Tag Archives: FAME KILLS

Mood: Stars Rise Over Celebrity Demise Under Sunset c/o Plastic Jesus

Plastic Jesus is a Los Angeles based street artist that specializes in bold stencil and installation work, inspired by world news events, society, the urban environment, culture and politics. His work combines humour, irony, criticism and an unique opinion to create art that engages on many levels.

Stop making stupid people famous

mood: stars rise over celebrity demise under sunset c/o Plastic Jesus… #andthisisthefame

ring: fame stops making stupid people #famous


PJ+STOP+ROAD+MARKINGS+DAY-200 Trayvon Martin inspired Street art appears in LA. Horse meat  inspired street art hits North London. "No more Heroes" PJ+Robo+Love-5 PJ+nevermind-2 Graffiti is a crime. PJ+streetart-40+copy

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FAME KILLS: The Bette Parker Story

Trigger happy paparazzo surrounded me.

They think I’m insane. They think I’m ugly. They think I’m beautiful. I step into traffic with racing cars speeding by; even the cars slow down because I am that important. Flash, flash. This is lush, and I can see the man that loves me front and center taking the photographs more thoughtfully than all of the others, and suddenly this is no longer just an exchange between the celebrity and the paparazzi. This is Da Vinci crafting Mona Lisa. I must pose and back up a little, so he can see all of me. This portrait shan’t go unfinished. He photographs me warmly. How he photographs me, I know its love. One paparazzo screams, “Miss Bette, Miss Bette Parker, you’re going to get hit by a car. Please, get out of the street!” Another paparazzo screams back, “Let her get hit, man.” Click, flash, click, flash. How sweet, they want me to be Marilyn Monroe, Princess Diana, Michael Jackson. No PR agent could book this kind of love.

Destiny was a friend of mine that followed me around since I was just a little girl. I used to think destiny was a benevolent pal of mine, but I think she was always secretly jealous. She always had to tag along and give me what I want, but she wanted what I had, so she would soil all of my kismet moments that she gave me. Destiny resented that her one purpose was to ensure that my life unfolded in the most magical way possible. Destiny didn’t want to introduce me to Hollywood, she had to introduce me to Hollywood, and that bitch did everything she could do to make sure that Hollywood ate me alive.


Scene 1: All of these girls are ugly, and desperate. You can smell it on them. The sun glimpses through the windows and they’re all memorizing their lines, and some are even wearing wigs to ensure that they look as believable as the character they’re gunning for. The director comes out, “Ms. Better Parker? You’re up first.” I better not blow it, I thought. I walk in his office with the script. I observe his warm eyebrows and strong fingers observing me from over his desk. My pussy begins to drip wet. Even my pussy knows I want to be a star. I put down the script, I heighten my skirt, I direct his hands to feel how bad me and my pussy want to see our names in light, and then in order to not blow it, I blow it. I blow him and I get the part of a lifetime. No wig necessary.

Scene 2: Red carpets are fun, and I love wearing Italian and French things that cascade down my back and thighs that will ensure to get me talked about tomorrow morning as long as that Sir Mercury boy doesn’t try to steal the show with his alleged performance art. Strategic nudity is a type of performance art too, isn’t it? I step outside of the black limousine on to the velvet blood that ran down the floor before me and the cameras begin to rejoice. “Miss Parker, is it true you’re dating Sir Mercury?” No, Sir Mercury is a fag. “Miss Parker, do you think you’ll take home the gold tonight?” Probably not, I didn’t blow anybody on the academy yet. “Bette Parker, what’s next?” I answer, “What’s next is not a question for the celebrity or artist to answer, dear. That’s a question for the beautiful public to decide. I am just glad to be now.” I love answering questions. I decide who I want to channel, and they eat it up. I sound like I am reading off of an script, and they call it old Hollywood. I didn’t take home the award, but I was talked about the next morning for my barely there leather couture creation from Italy. All’s fair in love and fame.

Scene 3: She’s going to ask me the most personal questions, and my publicist tells me to just answer because this is a landmark interview. I’m stuffed inside of a pencil skirt, with a sweater tucked in, with a high bun, a big gold watch for a touch of masculinity. The men to need to want to fuck me and the women need to want to, well, fuck me too. Nobody can second guess my desirability, but I must look like a viable option, not a threat. I must be likeable. This time, I must stay in character.

“Bette Parker, you have the world. How amazing is it being you?”
“Well, I must say, I feel like I deserve it.”
“You feel like you deserve it?”
“Well, yes.”
The audience doesn’t desire me, they envy me. I messed up.
“That sounds a bit entitled.”
“Yes, entitled.”




Scene 4: My career is over.

Scene 5: Everyone has their favorite drugs for different reasons, but I love weed with some cocaine sprinkled on top. It softens up my imagination and helps me be able to mold back into the superstar I once was, if only in my mind. The beautiful thing about rock bottom is that it helps you discover what really feeds you because that’s the first thing you reach for. Some reach for food, or security, I reached for the fame. I called the paparazzi every evening and told them where I’d be and I’d wear things that only an alien whore would find appropriate, and I found love for a few moments every evening. One photog in particular reminded me of that fateful day in the casting director’s office that the bitch, Destiny, set up for me. His fingers were strong, his eyebrows were warm, and my pussy still salivated by the idea of the chance of stardom.

Scene 6: He swam inside of me over satin covers and his dick was a camera that was interested only in the “authentic”, “real” me like a Mario Testino portrait. Half of me thought I was sleeping with the devil. The other half knew that I was sleeping with the man that gave me this fame I’ve always hoped for. I was disgusted. I was enthralled, and he was having an orgasm, and recording.

He says, “You fuck me like you’re on stage.”

“I am. It’s funny, when I first came to Hollywood, I was a twit thirsty for attention, and I got that attention by any means necessary.” He recorded me with eyes and I could tell I wasn’t have a conversation, I was recording for my documentary special. Maybe, a feature film release or maybe something intimate like a HBO special.
“But, maintaining the attention, then losing the attention and then fighting for the attention made me an artist. It turned me into a real performance artist of the new millennium. You know, being deliciously private in public because all you do, even what you do privately, is somehow designed to feed your adoring public. Oh, how I love the adoring public.”

Intermission: Barbra Streisand, Judy Garland, Better Parker. My mother wanted me to be a star, so she named me just like those Hollywood gals she grew up adoring. The night fell and my father didn’t see his little girl, I just know it, he saw one of those women in one of those glamorous films. He didn’t see missing teeth, pajamas, and immature eyes. He saw red lipstick, sequins, fur, and readiness. So, he whisked me away and took away my innocence and made a marquee out of me. I didn’t have any time to comprehend my new found stardom because that was the morning Princess Diana died and I couldn’t risk my tears smothering the flame of the torch that was obviously being passed down to me.




Scene 7: They found my home. I can hear the flashes from outside of my door, and I think if I were normal, I wouldn’t have heard it, but I’m the superhuman of reality. I’m a celebrity. So, I can hear my friends snapping and hustling in bushes. They love me so, even when the world rejects me. One is from Rolling Stone, I can tell by rhythm in his camera clicks. I invite him in.

“I’m from Rolling Stone.” I know. “I wanted to see if I can interview you for my piece. It’s a think-piece on you, I think you are one of the most important celebrities of our times, you know. I’d love for your perspective to be shared in this.” Of course, you can interview me, I think.

I say, “No.” He pleads, I pretend to ponder. I say, “Yes.” He asks me questions. The lot of them are boring, except the last one.

“What’s something someone wouldn’t know about you?”

“I feel useless when I eat fruit. Cut me, I only bleed. Cut the fruit and they pour sweetness and vitamins. I think my chase for celebrity has been me trying to compete with fruit.”

“I think you’re sweet,” he said.

We fucked. I fell in love, he wrote a story. I became even more of a train wreck, he was established as even more of a genius, and secretly, we became lovers.


Scene 8: The cars zipped by. “Miss Bette Parker, you’re going to get hit by a car,” one paparazzo said. “Let her get hit, man,” my man, my lover, my fruit said.

One car with headlights almost as bright as me made a legend out of me. It only took fifteen minutes for me to escape my famous fleshy body. I would never shop at Forever21, but as my heart beat slowed, I became ecstatic to be merchandised in Forever27 next to Amy Winehouse t-shirts and River Phoenix mugs.

It was grand, even the fall, in retrospect. I was the superstar, a crashing light that everyone marvels and envies, and all superstars know that one day it will one day fall like everyone else. It’s an existential brand of excellence that goes great with lobster and champagne, and I got to dine with this spectacular brand of ridiculousness that is stardom, even if just for a brief moment.

Lyrically Speaking: Ms. Lauryn Hill – Neurotic Society (Compulsory Mix)


Neurotic Society

We’re living in a joke timemetaphorical coke time
Commerce and guru men, run the whole world man
Broke world and debaucheryold world brutality
Cold world kills softly
Whole world works savagely
Greedy men and pride fiends program TV screens
Quick-scam and drag queens
Real life blast fiends
Think twice this past dream

Crime if you ask clean
Quick, fast: poison has entered the bloodstream
Psychological massacreconsequence is a tragedy
Mythological characters, men and women as parody

Superficial vanity, borderline insanity
Out of order humanitycrime committed so passively
Desperados and causalitiescorporations want batteries:
explanations and strategiesdomination and mastery

[] bankrupt, grown people so corrupt
Light swords and yellow menjunkies and popularity
Culture oh so independent, vultures scavage reality
Past feeling depravity, decaying social cavity
Preying on human ignorancepopular immorality

Sympathy disease head
Population misled
Self-indulgent, past dead
Absence of the God head
Pimps, pushers and harlotry
Nepotism, no artistry
Despotism and piracy
Desperation, dishonesty

Physicists issue policy
No money, less equality
Inflated global ego imitating reality
Fuel cycle pharaoh, poisonous frozen arrows
Hypocritics on salary; idle hands: Devil’s agency
Predisposed to complacency
Jealousy and audacitycontagious social gluttony

Stages of mass malignityeffort to make deception
Generation and atrophyglam life and deathscam life and editors
By-product of neglect childrenhiding from predators
Absence of self-respect, phony, scared of competitors
Lifestyle of luxury at someone’s expense
Sensitive children, used up as sacrifice
Blind to the consequencesmoked up in dope pipes
Ecstasy fast liferecklessly past life
Narcotics and cash fights

Neurotic Society
Benefactors turned actorsaddictions, triple captors
Experience manufacture
in this neurotic toxic society

It’s like post-war;
they’re looking for the Communists, and who the Marxists is
Ten thousand pictures on Facebook; it’s like the pot calling the kettle “narcissist”
C’mon, really? Saying “The Devil,” but you’re the chief arsonist
Hypocrites can’t even see their own part in this
No reflectionvampire paradigm
No introspection
This star, that star…” “rants, “has a breakdown
Three months before pure obsession picture can’t take down
Children: it’s a shakedown; they’re just looking for a sacrifice
They’ve been doing this since before Bobby Darin sang “Mack the Knife
Before James Dean’s car did a jackknife
Perhaps it’s because they lack life, lack guts; never confused the head with the butt

“Opinions are like assholes, and most of them stink,”
I was told by a woman, so rethink; don’t ever let them:
lead you to drinklead you to doubtlead you to fall
Get up, stand upcast Lucifer out
Shake it up, baby;” watch them twist it and shout
Insecure assholes looking for a ticket, someone to ride like the Pickett
It’s fcukin’ wicked, shame on ‘em
In this neurotic toxic society

Sick cycle psychology, in desperate need of psychiatry
Exorcism, sobriety, forcing social lobotomy
People stuck in dichotomies, pseudo sicko anxiety
Serial criminals, dressed in Variety
Social transvetism, subliminal dressed up as piety
Transference, projections like Cartesian images
Robbing innocencestealing inheritance
Quiet victims with no defensebetrayed over dollars and cents
Maladjusted and ignorantmalediction and dissonance
Too much addiction, no consciousness
Don’t you trust itthis cosmology’s busted

Broken returns to the dusted
Corruption, deceit, abuse and repeat
They don’t feel complete unless they’re robbing the sheep
Man is not a product: if you call him that – then stop it

In this neurotic godless society

– Ms. Lauryn Hill