International ambassador of the ancient Quebecois artform of chest-thump singing Celine Dion was nabbed by an unfeeling British tabloid press recently. Her crime: performing to a Tokyo crowd sporting a pair of unwaxed legs, giving her the aura of a power-ballad-belting kiwifruit when exposed to harsh backlighting. It's precisely this kind of music industry double-standard (Tom Jones had to insure his chest against depilatory acts of God) that really makes us appreciate all that goes into being a French Canadian diva, and resist our reflexive instinct to make greatest-hits-inspired jokes ("I Drove All Night (To Find An Open Drug Store Selling Venus Razors)," "(What Do You Say To) Taking Personal Grooming Chances," etc...) at the singer's expense.
While most Hollywood pretty boys would likely take out insurance against body hair if they could, furry Welsh rabbit Tom Jones has instead embraced his pelt, insuring it to the tune £3.5million ($6.8 million), reports The Sun. While it seems as though his shiny, healthy coat was in little danger, coming too close to an open flame could instantly send the money-making man-carpet up in flames, inevitably leading to plummeting ticket sales for the singer when horrified fans discover a nude torso peeking out from his open shirt like something out of their worst Hugh Grant nightmares. [The Sun]
Perhaps not unfairly, Gawker has developed something of a reputation for meanness, for going above and beyond the bounds of decency in our never-ending attempt to puncture the egos of our celebrity targets. Despite what you might think, this upsets us, and sometimes when we're crying ourselves to sleep we have a brief moment where we feel actual guilt about the unnecessary cruelty we inflict. This weekend we found ourselves particularly upset about the mean e-mail concerning Atoosa Rubenstein's arm hair. The 'Toos herself, ever the healer, was also upset: