Fifty chilly degrees outside, but I’m not in any hurry to get the furnace going. Never mind the A/C was blasting not two weeks ago; as Dexter said in yesterday’s comments, sometimes it’s good just to be a little chilled. I had a roommate once who’d gone through a bout of anorexia, and was still quite thin, and she was cold in all but the hottest weather. Which, for some reason, made my mind go skip-skip-skip and land on Michaele Salahi.
You remember the Salahis — the vulgar social climbers of Washington D.C., who somehow managed to slip the security ring at the White House, enter a state dinner and get to handshake distance with the president. She was a Real Housewife, he was a “vineyard owner” or some such, and both were grifters, basically. The WashPost gossip columnists beat them like a drum for a while, pointing out their trail of unpaid bills and lawsuits, her sketchy resume and his likewise, but it never seemed to faze either of them, and they kept showing up at parties and getting in. Someone kept letting them check into ritzy hotels, ride in limousines and otherwise live the life. I should be so shameless.
This week — and I hope you’re sitting down for this shocking turn of events — they split up, and the way Michaele fitted her husband Tareq in cuckold’s horns was about as bad as it gets. She left him for Neal Schon. Who’s Neal Schon, you ask? Why, he’s the guitarist for Journey. Tareq was further humiliated by his actions when he noticed his wife missing. He called the cops and claimed she’d been abducted, because she left her things behind.
Tareq, hasn’t life with Michaele taught you anything? You leave it all behind when you have to, because there’s always someone with a fresh credit card waiting around the corner. In this case, a “rock icon” (TMZ’s description, not mine), whom Michaele joined on the road in Memphis, where Journey was playing a show with Foreigner.
Just let that soak in for a minute. A pair of high-profile publicity hounds, riven by the fleshly sword of a power-pop arena-band guitarist, now touring with another power-pop arena band. Imagine the crowd at those shows, rising from their $200 front-row seats to shake their Docker’d behinds to “Hot Blooded” and, of course, “Don’t Stop Believin’.” We are in hell, aren’t we?
You had to know things were rough for the Salahis. Why, just this year Michaele was accepted by, and then booted from, VH-1’s “Celebrity Rehab” show, on the grounds she’s not addicted to anything. But they knew that going in! Tareq protested. Michaele wanted to be treated — in a reality-show setting, of course — for her multiple sclerosis, which has been aggravated by the couple’s “ordeal” with the White House.
I have to pause for a minute and just say: I really enjoy wallowing in a good gossip sheet from time to time. Not necessarily the snark blogs — too meta — but the ones like TMZ and the Daily Mail. So retro! There are sources, and there are “close to” sources, but the ones they’re relying on to dish the Salahi dirt are described as “extremely close” to Michaele, which I’m taking to mean it’s Michaele herself. Any woman who wants MS treatment on cable TV would have no problem informing on herself to Harvey Levin. Who else could share the exact wording of this text message, from the icon to the blonde herself: “xxxoooxxxoo Kiss, lick, and a nice stiff one 4 ya lol Neal.”
(May I just say one thing? Any man who sent me anything that lame had better watch his ass. And people? I don’t do LOL. Nor “ya.”)
And I’m sorry I’m so lame this morning. This is the first five-day week of school, and my new name is Erasmus B. Draggin. One-third of the household is sick, and I fear it might come for me next. So, regular hand-washing, no kisses for anyone and maybe a pot of soup this weekend. I’m thinking Minestrone, but if you have any ideas, you know where to leave ’em.