that's how British Madonna is."
-- Kathy Griffin
When you begin life as a Mouseketeer on the Disney Channel and you're heading into elderly twinkdom, you get a little ... well, desperate.
You might suddenly want street creds and ghetto bling, gold teeth and inky tattoos.
Anything but the naked, virgin chest of yesteryear's Boy Band sensation.
You might want to be Justin Timberlake, who this month will debut in the film Alpha Dog as a white gang banger.
Think Emenem -- but not repellent. Think, actually, babydoll cute with a slaveboy haircut and a lovely sun-kissed six-pack constantly on display.
Yes, Justin is all Street -- except the street is Rodeo Drive.
Alpha Dog marks the first major American release for the pop-star turned actor. (A previous movie, Edison, was so bad it was pulled in the U.S after a disastrous test run in South America.)
The film recounts the real-life story of Jesse James Hollywood, a drug dealer who became the youngest men ever to be on the FBI's Most Wanted List. Timberlake plays Hollywood's best friend -- a role he seemed to be understudying ever since he was sniffing around Britney Spears, only to be replaced when a real scumbag came into her life. (But on the subject of Kevin Federline and his suitability for depraved motel sex, Nightcharm has already waxed poetic.)
In keeping with a real (and really hideous) Rosary Cross tattoo that takes over much of Timberlake's shapely upper arm, fake tattoos have been added for the role, including a humongous Virgin Mary, radiating sun rays (in her Mexican peon guise as Our Lady of Guadalupe); the year "1976" marching across his pecs in HEADLINE-point figures; and the obligatory super-sized Chinese characters stacked down his torso.
Add the gold veneers on his front teeth and you have the fulfilled realization of the sort of bottom-feeder kitsch that JT, in his vanilla prettyboy way, has lately been aspiring to. And not simply onscreen.
Whatever happened to just looking clean and fuckable?
Why the scuzz look of rusty underwear and bad jalapeÃ±os breath? Talk about your wardrobe malfunctions!
In the words of Randy Jackson, American Idol's resident Scholar of Inner City Studies, "You're totally off the chain, dawg."