As if the achingly beautiful men on the Spanish soap operas weren’t bad enough!

These guys come along!

Imagine the lush lips and dark brows of a Telenovela star. Combine that with the humpy athleticism of bodies molded by rough and tumble sports. Those are the real heartstoppers: the Spanish footballers.

Not that the English footballers or the Italian or the French are any less fuckalicious. We’ll bet the farm that they’re every inch as fucktastic. But right now we’re on a Telemundo kick, and these Spanish footballers have gotten under our skin — if only figuratively.

So we’re sending this mash note out to the Fernandos and Luises and Pepes and Joses, whose photos grace this page.

Guys whose fleet frames punt past our TV screens whenever our reckless channel surfing is brought to a sudden stand still, becalmed by so many passionate beauties scrambling around on top of each other.

At this point we need to make our standard disclaimer. Bla-bla-bla “sexual orientation.” Bla-bla-bla “we haven’t a clue.” Bla-bla-bla “frankly, my dear , we don’t give a damn.”

Bottom line: It’s not about what they want in bed. It’s what we want! Want, need — and deserve, dammit! (read the full article)

“Who was the last person who saw you naked?” the intrepid reporter from The Face asked Morrissey sometime back in the ’80s when he was still the lead singer of The Smiths.

Oscar Wilde could not have come back with a crisper reply: “Almost certainly,” Morrissey said, “the doctor who brought me into this cold, cruel world.”

The retort electrified me when I read it. It was that “almost” that slayed me. It elevated Morrissey to my pantheon of sly wits. (We see the singer here in his young, glory days.)

Morrissey, as many of you know, had the dubious honor of launching the entire emo-rock genre with his nakedly pathetic, love-lorn lyrics — most famously:

It was no accident that he inspired a rock cult that faithfully turned up for his every performance: Steven Patrick Morrissey happens to be one of the modern masters of that tricky literary form — the celebrity interview.

Last month the singer summoned the legendary rock journalist Paul Morley for a sit-down. Granting interviews has become increasingly rare for Moz, as his fans call him, and so there was a great deal of buzz when the word got out.

The published article, which has just appeared, is one of those mind-boggling, delicious rarities in the world of vapid, publicist-vetted puff pieces:

The singer actually says something revealing — while seeming to say nothing at all. (read the full article)

Gay sex still manages to titilate the yahoos, especially when they write for the New York Post, Rupert Murdock’s right-wing tabloid. Take the case of James McGreevey, former governor of New Jersey who is about to publish a tell-all memoir, The Confession..

You may remember McGreevey from a widely televised press conference where, flanked by his wife and appointees, he announced, “I am a gay American.”

He was resigning the governorship because he preferred to come out rather than be blackmailed by a disgruntled boyfriend. McGreevey made no apologies for his homosexuality, didn’t pretend he was really having a drinking problem or would soon seek counsel from his minister. No, McGreevey came out and did so without equivocation.

“I begin my own new journey as an American who just happens to be gay and proud.” he said as the flashbulbs went off around him.

The announcement was both praised and condemned — though some savvy politicos saw the gay admission as a skillful smoke-screen intended to eclipse — as indeed, it did — the underlying corruption and cronyism of New Jersey’s business-as-usual politics. (read the full article)

Considering whether I would watch last night’s American Idol showdown reminded me of one of Samuel Goldwyn’s classic malapropisms: “You’ve got to take the bitter with the sour.”

Preferring to do neither, the boyfriend and I skipped the battle of the dullards. We will, however, TIVO tonight’s finale because Elliott Yamin is scheduled to perform with the new Queen of Soul, Mary J. Blige — Fuckin’ A, E!

Yesterday my bitter mood regarding Elliott’s ouster finally lifted. I got sane and started to rethink things — to reevaluate the play of the Fates. Soon a lot of silver linings began to sparkle through the cloud cover, and I began to feel that my boy pulled off the best of all possible outcomes for himself. He matured as a man, deepened as a vocalist, earned a gigantic fan base, and, by placing third, escaped the clutches of the vampiric Clive Davis and the draconian contract from American Idol’s 19 Management. All of that made me happy. Which made me reflect on all of the qualities I came to appreciate about Elliott Yamin throughout the competition.

Here then are 10 Reasons Why I Love Elliott Yamin and why I’ll remember him long after this season of Idol fades to blah. (read the full article)

Noah got out of New Orleans just in time to see it sink — from a motel room across the state line in Texas. He had gone to the Big Easy with his buds to raise a little fratboy hell. Nature, however decided to give them a lesson in what the real thing might look like.

Afterward, they were all soaked to the skin, toweling off in the Best Western while their jeans and T-shirts hung off every rod and rack in the bathroom.

They watched Anderson Cooper on CNN reporting from the eye of the storm. He managed to look so crisp and pressed while Noah and the buds stood about the room with their cobblestone abs and pert college-boy asses on intermittent display as they worked the towels up and down and over to the side.

Did they think, one of them asked, that ole Anderson was … you know? Yeah, they thought so. And at just a hint that the dapper gray-haired reporter might be a touch accommodating, the towels were whipped off and the towel snapping began. That’s when the cell phones came out, capturing photos of them all horsing around in the nude, mugging for the camera, mimicking porn-type juxtapositions. (read the full article)

In The Passion of the Crawford, now playing the Empire Plush Room in San Francisco, Lypsinka (actually, John Epperson) recreates an interview Joan Crawford gave right in her last Mommie Darkest days.

It was a one-time only appearance at Town Hall in Manhattan, a few years before her death in 1977, and I, in fact, was in the audience.

I remember how Joan kept pouring dark whiskey-colored liquid from a Pepsi can and rattling the ice cubes in her tall glass as she steadily became bombed out of her mind while the interview, conducted by an old friend and flatterer, John Springer, went on and on. (read the full article)

Movies, notes the New York Times, “rarely deal with issues like the divinity of Christ or the search for the Holy Grail. In the cinema, such matters are best left to Monty Python.”

Don Brown’s tenacious bestseller The Da Vinci Code juggled just such issues in a brisk, entertaining way, the perfect “airplane book,” with all the strengths and weaknesses of the form: breezily (and at times sloppily) written but with a pop-song-like hook that kept you turning the pages, unlocking one puzzle after another, with a few authentic shocks and unexpected twists to its credit. (read the full article)

The odds on Vito Spatafore surviving are running 6 to 1 — against. That’s the buzz over at the Pinaccle Sports website, where bets are placed each week on which Sopranos character will be whacked next

Ever since the tubby Mafioso was discovered at a gay bar in leather regalia and ass-out chaps by two thugs, who happed to be there to pick up a kickback, the death clock has started ticking on the Sopranos hitman.

That was a month ago. Since then Vito has disappeared himself to New Hampshire and — straining belief as Vito is weighing in there at a waddling 260 pounds — snagged himself a humpy bi-curious volunteer fireman (below). And this fireman is a piece of work, in the Hells Angels Daddy-o mode, complete with Harley and zippery leather jacket. (UPDATE: But see the discussion of chubbies and chubby chasers in the comment area, below) (read the full article)