“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. (more…)

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. (more…)

"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. (more…)

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. (more…)

American Idol’s only equal within the carnival of culture is JK Rowlings’ Harry Potter. Both are juggernauts that have spellbound the public and created a mini-religion. What’s the secret? As a motif, both work within the realm of corporeal magic.

I disagree with folks who claim American Idol is popular because it traffics in humiliation. In fact, that’s the opposite of what the tribunal is about. Thirty four million people vote for their favorite Idolette each Tuesday night. There’s some sort of hormonal impulse that makes us respond with a devout fervor to the beauty, showmanship and glamour. Set these qualities within the magical realm of music — and well, it’s better than Jesus! (more…)

I’ve written in previous entries about the hideousness of contemporary fashions for women. The frumpy, dangling or bunched designs are misogynistic, spearheaded by a motto that goes: "Let’s make women look as unattractive as possible and see if they’ll still continue to purchase this shit." It’s a plot line plucked from an Ayn Rand novel: you know, the ugly marketed as beautiful, the mediocre as extraordinary. (more…)

So the theme for last week was gay songs — I mean showtunes. Immediately my heart sank — I guess I’m just not that gay.

At this point in the master game, either you were there, riveted to the set, knowing who’s who (as in previous weeks) — or you could care less and have stumbled onto this page after doing a search for some sexy eyecandy. You dawg. (more…)

Jeff Fucking Gannon!

You remember Jeff Fucking Gannon — male hootchie, gay escort, the guy who wasn’t a journalist but played one on TV. The guy who was selling his piss online while he was waved into the White House briefing room so he could shill for the Bush administration by asking laudatory non-questions. The unhappy homo Jeff who happily asserted (for pay, of course) that John Kerry, if he won, and by virtue of his support from marrying sodomites, would be the "First Gay President." Yes, that Jeff Gannon. (more…)