Look, times are tough.

Deep down, we’re all wanting to foment an urban riot, join a vicious gang, start a fire, and serve up a serious beat-down.

The trick is to plan ahead for if and when the law catches up to you.

Frankly, the only reason I haven’t been murdered yet is because I expect to be murdered by everyone around me, so just as I take steps to avoid being snuffed, I also plan ahead for my eventual arrest — in the sense that I want to take a really great mugshot.

Not since the ’40s Golden Age of Hollywood when producers foolishly — and futilely — tried to crack down on the bad behavior of their stars has the fallen celebrity perp walk and mugshot been as highly scrutinized as it is now. Lately, it seems like everybody — from the entitled A-List, to the wannabe D-List — are flaring out pretty damn spectacularly. Sloshed Hollywood actresses are staging jailbreaks that wouldn’t be out of place in a Charlie’s Angels episode, and with even mainstream models willing to engage in bow-chick-a-bow-wow porn exposition to get out of a clinch, gay porn stars who get busted have got to bring their photogenic A-Games to keep up.

So, if you are a pro who finds himself altered, unruly, and jizz-spattered at the wrong place and time — or like me, you want to be well-versed in mugshot composition just in case — here’s what to keep in mind in order to be ready for your big close-up — all of it guaranteed to give you the Jane Fonda effect over the unfortunate Nick Nolte: (read the full article)

As a God-fearing, Free Market-championing member of the Young Republican National Federation — with a regulation sensible haircut — I understand exactly why our economy is faltering in the face of adversity:

It’s the Gays.

Our work force used to be comprised of square-jawed, callous-handed chick ballers who were toiling away in mills and factories by dawn’s earliest light, returning home well after dusk to give their home fires-stoking wives a proper missionary-style jump start before retiring at a decent hour so as not to awake bleary-eyed. Now, with the dread Gay Agenda no longer willing to satiate itself with slender boys, we’re losing more and more lumbering All-American males to its provocative lure.

Whenever I Google phrases like “Gay Power” or “Gay Work” — an unenviable but necessary practice that both maintains my hate and let’s me remember precisely what I’m against — all I’m confronted with are images of men lounging around in the buff, hands as smooth and manicured as their arched, overdeveloped posteriors, all of them in some heavy-lidded state in which nothing productive is being achieved. Do any of them contribute to society, or care about the GDP? No! — It’s nothing but voluptuous, curvaceous, distracting, ripe-as-Halloween-pumpkins man-ass as far as the eye can see! Do these Johnny-Do-Nothings honestly expect that respectful citizens will pay, what?, some sort of subscription fee in order to see such wayward men flaunt their Vargas girl asses, engaging in all manner of libidinous spectacle — bouncing, flexing, clenching, thrusting with Homo-Fascist abandon?

Good try, you wily man-tarts, but this makes me sick! Time is money, and idle man-flanks are a known Communist recruiting tactic!

Growing up I was all boy. A soccer-playing, Batman-loving, and G.I. Joe-centric child, it must have been a comfort to my unsuspecting mother. Thinking that I was just a curious little boy who enjoyed reading Encyclopedia Britannica, what she didn’t know was that I was reading them not because her son was an incredibly bright little boy, but rather because he was gawking at pictures of Michelangelo’s David. Also, my beloved G.I. Joes were all taking on the Vietcong in the buff. Sorry mom (and Vietnam).

We all had our gay idiosyncrasies — queer-diosynrasies if you will — as children. Occasionally, they slipped out through the conservative cracks in our bones, only to be revealed in the sleight-est of hands in the occasional family photo. A blog called Born This Way is paying homage to those little queer moments gay children have. Yes, I said “gay children.”

The blog features pictures of people, of all genders, as children with an accompanying essay from that child’s grown-up counterpart. The essays are a poignant reminder of what it is like to be a child who knows that they are just a little different.

Start your reflective journey here.

Boys showing off their junk!

We live in the Age of Porncreep, where everyone aspires to be a porn model — from the boy next door to the store-bought boy on DVD. The Under-Thirties just can’t take off their clothes for the camera fast enough.

And yet…What could be more wholesome and natural, to quote Tallulah Bankhead, who when Chico Marx tried to get a rise out of the lanky glamorgirl with a crude “I intend to fuck you, Miss Bankhead,” replied, “And so you shall, you dear old-fashion boy!”

Old-fashion boys have always been proud of their displays — the peacock (not peahen) flares open his tail to reveal a starry twilight sky out of the Arabian Nights, and this magnificence finds its boydom equivalent in the raging two-handfuls of hard-on.

Indeed, what could be more wholesome and natural …. with one slight but very modern twist.

Here we invoke the shade of the now forgotten Jeff Gannon:

In the wake of the gay-escort scandal that would reveal Jeff Gannon to be not only a Republican mouthpiece planted at White House press briefings to ask friendly, Bush-idolatrous questions but that he himself — a studly Lex Luthor lookalike with bald, cue-ball head — was a gay hustler with a website that sold dates, underwear, and his own bodily secretions … in the wake of this the most delicious “Family Values” scandal of 2005, ol’ Jeffrey faced the hostile questioners with a bland Lex Luthor smile and the sort of uncanny clairvoyance usually left to Allison DuBois. (read the full article)

1519: The Conquest of Mexico begins, with the Spanish conquistadors flooding from their galleons, the first wave mounted on their strange war beasts, bound for Tenochtitlan. The Aztecs had no horses among them, and so at first mistook the invaders for warriors upon the backs of stags, and then for some fearsome breed of horse-men, and finally for gods issuing forth from towers risen out of the sea. Cortés slays Emperor Montezuma, then the victors loot the gold of the Aztec treasury.

Flashforward to the relative present, the archetypal Reagan Era (European-) American killing machine — tousle-haired, bronze-fleshed, marble-chested, battle-scarred — still depicted as a conqueror seated upon the back of a horse.

This is what’s known as a classic sex triangle in which an entirely superfluous woman acts as a base to buffer a perfect gay right angle.

I learned about it in college.

From books.

Half-naked men!

It’s hard to top full-frontal nudity. But some half-dressed men — like the one at left — manage to do it with the sheer menace of their stare… the size of their arms! … the rip of their abs!

Why is it that certain stages of undress appear more naked than outright nudity?

The answer, I think, lies in the eye of the beholder.

Certainly we gay men look at half-naked men more aggressively than women do. The difference has little to do with homosexuality, a lot to do with the male sexual gaze.

“Men look at women,” gender scholar John Berger famously observed. “Women watch themselves being looked at.”

It’s a crucial difference. I think it is this eye-hunger, the frank aggressiveness of the male gaze, that explains why the half-nude seems more maddening to us than the Full Monty.

There is also the fetish power of clothing. Fetishes, for the most part, are about clothes — particularly those sexually charged costumes in which the body appears to be both naked and not naked at the same time: (read the full article)

There are so many things right with this picture of the ultimate alterna-boy, Jonathan Rhys Myers, returning to his car after shopping for dinner that we feel compelled to point them out to you.

In fact we feel these photos should be used as instructional examples for all aspiring male sex symbols to study before ever venturing out into public. (read the full article)

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.
(read the full article)

Why am I not surprised? We are, after all, still living in the reign of George II, King of the Second-Rates. American Idol‘s two best vocalists — Elliott Yamin and Paris Bennett — hit the bottom two last night. So let’s see, that leaves the show’s next best vocalist Katharine McPhee lodged in the number three slot with the Monotone Maven (Chris Daughtery) and Gray Charles (Taylor Hicks) in the top two.

Let’s skip the psychics and decode Idol‘s new “official” photo (right) which was released this morning. The tableau tells us exactly how the next four weeks will play out. Photo’s often reveal more than we dare hope for, and this one … well, this one’s got me crying in my beer.

Elliott, smushed to the edge and with the lowest height, will be the next Idolette to follow little Paris down the chute.

Nerves did him in during Tuesday’s opener, a notoriously bad placement on the show. There’s a reason long-time viewers of Idol call it the Death Spot. (read the full article)