I go to work every day. I pay my rent, my bills, my taxes and my car insurance. I just signed up for AAA. I am – for all intents and purposes at least -a respectable adult. Okay, so respectable might be pushing it a bit. But, the point is that I am an adult. No ifs, ands, buts, or breaks on my car insurance, about it.

But, there are still some things that can reduce my checkbook-balancing, multiple-bill-paying, two-laptop-toting, butt right back into the ruffled mini-skirts of my middle-school-era youth. Movie musicals. Now & Then. Perfectly melted ice cream sundaes. Saturday morning cartoons.  Seeing Shannon Doherty and Jennie Garth sipping milkshakes at the Peach Pit on the new incarnation of “Beverly Hills 90210.” And, of course, puppies.

One Sunday afternoon, in an effort to rouse ourselves from the lethargic funk of a long weekend spent drinking, dancing and watching “Heroes,” my best friend and I decided to get in some cardio with an impromptu shopping trip on Melrose. About halfway through our long, hot, session of retail aerobics, we stumbled across a neon oasis called The Puppy Store. Bright lights, thumping bass and rack upon rack of stylish canine couture greeted us upon our entrance.

At first, I was so distracted by the racks of stuffed puppies and their adorable accoutrements that I didn’t even notice the wall in the back of the store. There, garish in the fluorescent lights and shaking with every boom of the bass, sat a small collection of caged puppies. Their tiny cages barely containing their even-smaller frames, the poor things barked, wailed, and generally looked on plaintively as stylish shoppers tapped the glass, checked out the thousand-dollar price tags and wandered on down Melrose – leaving the poor things behind to suckle sadly at their little water bottles, paw pathetically at the walls of their cages, and generally do all the things that makes the helpless so heartbreaking.

Now don’t get me wrong – I love to shop. Purses, shoes, jewelry, clothes – if it’s on a rack, there’s a good chance I’ve probably caressed it, coveted it, and come up with a million reasons why I totally deserve to buy it. But, as much as I love to scour the racks, I hate the idea of living things displayed as merchandise. The whole thing made my stomach churn. And, in true Web 2.0 fashion, it sent me straight to Google.

There’s a wealth of information online about all things animal rights. But, I couldn’t seem to get a straight story on The Puppy Store. Of course, their website brags about how humane they are. And how their puppies are inspected by vets every week, bred by USDA certified breeders and only fed organic food and purified water. But hey, climate controlled cages are still cages. And when the store has cages that are less than a third the size of the ones at the pound, it makes you think twice.

So then, I went to Yelp. It turns out The Puppy Store gets some pretty dismal reviews – along with a history of selling really sick puppies. It is also the same place that turned Paris Hilton away a few months ago because she was trying to ‘impulse buy’ a puppy. Sure, the media applauded them.  But turning Paris Hilton away in front of the flashbulbs, and then proceeding to spill the story to every tabloid that would talk to you, is as good of a publicity stunt as any – something any savvy Angeleno with business sense on bustling Melrose would certainly consider.

Still, I couldn’t find any concrete proof that yipping puppies or yelping customers added up to anything more than the bad feelings human beings get when they see something cuddly that is caged.

Things were so much simpler when I was a miniskirted middle-schooler.

I’m more confused now than when I first found the puppies crammed into the back of the bright orange Melrose storefront.  I guess there are some things the Internet just can’t clear up. Like your conscience after seeing a wall full of caged canines.  And here I thought Google was infallible – or at least as indestructible as Kelly Taylor and Brenda Walsh’s friendship. Thank god, or at least the CW, that at least one of those truths is still self-evident. ##

What do you do after riding a short-lived marriage to the Italian stallion straight into reality T.V. renown on VH1’s “The Surreal Life?” You pass the time with Flavor Flav, star in a spin-off or two and, eventually make your way to Germany, where you decide to have a little plastic surgery on – you guessed it – reality television. At least that’s the way things go when you’re the six foot tall bleached blonde behemoth known as Brigitte Nielsen.

According to a variety of news reports released yesterday, including this article on the San Francisco Chronicle’s SFGate.com, Nielsen is slated to receive a facelift, breast surgery and liposuction, all of which will air on German television in a four-part series called “Aus Alt Mach Neu” (“Turning Old Into New”). Episode one, which showcased Nielsen receiving liposuction on her hips, sucked in 2.5 million viewers when it aired on Sunday night. Which is pretty impressive, but not nearly as jaw-dropping as Nielsen’s post-production plans.

Now, anyone spending significant time in Hollywood lately can’t help but notice that green is the new black, at least in terms of what’s hip, hot and happening in the Hollywood scene. And, Nielsen must have received the recycling memo, since she is planning to do the responsible thing and ensure that her fat doesn’t go to waste. Instead, the 44 year-old plans to auction off her lipo’d fat to benefit charity. And, after the surgery is finished, she allegedly hopes to pose for Playboy. I’m not exactly sure who that decision is supposed to benefit, but Nielsen does think it’s a fitting way to celebrate the 20th anniversary of the first time she posed for the men’s magazine, back in 1988.

Of course, Neilsen isn’t the first D-lister to show off surgery on the small screen. In 1999, singer Carnie Wilson chose to have her gastric bypass surgery broadcast live on the internet. And, on shows like “Extreme Makeover,” “The Swan” and “Dr. 90210,” bevies of wanna-be beauties broadcast their boob jobs, nose jobs, facelifts, tummy tucks, leg lifts, and the like for the whole world – or at least the not-so-squeamish segment of the citizenry – to see.

Still, there is something strangely surreal about Nielsen’s latest career move. I mean, I know the fact that her last major gig was as a patient on VH1’s “Celebrity Rehab With Dr. Drew,” but I had no idea that things were so rocky for her. And while, I suppose she should be given a fighting chance to make ends meet by making herself over, I have to say there is something scary about the depths to which D-list celebrities will sink to shore up careers that have probably already been ko’d. Still, as scary as the whole concept in general is, what really frightens me is the fact that 2.5 million people tuned in to watch the fat get sucked off Brigitte Neilsen’s middle-aged hips. Not that my newfound addiction to the Oxygen Network’s “Tori and Dean” is really that much more admirable, but it somehow seems slightly less garish to watch Donna Martin doing the mommy thing than it does to watch Flava Flav’s former fling try to turn back the clock.

Okay, I know I watch a lot of reality television, probably more than is healthy, and definitely more than most people could probably stand. But, I do consider myself a bit of a cable connoisseur, and I certainly have standards when it comes to picking a reality program to spend my precious few hours of free time with. And, I’ve found that when it comes to what is kindly referred to as reality television, I tend to shy away from watching anything too dire or depressing.

I mean, watching LC on “The Hills” lose it every time that the boyishly-charming Brody busts a nut over another woman is sad enough. I don’t really need to see what happens when forty years from now, she’s still pining for the players and wondering why her career has inexplicably gone in the same direction as her sagging skin. It’s not that I don’t wish her well, it’s just that I prefer to watch her when things are going well.

After all, my own life has plenty of day-to-day drama. And, at the end of the day, I don’t watch reality television to see the serious stuff other people are dealing with. I watch it to escape my own serious stuff, to live for a little while in a place where the people are prettier, the budgets are bigger and the lighting is always much more flattering. So somehow, seeing the fat get sucked out of some ‘star’s’ stomach doesn’t quite satisfy my cable cravings. Even if it is going to a good cause.

I’m the first to admit it, my earliest memories of seeing the paparazzi in my hometown of Malibu are paradoxical at best. As a child, I used to play at the Malibu Country Mart playground – located in a central shopping area, it was definitely home to the higher-end equipment as far as local sandboxes and slides went. My dad was working at Hard Copy at the time, and he made it his policy not to accept paparazzi footage shot at that particular playground. And yet, while he was protecting his daughter’s right to play in a place unfettered by the photog’s flashbulbs, it was only because of his job as a producer on a major tabloid television show that we lived in Malibu at all.

Such is the paparazzi paradox. On the one hand, the prolific paps are reviled – and rightfully so – for the invasive and often dangerous tactics they use to get the perfect, profitable picture. On the other hand, most of the entertainment industry depends on tabloid journalism for publicity and profits. And, there is nowhere where the twain take each other on quite like in Malibu.

Just look at last weekend. Most Angelenos were escaping the record heat by hitting whatever body of water was closest. And, for many of us, that meant the beach, and specifically, the big stretch of sand and sea along the Malibu coast. But, while most people were looking to lay out and let off some steam – literally – there were clearly a contingent of paps who were not content to kick back and cool off. Sure, they were combing the sand, but not for seashells.

Instead, they went looking for yet another shot of a shirtless Matthew McConaughey soaking up the sun and surf. And, apparently, they went looking on the private beach known locally as Little Dume – a place so private that even when we used to hold high school parties there, we would still need someone with a key to get to the keg.

There’s plenty of video of what happened next, but basically, a group of local guys got fed up with the photogs, and a confrontation ensued. Footage of the whole incident, along with details of the new ordinance Malibu officials are currently drafting to deal with the increased influx of paps to these parts. You see, the thing is that when it comes to day-to-day life in Malibu, In Touch is honestly rather out of touch.

Malibu is a small suburban city, just 27 miles long, that is more oriented around families than fame. Sure, the population of almost 13,000 has more than its share of screenwriters, producers, directors, composers, musicians, actors, lighting technicians and the like. But, my immediate neighbors also include a retired cop, a number of firefighters, a teacher and a contractor. So, when a group of paparazzi jumped out of the bushes to catch Pam Anderson at her kids’ Saturday afternoon soccer game, they also managed to scare the living daylights out of my poor little brother, who happened to be playing goalie at the time. And, when Britney Spears was spotted getting frozen yogurt at the local Ben & Jerry’s, it was my frizzy, frazzled former co-worker there whose unflattering picture appeared in the background – much to her chagrin.

So, as much as my journalistic background makes me want to fight for the freedom of the press at all possible costs, there is a big part of me that wants to protect the people I love from the frenzy of flashbulbs. Sure, celebs ask for the added notoriety when they commit to their careers, and yes, we in the entertainment industry all depend on the terrible tabloids to make and maintain everyone’s fame and fortune. But, I do believe there is a line to be drawn, and I think it makes sense to draw it around actors, actresses, musicians and maybe even reality stars who are off the clock, off the carpet and (trying to stay) off the camera.

When someone is sunning on the sand, shopping at the supermarket, strolling with their kids or playing at the playground, they should get the benefit of basic human treatment and be taken off the tabloid radar. After all, how many shots of a shirtless McConaughey or a sweats-clad Pam Anderson does the American public really need to see? There must be more interesting or, dare I say it, important news going on in the greater world, right?

Yes, it’s time to draw a line. And, if a group of local guys are willing to let their beer guts be broadcast around the world as a means of literally drawing that line in the sand, then I can’t say I don’t support their intentions – if not necessarily their all-too-aggressive actions.

See also: LA Times

• 5/9, Malibu turns to Ken Starr to help get paparazzi under control
• 6/23 2nd Paparazzi Brawl in Malibu