Rance

Rance is a quirky little blog by somebody famous. He won't say who. This is how he introduces himself:

Call me Rance
My life is boring and not worth writing about, except for my knowledge of one thing. So this blog will focus on that thing. It is, for lack of a better word, celebrity. I stumbled onto it by a series of chance events. Suffice it to say, I can tell you what it's like to see your picture on the magazine rack every now and again when you pay for groceries. And that'll have to suffice. I'd like this to be the sort of account afforded only by anonymity. And it that happens, if my identity were revealed, I'd quickly be selling grapefruits -- instead of paying $14 a pop to eat them -- on Sunset Blvd.

There's a lot of random stuff in there. Take this, for example:

I know of a sleazy tabloid reporter whose girlfriend dumped him (due in no small part to the fact that he was a sleazoid reporter). Six months later, she took up with a “sleb.” Doesn’t matter who. Mr. Sleazoid still had the key to her place. So he used it when she was at work, went into her bedroom, and duct-taped a voice-activated tape recorder beneath her dresser. This sort of device recognizes TV signals and such, and quits recording after a couple seconds of it, so it winds up with just phone conversations and in-person chat. In this case, it proved largely pillow talk with the celebrated new boyfriend. A couple weeks later, Sleazoid went back in, retrieved the tape recorder, and among the nine crystal clear hours it had picked up was a scoop that translated into the down payment a new Audi for Sleazoid. This episode notwithstanding, Sleazoid is commonly regarded among the more ethical “entertainment journalists.” If that doesn’t give you an appreciation, or lack thereof, for the rest of the field infesting L, chew on these: If you haven’t had your cell calls intercepted, you’re on the C List, baby. Companies who come into homes and/or offices and “sweep” for electronic eavesdropping and surveillance devices are nearly as common as shrinks, and in L, that’s saying something. I know of someone who, unsure of her blood type, happen to read it, among other private details, in a fanzine (someone had hacked into the system at the medical facility she goes to).

Or this:

There was this talent agent at a Superbowl party the other day. Sort of guy whose tone, body language and facial expression make it seem he's lying everytime he speaks. You're at dinner with him and he says, "Pass the salt," and you're thinking, "this man is lying."

Anyway, within maybe 1.5 seconds of Justin outing Janet's breast, this agent bellows: “Pre-planned P.R. stunt, and a fucking triumph!”

Him being him, everyone reacted as if he was just blowing smoke, trying to lay claim to insider knowledge. Turns out he wasn't.

Immediately, a guest decried the singers' action on grounds of indecency, then lamented a society in which such exploitation of women exists. This party being in Hollywood, that guest was asked to leave (they weren't, really, but they might as well have been).

Then it occurred to someone else, a music industry exec, that the timing for Janet's career couldn't have be better as she has an album coming out this Spring. “I disagree with that,” the agent said. “It could have been better timed. Her album could be coming out today.”