Nensha, bitches.

It’s a term I tangentially referred to in an earlier post this month, and a theory I’m frankly fascinated with.

Its essence is this: the human mind with all its untapped power has the ability to psychically impress or burn an image into our physical reality, and thus alter it irrevocably. Post-War Japanese researchers devoted much effort into proving its existence — it would later serve as the basis for the nation’s much-praised film Ringu and its equally effective American remake The Ring — but the doctrine was for decades deemed merely a The Men Who Stare At Goats-type of new age hokum. A flight of fantasy. A failure.

All that changed in 1999 when Nensha was revealed to be a wholly factual (and utterly terrifying) phenomenon brought about not to revolutionize telecommunications or create a super soldier, but from sheer corporate music industry greed and folly.

An affront to Nature of the highest order.

By the dawn of the New Millennium, the trend of hyper-manufactured Boy Bands had neared its saturation point. The record executives at Sony Records in Toronto were desperate to wring one last hit machine from a barren teat; they had already mined and co-opted black musical culture to the core, female pop star thrushes were going to seed as they aged in dog years, and every teenage boy in Orlando was already signed to a label. Thus, they turned to illegal biological research in order to genetically engineer a new breed of jazz-handed douchebag — one who could function without sleep, food, and love as it rose to musical superstardom.

By summer of that year, Sony had succeeded, and the pop trio B4-4 was unleashed upon the world.

Most presume the act’s moniker to be a clumsy pun of some sort, but in truth it was a covert reference to the cryptically-numbered lab located within a secure Berlin facility wherein the three young members had been bioengineered through the cross-breeding of gay Oompa Loompas with Jersey Shore Guido dickbags for maximum slickness and vivid orangeness.

The troika matured to pubescence at a meta-accelarted rate within a matter of three months, and newly-christened as Paul-Mitchell, Smooth T, and Juicebox — the latter two originating coincidentally-if-serendipitously from the same zygote — released their Autotuned, self-titled debut album in 2000. (more…)

Casey’s a long, tall drink of water. Sort of shy, and a little too quiet sometimes. He seems happiest when he’s hanging out with the other guys in the dorm, playing video games or thumbing through old copies of Hustler magazine. Though, as he told us several times during this exclusive shoot: He’s not gay. He supports gay rights and even thinks gay people should get married if they want to — but he just doesn’t feel any sort of erotic charge for other guys.

What a shame.

But, good news! You can still catch a long, long look at Casey’s bold side by popping into the Inner Circle’s Fratmen Theater and watching him rub one off in the bathtub…In fact, in your own private reverie you can imagine Casey doing whatever you what him to do (and we promise we don’t tell him if your fantasy involves another guy.)

My Guidodom obsession is well-chronicled and sprawlingly elaborate. Yet still I go unfulfilled.

Though MTV has yet again mined the depths of human materialistic depravity in its latest semi-verite house of horrors entry Jersey Shore — featuring a roster of roided-out, leather-skinned dry humps who gave me instant roddage — why in Hell didn’t the network opt to have them co-habitate with Manhattan sophisticates in order to achieve maximum culture clash? This is one slice of shameless exploitation I would actually want to be part of. Only then can my fantasy of being adopted into this self-worshiping tribe as a symbolically conspicuous outsider a la Sheena at last come to fruition.

The plot lines are endless. First, I’m curiously pawed at for my far-flung customs called “modesty,” “eloquence,” and “poise”, which are totally unknown to them. While the males slowly come to acclimate themselves to my ability to completely pronounce the continuous present tense of verbs, the females will show me how to best accessorize Forever 21 or Juicy Couture, and when to beat a bitch who gets mouthy.

Finally, after much mutual learning, the group’s alpha male develops a worlds-apart love for me, which triggers a power vacuum and results in he and his challengers throwing down at a club called — I’ll go with — Pandorium. He emerges victorious, and together we fist pump (it’s their form of interpretive dance) in celebration as we become the progenitors of a new people. Toss in some vaguely emotive Top 40 songs, some pre-scripted confessional transitions, and somebody getting bitten, and I just wrote the entire first season.

A dream deferred is a dream denied.

Two frat guys that just happened to meet in a San Diego Abercrombie and Fitch store? Could this tale possibly be any more cliched? Do you believe this story? Neither did I. But then I did some Andrea Peyser-like research, and, well, sure enough it is true.

Kay and Bastian have been inseparable after that October meeting in the A&F jeans department. First there was an intense bout of gaydar scoping. Then Kay followed Bastian over to Jamba Juice; gave him his cell number, and the rest has been carefully documented for you in our Cruiser Boy theater of the Inner Circle.

Join the boys now, before the bong hits wear off and everyone becomes straight again.

American schools are ground-zero for the so-called “culture war,” and that’s a good thing.

In the middle of the last century, “multiculturalism” was all but banned from public schools, especially in the South. Segregation meant that people who were visibly diverse were out of view — let alone free to express themselves — in public school settings.

Black Americans went to underfunded black schools and Native American children were often shipped off to special government-run schools that attempted to purge them of their native culture and languages. The fact that schools are now dealing with less dire issues, like a female student’s right to attend prom in a tuxedo — is a sign of incredible progress.

In that cultural battle, young people are once again on the front lines. (more…)

Investigative journalist Max Blumenthal discusses the Republican closet and the sado-authoritarian culture that produces right-wing evangelicals in his new book Republican Gomorrah.

Full talk here.

What’s in a name? We all have our personal forms of rebellion, and in Kay’s case, baring all isn’t about the cash or the fame; it’s his big “Fuck you!” to Mom and Dad.

Only unfit parents would give a hot piece such a gender-neutral moniker, and that’s why the K-ster is always ready to doff his threads and prove he’s all man. As if his cool Anime hair and silky blue eyes weren’t enough to convince you, his slink bod and stout danger zone will put you over the top.

Some guys need — no, deserve — more than their fair share of ego-stroking, and Kay will have you cranking his hard and heavy for all it’s worth. Catch all the pics and vids in our Fantasy Boys theater…right this way.