I haven’t watched MTV’s The Real World since 1998 (Real World Seattle) after the slap heard around the world. This occurred when Irene McGee left due to “health issues” and upon leaving called Stephen Williams gay, who in turn slapped her through a car window. Note: Within 10 years Williams would be out of the closet and engaged to a man.
Before there were sparkly pussy vampires and musical theater sprites learning Very Special Episode lessons about being nice to fat girls, there was an epic show called Buffy The Vampire Slayer that featured vicious vampire sex machines, troubled teenage misanthropes, and a huge gay following. Buffy is slated to return, but will we even recognize her?: That big-screen Buffy the Vampire Slayer we’ve been hoping for is finally moving forward, but it turns out it’ll be without Sarah Michelle Gellar—and without Buffy mastermind Joss Whedon.
I hardly ever go the movies anymore. It just doesn’t really do it for me like it used to, and I don’t particularly miss it. Maybe it’s the idiots who can’t stay off cell phones for a whole ninety minutes. It could be that home theaters have made the movie viewing experience much more pleasurable in terms of controlling content and ambiance.
What’s more maddening than getting job advice from the well-employed or dating tips from the perpetually attached? How about sage wisdom on substance from fawning celebrity glorifiers?: â€œIf I could change one thing about our world, I would change how people measure their self-worth against material objects. I enjoy capitalism, but I do not let capitalism define me. You are not who you are married to or what car you drive or what kind of apartment you live in.
I thought of them as the Cocaine Trilogy: Xanadu, Can’t Stop the Music, and My Tutor. Movies made around the magic year 1980, written, produced and starring cocaine, that is, addled movie insiders whose every idea was taken to be fucking brilliant. The ruins of such cocaine circle-jerks can be seen in the trailer above. What memories it doesn’t bring back!
If you’re like us and abhor your typical generic sitcom for its callow puerility, hermetically-sealed staginess, eye-rolling reliance on familial relations, and catch phrase-happy brats, then NBC’s Community may have slipped under your radar. Convention-breaking, wordsmithy, and deadpanningly unsentimental, the series — actually lensed at two L.A. community colleges — follows the continuing adult education misadventures of a motley, makeshift family of losers and wandering souls addled with neuroses and just gnawing at the bit to fuck the hell out of each other
Twilight Star Reveals He Hates Women’s Private Parts. So reads the headline over at MTV Australia. Ace reporter Sophie Barnett fills us in with the following facts and opening bombshell: Robert Pattinson has hinted he may be gay. Or a straight zoophile. Frankly, we’re not sure The Twilight actor — this decade’s answer to C Thomas Howell or Christopher Atkins — who’s been linked to his anemic, “I’m, like, so bored with fame and money…” co-star Kristen Stewart, has sparked rumors about his sexuality after he likened lady parts to shellfish or peanuts following a typically tawdry photo shoot for Details magazine.
To be a bankable Hollywood action star, you have to have some requisite aces up your sleeve if you hope to achieve success. You have to sleep with the right people. You need to symbolically connect as straight men’s dream projections of their own idealized selves, while simultaneously embodying a fantasy mate for women and gays — one capable of merciless defense and slaughter, usually while shirtless.
Everything was bigger in the ’80s. The greed. The hair. The shoulder pads. The himbos. The Me Decade was all about proving you had enough cash to provide you with leisure time, and the fads it introduced are aptly era-specific to a tone set by the excesses of A.L.F., Xanadu, and American Psycho. Dad frequented the sports bar, Mom had her aerobics classes, and the kids played Laser Tag at the video arcade.
George Orwell once said that a man has the face that he deserves at age 50. And while I’d agree with that sentiment as it relates to just about every single post 50-year-old walking the planet today — think Dick Cheney — I’d have to take exception with how that curse applied to Michael Jackson. Dead at 50 and possessing a face with which no one should ever have to contend.