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 (read the full article)

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. Class…

We’ll let Bedhead explain it himself:

“I really hate vaginas. I’m allergic to vagina. But I can’t say I had no idea, because it was a 12-hour shoot, so you kind of get the picture that these women are going to stay naked after, like, five or six hours. But I wasn’t exactly prepared. I had no idea what to say to these girls. Thank God I was hungover.”

So maybe’s he’s just into ass? Or strictly oral? Frottage? It only gets weirder. Figuring alienating legions of female fans and making himself look like he’s been huffing paint thinner just wasn’t quite enough of a self-lit immolation, Sparkly continued to elaborate. You see, the girly crevice may be a turn-off, but trunks — that shit is fucking hot. (read the full article)

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. You need a PR machine at your back that will propel you up the ladder. You must marry a blonde woman, likely younger than you and willing to accept a prenup so you can trade her in for a less mature model when she hits her early 30s. (read the full article)

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.

Even the strip club became a legitimate business venture in Reagan America. Gone were the days of low-rent joints with seedy-looking women doing the Pony while having the DTs and just-out-of-the-joint ex-con rough trade shimmying to sleazy disco tracks; the men had their upscale gentlemen’s clubs where doctors, brokers, and lawyers could take in the buffet as they scoped out single mothers, dental hygiene students, and touring porn stars on the pole. (read the full article)

Nensha, bitches.

It’s a term I tangentially referred to in an earlier post this month, and a theory I’m frankly fascinated with.

Its essence is this: the human mind with all its untapped power has the ability to psychically impress or burn an image into our physical reality, and thus alter it irrevocably. Post-War Japanese researchers devoted much effort into proving its existence — it would later serve as the basis for the nation’s much-praised film Ringu and its equally effective American remake The Ring — but the doctrine was for decades deemed merely a The Men Who Stare At Goats-type of new age hokum. A flight of fantasy. A failure.

All that changed in 1999 when Nensha was revealed to be a wholly factual (and utterly terrifying) phenomenon brought about not to revolutionize telecommunications or create a super soldier, but from sheer corporate music industry greed and folly.

An affront to Nature of the highest order. (read the full article)

He’s gay, and boys, he’s OUT!
The Broadway Star We’d Most Like to Co-star With:
Cheyenne Jackson

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. Mike’s adult face was actually a mask. A direct creation of self-hatred, plain and simple. That and the way our own ghoulish fascination with his self-loathing spurred him on. An obsession that was prodded, secretly I think, by that part within each of us that dislikes parts of ourselves: wrinkles, sags, spots, dots; imperfection. Given unlimited wealth and time, Michael could nip, tuck, tweak and freak to his heart’s content. Only he could never get away from the self-loathing.

But enough bummer talk. Michael was a true blue puer aeternus … and no self-respecting puer, worth their essence in gold records, should ever live into his fifties. Michael was just taking leave on cue, true to his mythology. It makes perfect sense to me. (read the full article)

I Just Want to Fucking Dance, Part III
Part II
Part I