Forget Clint-Obama-Rama. And our economy sliding over a cliff.

At Sunday’s Grammy Awards a cataclysm of titanic proportion occurred when Beyonce Knowles introduced a waiting-in-the-wings Tina Turner to a drop-jaw audience as … “The Queen.”

Come Monday an irritated
Aretha Franklin, always and forever to be known as The Queen of Soul, declared the following about the supposed contretemps:

“I dismissed it as a cheap shot for controversy.”

Franklin then made like Storm from the X-Men superheros team and with a severe sweep of her arm annihilated dozens of neighborhoods in Beyonce’s hometown of Houston Texas.

What Aretha may have lost in of-the-moment pop music relevance during recent years — where her musical output has been scattershot and weakly received — she seems to be making up for in sheer mass and madcap, could-give-a-fuck fashion chutzpah. (more…)

Gentlemen, your body is a follicular battlefield.

The male identity conundrum of the moment is body waxing. When to do it? How much is too much? Should we even be bothering at all? Is the aesthetic pressure placed for centuries upon the female form striking back at us like a livid rattlesnake clutched by the tail?

The full-throttle nether region wax — dubbed “the Boyzilian” in beauty industry vernacular — is not unlike the Gaza Strip: sacred ground for those male specimens stridently opposed to intimate grooming and an area destined for occupation by those keen on altering the lay of the land. The struggle for manly self-definition may at last be reaching a tipping point; more men are apparently opting for yea rather than nay.

David Beckham — he of the blissfully unthinking visage and Neoclassical physique — and his recent underwear-clad Armani fashion spread have only made the trend that much more discernible. The footballer’s silky bikini line has accrued as much scrutiny as his cod piece-worthy groin. With the heartthrob-of-the-moment and other depilitated notables caught in the flash bulb going flush below their equators, salons are reporting an influx of men from all walks of life following suit. Not just your uptown Patrick Batemanesque power brokers either. Construction workers and other hands-on types are reported to be the most surprising converts. (more…)

“I can’t take a well-tanned person seriously.” — Cleveland Amory

Hat tip to Bar Stool Sports.

Isn’t a body that is scantily clad more alluring than a body stripped bare?

Stop a moment and consider the question. You, with your fervid drive to gobble up all the eye candy you can possibly ingest without causing premature blindness. We’re talking to you.

Take for instance one of the Inner Circle’s new models Javan (yes, that’s his real name). Doesn’t the above photo give pause — freeing your fantasy world, allowing your imagination to explode? Concocting your own private, inner world reverie. How satisfying. Yes?

Isn’t that condition a thousand times more erotic than a lewd photograph featuring some model’s engorged genitalia rearing wantonly stiff against the background of a lush California fern garden?

Well, isn’t it? (more…)

Don Quixote had it right.

Macrophilia. It’s big terminology for a big inkling … as in the intense sexual attraction to literal giants.

Giants — be they the stuff of the grandest legend or the wonkiest sci-fi romp — are as chimerical as the unicorn or the mermaid, creatures born of mankind’s entreaty to find something more magical than itself. It’s that heady ambition that drives Macrophilia, an abstraction that can never truly be realized yet still beguiles its dreamers nonetheless.

Plus it makes for some great fanfare:

Mammoths with unfettered desires and unyielding bodies! Behemoths breaking seams and busting asses! Grasping! Looming! Dwarfing! Crushing! Cyclopean troglodytes who crave the delicate pleasures that only man can provide! Your body — their plaything. Your world — their toy box! (more…)

John “Your body is a wonderland” Mayer does Borat.

Hat tip to Huffington Post.

Super Bowl? Frankly, we prefer the Oscars.

Super Bowl for us is about the new beer commercials where guys make ever bigger jackasses of themselves and, of course, the always good for a laugh half-time show. (Will Britney be this year’s surprise, wowing the fans as she runs onto the field in straight jacket, amid screams and white-smocked orderlies chasing after her with butterfly nets? Only to be met by Dr. Phil rising out of the stage in a sinister puff of smoke, joining his bullfrog basso to her moany contralto for a kick-ass rip on Joey Ramone’s I Wanna Be Sedated. We can only hope.)

As for the actual football game that is played at the Super Bowl: not really our thing, darling. Football players, however … another story entirely.

And apparently we’re not alone. (more…)