In the immortal words of Susan Powter: Stop The Insanity. We know it’s only an ad campaign, but who wouldn’t run for a copy of Zolar’s Dream Dictionary to make sense of Dolce & Gabbana‘s latest excursion into Consumer Mind-Fuck?

Not even Freud could decipher this hallucination. (read the full article)

It worked miracles for Julie Andrews and her brood of cloying kinder. And Oprah’s televised favorites are horrifyingly legendary. So why not me? Only difference: no singing children, no shrieking haus-fraus.

So, here’s my Fave Raves of 2005. Good times!

1. My boyfriend. After I removed my six-year diary from the site, I promised myself I wouldn’t write about boyfriends again. But after 2004′s annus horribilis of ne’er-do-wells, alcoholics, forlorn puers, muscle queens and specious dress-shop owners — meeting Kelly felt like divine intervention. He’s a musician and a thinker. We make each other laugh. And for such a tender age (14 — kidding, 27), he has the wisdom and emotional savvy of French philosophers and Hindi gurus. I’m smitten. Thank you Craigslist! (read the full article)

It’s that time of year again. Out tumble the 2006 calendars. Collected shots of gardens, monster trucks and pugs dressed up as children.

And big swaths of stud-flesh on parade.

Scores of beefcake calendars arrive in our office each October. We’ve seen them all. But this year’s standout has got to be Dieux du Stade 2006, featuring the French rugby team in all its glory. Twelve months of nude sportsmen carefully configured with footballs and clinging wet towels — all shot with a retro-porn twist by Paris photographer Fred Goudon. (read the full article)

In her September 11 essay for Salon, Stacey D’Erasmo’s calm, metered prose dug a hole straight to my heart — and became a kind of poem. Just what I needed.

The title of her piece Flicked Aside By The Universe assured me this wasn’t going to be another polemical jaunt into Bushville. Of all that I’d had enough, after hours of CNN, and net hopping, writing for this site and phone talking — worry bead-like activities that haven’t done much to move me back to my familiar, everyday center. (read the full article)

The father of fifteen minute famewhoring, Andy Warhol, couldn’t have devised a better set up: A sitcom about a desperate reality show star that’s set amidst a doomed Three’s Company-flavored-for-the-00s sitcom (idiotically titled Room and Bored) — that stars — in real life — a star from Friends, one of television history’s most successful sitcoms.

My mind reeled.

Here’s what I’ll miss most about Lisa Kudrow and her series The Comeback:

1. The Entertaining Mind Fuck. I loved watching a thirty-minute show that miraculously managed to generate equal portions laughter, compassion, horror and disdain — all in one short swoop.

Ibsen couldn’t have done it better. Big chunks of time would pass while watching the show before I snapped to and realized that I hadn’t been laughing — and shouldn’t I have been? And that sort of head scratching made me think about, and appreciate the show even more. There was a lot to, ultimately, cherish. The show just needed time to reveal its skewed direction. (read the full article)

Tragedy and triumph often walk hand in hand — and the news today within the world of all things gay proves there’s no exception to this yin-yang cosmic law.

We only wonder if somehow the following two events might be connected:

First the bad news: A pair of ruby slippers worn by Judy Garland in The Wizard of Oz has vanished from a Grand Rapids museum. Police believe that someone snuck into the Children’s Discovery Museum through an open window late Saturday or early Sunday and broke into the display case holding the slippers. (read the full article)

Mayhem, delirium, destruction. It’s War of the Worlds children — strap yourself in! Warning: spoilers ahead.

To address Edwin Starr’s burning question, from his 1972 Motown mega-hit, War (“What is it good for?”) I must answer: Watching Tom Cruise being sucked up into a giant alien spaceship’s anus. That’s what it’s good for.

Of course, moments later, while still rectally lodged, Tommy pulls a couple of hand grenade’s pins out with his teeth and soon the entire metal booty is rocking and groaning and exploding — freeing Mr. Cruise, his comatose daughter and the other poor captives from their heinous fate of becoming bloody Miracle Grow for planet Red Alert!

O! Hollywood, thank you for that! L. Ron Hubbard couldn’t have written it better (read the full article)

“I’m so sick and tired of the shit on the radio…” That’s the opening salvo from the one summer album you’ll want to start saving your lunch money for — now. Esthero‘s Wikked Lil’ Grrrls , scheduled for a June 25 release. (read the full article)

What’s sexier than a thick-armed, fire-headed rocker? Well, this big boy could be shirtless too. But Josh Homme refuses to shed threads for the camera!

After watching him perform last night on Saturday Night Live as the smoldering frontman for Queens of the Stone Age, I spent the day googling and couldn’t come up with even one near-naked image of him half as hot as his face. He looks to me like the lovechild of Eric Stoltz and Elvis Presley. And that’s my kind of man love!

Josh Homme chose the peculiar name Queens of the Stone Age for his band because he felt its gay vibe would repel the dumbest yahoos in the moshpit and attract a better grade of headbanger to his concerts. If the Queens’ rushing guitar riffs don’t dazzle you — relax — Homme’s “big red” presence certainly will — big time.

Even when SNL host Will Ferrell “joined” the band last night, sporting a goofy blond afro and clanging a cowbell, the beefy, 6-foot-5 Homme continued to monopolize the stage with his ace guitar work and fullblown sexual authority. He conveyed both a low-key amiability, as well as the menace of a young tough curling his lip in a sneer. (read the full article)

“I’ve never watched it…The word ‘mainstream’ comes to mind.”
       — Courtney Love outside the Kodak Theater with her small daughter,
             who wanted to see the American Idol finale.

Last night the 12-year-old girl that lives inside me was murdered. Like Sally Field in Sybil, I always knew the inevitable moment would arrive when I would need to split from that naive little personality. That moment came last night. (read the full article)

With downbeat colors and the lurid Naked City imagery of Depression-era painters like Reginald Marsh, Owen Smith is single-handedly reviving the venacular style of a coarse and brutal America only glimpsed now in the HBO series Carnivale and the shadowy neo-noir film Sin City. His painting “Don’t Ask” (above) is typical of his sweaty, narrative style. Here two male groups are in collision, the grossed-out soldiers clearly overwhelmed by the larger figures of a fleshy gay couple, one of whom looks back with an easy air of desire — but more than that, of challenge. (read the full article)

"It’s more than magnificent. It’s mediocre."
                                                                        – Samuel Goldwyn

With Scott Savol’s exit from American Idol last week, fans are left to the mercy of the banal, the branded and the boring. Things are so bad that Anthony Fedorov now stands out — though not in a good way. With one of the most brazenly schmaltzy, Euro-pop voices to ever reach the top-five Idol slots, Fedorov never fails to deal me a freakishly uncomfortable aural experience. When I hear Anthony go off in song I envision a troupe of moon-eyed Keane urchins straggling across the field of my inner eye. It’s truly soul killing. (read the full article)

I go willing down the Bread and Circus-like path that is all things American Idol. I watch for the same reasons you do. The high kitsch. The thrill of competion. The drunken shouts at the telelvison. (read the full article)