The Greatest Blog In the World

Friday, May 09, 2003


It Was Either This or a Treatise on Hollywood Blvd. Stripper Shoe Emporiums

When you're up this late at night, and you don't find yourself wrapped around the business end of an exotic dancer who wants to give you a free table dance because you've got a cute smile and you were willing to shell out for the entire B-side of Appetite for Destruction, it's just you and the Girls Gone Wild commercials. In case you've fallen woefully behind in your GGW collection, They promise that they've gotten progressively wilder with each installment (although at this point, what's left besides topless riot footage?), so now Snoop Dogg's gotten behind the camera to exercise his considerable pimpin' skills to cajole the er, wild co-eds in his path into doffing their halter tops and exposing their undergrad (possibly JuCo) goodies in exchange for their signature on a release form and a drag on his finest blunt. Of course, there is the faceless, ephemeral-yet-eternal flashing-your-headlights-with-your-tank-top-obscuring-your-face moment of truth, where ones's nipples are immortalized by the miracle handheld digital video recorder work of a hip-hop impresario.

Digital video. That just isn't sexy. DV is family vacations to Branson or the Grand Canyon or a Chuck E. Cheese birthday party with a depressed, moonlighting accountant invisibly frowning through a encephalitic mouse head. It's not Old Hollywood Glory. Your flashed assets don't even get to live forever on film anymore. It makes me long for the days of grainy 8mm, when a GGW video moment involved the complicated disassembly of a well-engineered foundation garment, or if the old crank cameras hit the beach in the hands of a dreamboat swinger like Frankie Avalon, an awkward jig to release the girls from a modest one-piece, perhaps catching a bracelet in a bathing cap. A pause for mystery. There was effort involved. Frankie (possibly with Annette in tow) really earned those booby shots and maybe even a little extracurricular beach blanket bingo. And no release forms to dilute the moment. Just sand in naughty places and the surf's up and hey, why don't you just lift up your top for a quick second, don't worry, this camera's not on.

About this site

This is the internet home of Mark Lisanti, a Los Angeles writer sometimes known as Bunsen. He is the founding editor of Defamer, a weblog about Hollywood, where he now serves in the nebulous capacity of "editor-at-large."
If You Like Bunsen, Then You'll Love Bunsen