Janet Jackson on Michael's Death

Janet Jackson on Michael's Death

Michael Jackson vs. the news

There's meaningful, there's epic and there's revolutionary. What about all three?

You already know which kind of event, which sort of dramatic happening, which kind of ill-fated death and historic melodrama we as a culture value far, far more than any other. You already know which will hold us in thrall for days and months on end, which causes more tears and heartbreak and which kind of event will spawn books and movies and tributes and earnest memories by the million until we ourselves pass on to the hereafter, smiling and dancing and humming a desperately catchy tune.

Hint: it's not the new Iran revolution. It's not, say, the young and idealistic Neda Agha Soltan, that iconic Iranian protester shot to death by militiamen on the streets of Tehran and then made into a near-perfect martyr, mostly because she was beautiful and photogenic and light-skinned and her horrific death was caught on video and spread all over YouTube, and therefore makes ideal, bloodstained copy for news agencies and political movements worldwide.

It's not President Obama's historic push for health care reform, currently being beaten to death in various congressional back rooms. It's certainly not yet another aging white Republican politician weeping to the TV cameras about his love of God and family andirresistible Argentinean vaginas. Like that ever truly matters.

Who the hell cares about any of that? Who needs it right now? Pop culture just died. Didn't you hear?

First, it was the beauty. How many countless millions of feverish boyhood fantasies were spawned by 1970's Farrah Fawcett? How many of our admittedly vapid and slightly sexist, yet somehow also wondrous and utterly divine ideas of lust and desire and perfect all-American prettiness were inspired by her uncomplicated sparkle, that Barbie-doll hair?

I am unashamed to say, I had that poster on my wall. Most every male I know of that generation had that poster on his wall. It was some sort of boyhood law, a requirement, a key to the Kingdom of Testosterone. Chances are you don't even need to click that link to know which poster I'm talking about. Chances are you can close your eyes and see it in a split second, and sigh. Sex and beauty and Americana and teeth and sex and hope and hairdryers and carefree love and bathing suits and shimmer and sex. Farrah made it all possible.

But even that glorious, soft-focus icon is no match for the King of Pop. There is no contest.

It's nearly impossible to grasp, really. Michael Jackson's impact on the popular culture at large cannot really be measured, though many will try, using every gauge of success and influence we can think of: record sales, money earned, global reach, hit singles, controversy, tabloid coverage, endless comparisons to Elvis and The Beatles, you name it.

But it's all sort of futile. After all, the raw data of Michael Jackson pales in comparison to the truly significant numbers, like how many countless millions of people worldwide have danced and sung along and found pleasure in an MJ tune in their lives, can recite lyrics and mimic the dance moves and tell you exactly where they were when they first witnessed the moonwalk, the glove, "Billie Jean," the "Thriller" video.

How many millions rushed home on hearing the news of his sudden death and put on "Off the Wall" and cranked it full volume, and swam in the memories, and are still doing so, right this moment? They say pop culture is generally meaningless and transitory and has no lasting effect, lowers the bar of discourse and poisons the intellect, is the junk food of the human soul. All very true. Mostly.

Let us pose the impossible question: How do we measure what's truly important? How do we parse and separate and decide? There is bloodshed and death and revolution happening, right now, in the streets of a fiery foreign country. More than one, actually. There is meltdown and oppression and disease and countless huge-hearted people working against impossible odds to improve the lives of others in immeasurably honest, profound ways.

And yet over here is someone like Michael Jackson, his music, his dancing, his genius, his odd persona, well, it's like it's some different realm entirely. Strip away the cheese and the tabloid and the bizarre, freakish spectacle of his rather tragic life, and what's left?

Well, you might say it's a kind of sheer happiness, a kind of freedom like you can't even speak about because it's not really an intellectual thing. It's just a simple joy. It's also fairly essential to our survival.

You are left with the image, the feeling, of hundreds of millions of humans laughing and smiling and dancing with friends and lovers, all to one person's gift of music. Put it this way: billions of humans disagree about the nature of God. But everyone knows what the moonwalk is.

One final, tiny example: As I was writing this column, I received, in my in-box, a mere handful of hours after the news of MJ's death hit the newswires and just before every radio station, music blog, music fan, music television in the known universe switched gears in an instant and started playing MJ nonstop in memoriam, with sequined flags at half-mast, I received a very strange invitation.

It's to something called the "Scandinavian Mid-Summer Party" in New York. It is, apparently, "a night of upscale networking, partying and bowling (!) with professionals and businessmen eager to enjoy this traditional Scandinavian celebration; members of the Swedish, Finnish, Norwegian, Danish and Estonian business and social community in the Tri-state area will join us for the night."

Well gosh, thanks for thinking of me, I thought.

There are images of idyllic smiling blond Danish girls in pigtails and scarves and perfect IKEA teeth. They say "Mid-Summer is the most popular time of the year in Scandinavia. Houses in Scandinavia are decorated with hearths and flower garlands; people then dance while listening to traditional folk songs known to all." It says some other stuff too, but my eyes had already glazed over.

Well, almost. Just as my finger hovered over the Delete key, something caught my eye.

The invitation had been altered. The organizers had apparently changed the description of the evening's events. No more Scandinavian folk music. Along with the billiards and bowling and drunk Estonian businessmen, they will now "pay our respects to the King of Pop by playing his amazing music all night." They asked all guests to bring an iPod with favorite MJ songs. You know, just like they did in the old country of Scandinavia. Just like they're doing across the entire planet, as you read these words, right now.

Now that's revolutionary.

Michael Jackson vs. the news

There's meaningful, there's epic and there's revolutionary. What about all three?

You already know which kind of event, which sort of dramatic happening, which kind of ill-fated death and historic melodrama we as a culture value far, far more than any other. You already know which will hold us in thrall for days and months on end, which causes more tears and heartbreak and which kind of event will spawn books and movies and tributes and earnest memories by the million until we ourselves pass on to the hereafter, smiling and dancing and humming a desperately catchy tune.

Hint: it's not the new Iran revolution. It's not, say, the young and idealistic Neda Agha Soltan, that iconic Iranian protester shot to death by militiamen on the streets of Tehran and then made into a near-perfect martyr, mostly because she was beautiful and photogenic and light-skinned and her horrific death was caught on video and spread all over YouTube, and therefore makes ideal, bloodstained copy for news agencies and political movements worldwide.

It's not President Obama's historic push for health care reform, currently being beaten to death in various congressional back rooms. It's certainly not yet another aging white Republican politician weeping to the TV cameras about his love of God and family andirresistible Argentinean vaginas. Like that ever truly matters.

Who the hell cares about any of that? Who needs it right now? Pop culture just died. Didn't you hear?

First, it was the beauty. How many countless millions of feverish boyhood fantasies were spawned by 1970's Farrah Fawcett? How many of our admittedly vapid and slightly sexist, yet somehow also wondrous and utterly divine ideas of lust and desire and perfect all-American prettiness were inspired by her uncomplicated sparkle, that Barbie-doll hair?

I am unashamed to say, I had that poster on my wall. Most every male I know of that generation had that poster on his wall. It was some sort of boyhood law, a requirement, a key to the Kingdom of Testosterone. Chances are you don't even need to click that link to know which poster I'm talking about. Chances are you can close your eyes and see it in a split second, and sigh. Sex and beauty and Americana and teeth and sex and hope and hairdryers and carefree love and bathing suits and shimmer and sex. Farrah made it all possible.

But even that glorious, soft-focus icon is no match for the King of Pop. There is no contest.

It's nearly impossible to grasp, really. Michael Jackson's impact on the popular culture at large cannot really be measured, though many will try, using every gauge of success and influence we can think of: record sales, money earned, global reach, hit singles, controversy, tabloid coverage, endless comparisons to Elvis and The Beatles, you name it.

But it's all sort of futile. After all, the raw data of Michael Jackson pales in comparison to the truly significant numbers, like how many countless millions of people worldwide have danced and sung along and found pleasure in an MJ tune in their lives, can recite lyrics and mimic the dance moves and tell you exactly where they were when they first witnessed the moonwalk, the glove, "Billie Jean," the "Thriller" video.

How many millions rushed home on hearing the news of his sudden death and put on "Off the Wall" and cranked it full volume, and swam in the memories, and are still doing so, right this moment? They say pop culture is generally meaningless and transitory and has no lasting effect, lowers the bar of discourse and poisons the intellect, is the junk food of the human soul. All very true. Mostly.

Let us pose the impossible question: How do we measure what's truly important? How do we parse and separate and decide? There is bloodshed and death and revolution happening, right now, in the streets of a fiery foreign country. More than one, actually. There is meltdown and oppression and disease and countless huge-hearted people working against impossible odds to improve the lives of others in immeasurably honest, profound ways.

And yet over here is someone like Michael Jackson, his music, his dancing, his genius, his odd persona, well, it's like it's some different realm entirely. Strip away the cheese and the tabloid and the bizarre, freakish spectacle of his rather tragic life, and what's left?

Well, you might say it's a kind of sheer happiness, a kind of freedom like you can't even speak about because it's not really an intellectual thing. It's just a simple joy. It's also fairly essential to our survival.

You are left with the image, the feeling, of hundreds of millions of humans laughing and smiling and dancing with friends and lovers, all to one person's gift of music. Put it this way: billions of humans disagree about the nature of God. But everyone knows what the moonwalk is.

One final, tiny example: As I was writing this column, I received, in my in-box, a mere handful of hours after the news of MJ's death hit the newswires and just before every radio station, music blog, music fan, music television in the known universe switched gears in an instant and started playing MJ nonstop in memoriam, with sequined flags at half-mast, I received a very strange invitation.

It's to something called the "Scandinavian Mid-Summer Party" in New York. It is, apparently, "a night of upscale networking, partying and bowling (!) with professionals and businessmen eager to enjoy this traditional Scandinavian celebration; members of the Swedish, Finnish, Norwegian, Danish and Estonian business and social community in the Tri-state area will join us for the night."

Well gosh, thanks for thinking of me, I thought.

There are images of idyllic smiling blond Danish girls in pigtails and scarves and perfect IKEA teeth. They say "Mid-Summer is the most popular time of the year in Scandinavia. Houses in Scandinavia are decorated with hearths and flower garlands; people then dance while listening to traditional folk songs known to all." It says some other stuff too, but my eyes had already glazed over.

Well, almost. Just as my finger hovered over the Delete key, something caught my eye.

The invitation had been altered. The organizers had apparently changed the description of the evening's events. No more Scandinavian folk music. Along with the billiards and bowling and drunk Estonian businessmen, they will now "pay our respects to the King of Pop by playing his amazing music all night." They asked all guests to bring an iPod with favorite MJ songs. You know, just like they did in the old country of Scandinavia. Just like they're doing across the entire planet, as you read these words, right now.

Now that's revolutionary.

Jayceon Taylor

The Game (Jayceon Terell Taylor) is a multi-platinum American rapper signed to Geffen Records. The Game is considered by many to be a driving force in bringing back the West Coast hip hop scene and competing with many of his East Coast counterparts. Compton’s own the Game (aka Jayceon Taylor) issued his debut LP The Game, Vol. 1 in 2004 through Aftermath/G Unit/Universal. With everyone from Dr. Dre and 50 Cent to Nate Dogg, Kanye West, and Just Blaze contributing to the album, Game, Vol. 1 made it clear from the outset that geographic squabbles weren’t a part of the Game’s agenda.

Welcome to The Game “Jayceon Taylor”, website, and its dedicated to the one who have gotten involved in the drug trade after a rough childhood, it took being shot during a home invasion to cause an epiphany in Game.

Here you can find almost everything about The Game “Jayceon Taylor”, Profile, Biography, Trivia, Albums (you can purchase any of his albums), Songs Lyrics, Filmography , Movies (you can purchase any of his movies) , a big Photos Gallery, Icons, Posters (if you want to see his posters allover your walls you can get them here) , Books, Famous Quotes, and a beautiful collection of The Game “Jayceon Taylor” Wallpapers for your desktops.

Just Enjoy surfing The Game “Jayceon Taylor” website, and don’t forget to come back to check new things often.

Jayceon Taylor

The Game (Jayceon Terell Taylor) is a multi-platinum American rapper signed to Geffen Records. The Game is considered by many to be a driving force in bringing back the West Coast hip hop scene and competing with many of his East Coast counterparts. Compton’s own the Game (aka Jayceon Taylor) issued his debut LP The Game, Vol. 1 in 2004 through Aftermath/G Unit/Universal. With everyone from Dr. Dre and 50 Cent to Nate Dogg, Kanye West, and Just Blaze contributing to the album, Game, Vol. 1 made it clear from the outset that geographic squabbles weren’t a part of the Game’s agenda.

Welcome to The Game “Jayceon Taylor”, website, and its dedicated to the one who have gotten involved in the drug trade after a rough childhood, it took being shot during a home invasion to cause an epiphany in Game.

Here you can find almost everything about The Game “Jayceon Taylor”, Profile, Biography, Trivia, Albums (you can purchase any of his albums), Songs Lyrics, Filmography , Movies (you can purchase any of his movies) , a big Photos Gallery, Icons, Posters (if you want to see his posters allover your walls you can get them here) , Books, Famous Quotes, and a beautiful collection of The Game “Jayceon Taylor” Wallpapers for your desktops.

Just Enjoy surfing The Game “Jayceon Taylor” website, and don’t forget to come back to check new things often.

In April 2004, John Callaway was performing a one-man show, "Life is . . . Maintenance," four times a week at Pegasus Players. His interview with the Sun-Times was supposed to plug the show, but Callaway was in more of a storytelling mode that day.

You cannot, if you are a young Chicago reporter, really hope to interview John Callaway. Callaway, the legendary journalist best known for his 15-year run hosting WTTW's "Chicago Tonight," is pretty much the best interviewer around. And he is not inclined to just lean back and let someone else ask all the questions.

"This is going to be a collaboration," he tells the photographer conspiratorially as we sit down for a late-afternoon meal at North Coast Cafe, a casual neighborhood place near Callaway's Lake View home. "When we finish, you're going to know a lot more about her."

Within moments of his arrival, Callaway manages to make it clear that he has read every word I've ever written. I half-expect him to pull out a copy of my fifth-grade class newsletter.

"I was always regarded as well-prepared," he says, "but, you know, I could tell you stories...."

Excellent, I think, stories are excellent. If I get him to tell enough stories, maybe he won't notice that I have not gone to WTTW's archives and watched every single one of his broadcasts.

"I interviewed Armand Hammer in Los Angeles at Occidental Petroleum in 1981 . . . and it got the most positive response of any interview I ever did with PBS," he says, "An investigative reporter Edward J. Epstein later did a book on Armand Hammer Dossier: The Secret History of Armand Hammer (Carroll & Graf, $15.95), and that book revealed that about three-quarters of Armand Hammer's stories were absolutely false.

"Then," he continues, with a grin that plumps his already-round cheeks, "in that same year, I did John Cheever. And, oh, what a glorious interview. And Callaway had read all of Cheever's books, and isn't he beautifully prepared? Uh-uh. I only missed the whole story. And the whole story was about his homosexuality."

Cheever, a married father of three who famously wrote about life in the seemingly idyllic suburbs of Westchester County, outside New York City, revealed himself, later in life, to be a bisexual who'd struggled to come to terms with his identity, masking his pain with legendary drinking habits.

"Everything that was deep and profound about him," Callaway says. "Everything that was written later, both by him and others, really dealt with that issue and the torturous life that he led. You won't find a word on that in my lovely little well-researched interview with John Cheever."

Callaway is in storytelling mode these days, performing four times a week in an autobiographical one-man show he's written in collaboration with his theater-director son-in-law, Dan Foster. This is supposed to be the reason we're talking -- part of a public-relations blitz that's had him all over the local TV stations in the last couple of weeks. But it's clear, as Callaway drinks his hot tea and eats his rice pudding, that he's mainly here to enjoy himself.

"I don't want to plug anything. The hell with them," he jokes, slightly appalling the young publicist who has accompanied him.

Turn down the lights, change the friendly waiter -- who, of course, knows Callaway by name -- into a world-weary bartender with a mysterious past, add some smoke, jazz and a couple more journalists (in fedoras), and this could be a scene from Callaway's memory. Him, holding court. The rest of us, an audience -- not quite friends or equals, but Callaway aficionados who love his stories mainly because we know how most of them end. Yeah, this could be just like it was in the good old days.

Except there are too many women to fit that scenario. And no one within five miles should be drinking hot tea.

"I am just incredibly lucky to be alive," he says, when our conversation finds its way back to the youthful pleasures that are at the center of his one-man show.

There was the staying out late, the drinking, the eating ... "I don't know how we got away with it," he says, with the tone of a man who knows his luck and doesn't mind pushing it every now and then.

Like the time he was so hung over -- and full of oyster stew -- he narrowly avoided throwing up on Lyndon Johnson.

When Callaway talks about the years when he was a radio and TV reporter -- "the glory days," a less-enlightened observer would call them, but Callaway is too smart for that -- there is plenty of nostalgia in his tone. But there's something else, too, something that would be easy to miss when his big laugh shakes his bigger belly. It's a very quiet note of regret.

"In a great many ways, I cherish those memories," says the thrice-married Callaway of his days as a journalist-about-town. "But the thought of living that way and drinking that way and staying out and all of that -- it's really narcissistic, really selfish."

Which launches him into a story.

"The New Yorker did a piece a couple or three years ago -- or maybe it was four or five. I think it was a book review. About the Algonquin round table," Callaway says, puffing himself up to deliver, in his best New Yorker voice, the rest of the story about the writers who made up the legendary discussion group. "And it was all, 'Those were the days. They drank, and they told stories, and they caroused. Those were the the days.' "

About a month later, the magazine published a letter from Susan Cheever, John Cheever's daughter.

"She said, 'I understand what the author was trying to say about those glory days, but I just want to tell you, if you're the daughter of somebody who was one of those drinkers, one of those carousers. . . .' I never forgot that," Callaway says. "It's true."

In his stage performance, Callaway apologizes to his family for his absences and for the times when, even though he was physically there, his mind was elsewhere. He tells me that, now that he's "retired" from journalism -- not quite the right word, since he is busier than ever and still producing great stuff, like his "Chicago Stories" documentaries -- he hopes to "inflict myself on them even more."

He knows the cliche about men retiring to spend more time with their families. And he avoids it. Because, although he loves stories, he hates cliches. And he knows his audience hates them, too.

In April 2004, John Callaway was performing a one-man show, "Life is . . . Maintenance," four times a week at Pegasus Players. His interview with the Sun-Times was supposed to plug the show, but Callaway was in more of a storytelling mode that day.

You cannot, if you are a young Chicago reporter, really hope to interview John Callaway. Callaway, the legendary journalist best known for his 15-year run hosting WTTW's "Chicago Tonight," is pretty much the best interviewer around. And he is not inclined to just lean back and let someone else ask all the questions.

"This is going to be a collaboration," he tells the photographer conspiratorially as we sit down for a late-afternoon meal at North Coast Cafe, a casual neighborhood place near Callaway's Lake View home. "When we finish, you're going to know a lot more about her."

Within moments of his arrival, Callaway manages to make it clear that he has read every word I've ever written. I half-expect him to pull out a copy of my fifth-grade class newsletter.

"I was always regarded as well-prepared," he says, "but, you know, I could tell you stories...."

Excellent, I think, stories are excellent. If I get him to tell enough stories, maybe he won't notice that I have not gone to WTTW's archives and watched every single one of his broadcasts.

"I interviewed Armand Hammer in Los Angeles at Occidental Petroleum in 1981 . . . and it got the most positive response of any interview I ever did with PBS," he says, "An investigative reporter Edward J. Epstein later did a book on Armand Hammer Dossier: The Secret History of Armand Hammer (Carroll & Graf, $15.95), and that book revealed that about three-quarters of Armand Hammer's stories were absolutely false.

"Then," he continues, with a grin that plumps his already-round cheeks, "in that same year, I did John Cheever. And, oh, what a glorious interview. And Callaway had read all of Cheever's books, and isn't he beautifully prepared? Uh-uh. I only missed the whole story. And the whole story was about his homosexuality."

Cheever, a married father of three who famously wrote about life in the seemingly idyllic suburbs of Westchester County, outside New York City, revealed himself, later in life, to be a bisexual who'd struggled to come to terms with his identity, masking his pain with legendary drinking habits.

"Everything that was deep and profound about him," Callaway says. "Everything that was written later, both by him and others, really dealt with that issue and the torturous life that he led. You won't find a word on that in my lovely little well-researched interview with John Cheever."

Callaway is in storytelling mode these days, performing four times a week in an autobiographical one-man show he's written in collaboration with his theater-director son-in-law, Dan Foster. This is supposed to be the reason we're talking -- part of a public-relations blitz that's had him all over the local TV stations in the last couple of weeks. But it's clear, as Callaway drinks his hot tea and eats his rice pudding, that he's mainly here to enjoy himself.

"I don't want to plug anything. The hell with them," he jokes, slightly appalling the young publicist who has accompanied him.

Turn down the lights, change the friendly waiter -- who, of course, knows Callaway by name -- into a world-weary bartender with a mysterious past, add some smoke, jazz and a couple more journalists (in fedoras), and this could be a scene from Callaway's memory. Him, holding court. The rest of us, an audience -- not quite friends or equals, but Callaway aficionados who love his stories mainly because we know how most of them end. Yeah, this could be just like it was in the good old days.

Except there are too many women to fit that scenario. And no one within five miles should be drinking hot tea.

"I am just incredibly lucky to be alive," he says, when our conversation finds its way back to the youthful pleasures that are at the center of his one-man show.

There was the staying out late, the drinking, the eating ... "I don't know how we got away with it," he says, with the tone of a man who knows his luck and doesn't mind pushing it every now and then.

Like the time he was so hung over -- and full of oyster stew -- he narrowly avoided throwing up on Lyndon Johnson.

When Callaway talks about the years when he was a radio and TV reporter -- "the glory days," a less-enlightened observer would call them, but Callaway is too smart for that -- there is plenty of nostalgia in his tone. But there's something else, too, something that would be easy to miss when his big laugh shakes his bigger belly. It's a very quiet note of regret.

"In a great many ways, I cherish those memories," says the thrice-married Callaway of his days as a journalist-about-town. "But the thought of living that way and drinking that way and staying out and all of that -- it's really narcissistic, really selfish."

Which launches him into a story.

"The New Yorker did a piece a couple or three years ago -- or maybe it was four or five. I think it was a book review. About the Algonquin round table," Callaway says, puffing himself up to deliver, in his best New Yorker voice, the rest of the story about the writers who made up the legendary discussion group. "And it was all, 'Those were the days. They drank, and they told stories, and they caroused. Those were the the days.' "

About a month later, the magazine published a letter from Susan Cheever, John Cheever's daughter.

"She said, 'I understand what the author was trying to say about those glory days, but I just want to tell you, if you're the daughter of somebody who was one of those drinkers, one of those carousers. . . .' I never forgot that," Callaway says. "It's true."

In his stage performance, Callaway apologizes to his family for his absences and for the times when, even though he was physically there, his mind was elsewhere. He tells me that, now that he's "retired" from journalism -- not quite the right word, since he is busier than ever and still producing great stuff, like his "Chicago Stories" documentaries -- he hopes to "inflict myself on them even more."

He knows the cliche about men retiring to spend more time with their families. And he avoids it. Because, although he loves stories, he hates cliches. And he knows his audience hates them, too.

Malibu's Johnny Strange, 17, becomes youngest to bag Seven Summits

Malibu's Johnny Strange, 17, becomes youngest to bag Seven Summits

PEOPLE IN THE NEWS

Rihanna to testify against ex

Rihanna will take the stand to testify against ex-boyfriend Chris Brown, who faces felony charges for allegedly beating her in February. Rihanna, 21, was served a subpoena this week to appear at a preliminary hearing June 22. "If the preliminary hearing indeed goes forward," said her attorney, Donald Etra, "she will be there, and she will answer all questions truthfully." In April, Brown, 20, pleaded not guilty to one count of assault and one count of making criminal threats. If convicted, he faces up to four years and eight months in prison. Meanwhile, Rihanna hit the town Wednesday night in New York with Aubrey "Drake" Graham, the Canadian rapper to whom she has recently been romantically linked. Rihanna and Graham mingled at a bash to promote the new Black Eyed Peas album, The E.N.D.

Fired queen fires back

Carrie Prejean insists she was fired as Miss California because she denounced gay marriage during the April 19 Miss USA pageant. "It's just because of my answer, I think," Prejean toldAccess Hollywood on Wednesday night, shortly after she was canned. When pageant judgePerez Hilton asked her about same-sex nuptials, Prejean said she thinks marriage is between a man and a woman. "None of this would be happening right now if I just said: 'Yeah, gays should get married. You're right, Perez Hilton.' " She also blamed her answer for her losing the Miss USA contest. State pageant director Keith Lewis said Prejean lost her crown because she failed to honor her commitments.

Armstrong movie in gear

Lance Armstrong is finally getting his own biopic, says the Hollywood Reporter's Risky Business blog. The film will focus on Armstrong's pre-tabloid triumphs, including beating testicular cancer and winning his first Tour de France.

Bimbo dating update

After a tumultuous relationship with paparazzo Adnan Ghalib and a divorce from Kevin Federline, Britney Spears has found somebody new -- and her family approves. Confirming Internet rumors, a source told People magazine that Spears, 27, is romantically involved with her agent, Jason Trawick. "Her dad loves him. He's the best thing that happened to her," the source said. Meanwhile, Paris Hilton and boyfriend Doug Reinhardt have called it quits after six months of dating, her rep has confirmed. As recently as April, the 28-year-old celebutante declared that she planned to wed Reinhardt, 24 -- a former baseball player who has appeared on the MTV series The Hills.

Stork report

• Comedian Maya Rudolph has announced that she is pregnant with her second child. Rudolph and her filmmaker beau, Paul Thomas Anderson, are the parents of 3-year-old Pearl. The former Saturday Night Live regular, 36, plays a pregnant character in the upcoming filmAway We Go.

• There's going to be a baby next door. Kendra Wilkinson and her fiance, football star Hank Baskett, are expecting, she has confirmed. The Girls Next Door reality star, 23, told E! Newsthat the baby is due near Christmas.

Today's birthdays

85 Former President George H.W. Bush

81 Vic Damone, singer (On the Street Where You Live)

79 Jim Nabors, actor-singer (The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas)

68 Marv Albert, sportscaster

50 John Linnell, rock musician (They Might Be Giants)

32 Kenny Wayne Shepherd, blues musician

24 Chris Young, country singer