s the tenth one I’ve seen today.”
“What?”
“That kid,” I said. “That kid is mowing his own grass.”
“So?” she said.
“So? Are you kidding me? This is one of the richest neighborhoods in the city. The Scaifes live here. The Mellons. Old money. REAL MONEY. And these people put their kids to work. Screw French Camp. To hell with summering on the Riviera. Trim the hedge, Junior! That’s Pittsburgh, baby! That’s Pittsburgh!”
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By Juliet Eastland
Oh, Britney. While recent family and medical interventions bode well for her mental health, it’s her Shakespearean self-destructive spiral that has dominated the press in recent years. As a longtime reader of Star magazine (there, I’ve said it), I should be lapping up the debacle, right? The marriages, the divorces, the 3 a.m. Rite-Aid shopping sprees, the shady consorts, the car accidents, the psych-ward visits, the lost custody of her kids, the… the…
But I have to say, the extended coverage has made me nothing but sad. Expose Kirstie Alley’s cellulite, tally up Lindsay’s post-rehab drinks, pepper us with crotch shots, but please, please, Star, no more pseudo-empathetic gloating about the Bad Mom! It’s every mom’s nightmare moniker, and it just hits too close to home.
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