Internal Office Memorandum
---
TO: Matthew Haber
FROM: Jean-Paul B. Tremblay
CC: Guy Vincent Cimbalo VIII
DATE: Timeless, by Goldie
---
OK, gentlemen, you were right. That's really the only explanation I can surmise for this shot across the bow.

Going off to help teach impoverished and undereducated children in the wilds of Ecuador this winter –– whilst concurrently having left behind that online "Reader Feedback" forum –– turned out to be a dreadfully bad idea. Heinous, even. (Though my lack of internet connectivity proved to be beneficial in polishing my storytelling chops; it's quite striking how my ignorance of all things Denise Richards/Charlie Sheen and Randy "Duke" Cunningham/Mitchell Wade allowed my newfound gift for narrative confabulation to shine at those Quito-based USAID cocktail parties thrown in junction with Rafael and Lucio...I had people actually believing that I was an expert on everything from Supreme Court litmus tests to the canonical ambient compositions of Brian Eno and Harold Budd. Astounding!)

So, like I was saying, that "Reader Feedback" thing for low culture...a fucking bad, bad, bad idea.

The indignant, self-righteous anger that poured forth from said forum! As though people were entitled to free content on the web! I've always felt that unless you're an impoverished Ecuadorian, you're not entitled to any such handouts. How very wrong I have since been proven.

And now, not only have we disappointed myriad readers, we seem to have incited some form of extremely aggressive hostility. I am humbled and chastened.

Apparently, these "blog" things are hot shit, and we missed the boat on this one, lads. Or I personally dropped the ball. Or darted home without tagging up at third base. Or mixed sporting metaphors. Fuck if I know; my athletic knowledge is limited to the realm of sexual acrobatics, and that's about it. (My mother once told me a man would fuck a snake if you held its head. I have since learned this is quite true.)

Anyways, let's a get a cease-and-desist out on these guys...there's got to be some form of copyright law or anti-parodic justification we can rely on, right? Do either of you know Lawrence Lessig?

Mucho regardo,
jp

P.S.: Guy, I couldn't help but notice that somehow you managed to escape their assault...I mean, there aren't any embarrassingly amateur photos of you posted on that site. No Flickr attack whatsoever. So the idea that you were behind this, I have to admit, did cross my mind, though I am willing to give your treacherous ass the benefit of the doubt.

What classic American value! 14 episodes of the under-appreciated "Planet of the Apes" television series, finally available on DVD for a mere $43. I can put it on my shelf right next to other similar items, such as...

Ummm. OK, then. The "Similar Items" list also includes, for what it's worth, "Unforgivable Blackness: The Rise And Fall Of Jack Johnson" and "What's Love Got To Do With It (Full Frame)".

(Thanks to jfajitas.)

UPDATED: Apparently this was already caught by a blogger named SanDiegoJohnny back in October of last year, which somehow makes this even worse, in that it has remained unchanged for months, now, and an entire season of holiday shoppers was exposed to such post-Katrina Kommodity Kommentary.

From "Carey, Legend, West Lead Grammy Nods", the Associated Press, December 8, 2005:

[Mariah] Carey's eight nominations tied John Legend and Kanye West. Soul crooner Legend's nominations included best new artist, while West is up for album of the year for "Late Registration" and song of the year for "Gold Digger." "I feel incredible," said Legend, a West protege whose debut "Get Lifted" was a million-seller. "You put a lot of expectations into what you want the record to be."

Other multiple nominees included 50 Cent, Gwen Stefani, U2 and Bruce Springsteen.

From the Academy's list of official nominees:

12. Dance Recording: "Galvanize," The Chemical Brothers featuring Q- Tip; "Say Hello," Deep Dish: "Wonderful Night," Fatboy Slim & Lateef; "Daft Punk Is Playing at My House," LCD Soundsystem; "I Believe in You," Kylie Minogue; "Guilt Is a Useless Emotion," New Order.

13. Electronic/Dance Album: "Push the Button," The Chemical Brothers; "Human After All," Daft Punk; "Palookaville," Fatboy Slim; "Minimum- Maximum," Kraftwerk; "LCD Soundsystem," LCD Soundsystem.

See, it's always good for the DFA-haters to get some perspective.

It's almost enough to make one think there still exists a segment of the record-buying populace who hasn't heard Murphy's debut album. Have these poor people not set foot in an Urban Outfitters this past year?

People make the world go 'round. Someone said that once, and while it's not technically true—angular momentum as explained in the equation L=m*w*r2 makes the world go 'round—people are much more fascinating, especially when they pose for photographs. Welcome to the annual low culture 50, a definitive look at people whose photos we could find. This year's 50 run the gamut from cartoon characters to Presidents— and, no, that's not a political statement, silly! This is a 'shallow' post: None of that gloomy guff here. This is meant to make you smile. And if you're in The low culture 50, you really have a reason to smile!

Paul McCartney	Wanda Sykes	Ann Curry
Robert Johnson (BET)	Robert Johnson (Blues)	Ed Helms
Richard Perle	Andre Agassi	Jerry Rice
bell hooks	Theo Epstein	Steven Soderbergh
Fredric Jameson	Carrie Underwood	Elvis Mitchell
Stuart Price (aka Jacques Lu Cont)	Martha Stewart	Curt Freese, Ph.D
Keira Knightley	Steve Case	Steve Jobs
Les Moonves	Harvey Mackay	Robert W. Fogel
Howard Dean	Aisha Tyler	Christine Taylor
Dave Foley	Leon Trotsky	Frank Perdue
Goran Visjnic	Grover Cleveland	Jean Baudrillard
Jeff Greenfield	Maggie Cheung	Jesse Oxfeld
Jonathan Lipnicki	Koko	Little Ronnie Howard
Mr. Hat	Nat Hentoff	Philip Michael Thomas
Quentin Tarantino	Rakim	Ringo Starr
Sho Kosugi	The Feral Kid from Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior	Wario
Wilbur Wright	Woody Harrelson

At Home in Oliver's Macedonia and Woody's London, the New York Times, November 6, 2005

Selected highlights from the Times' Hollywood scribe Sharon Waxman's interview/Q&A with actor Jonathan Rhys-Meyers, star of Woody Allen's upcoming tennis thriller Match Point...

First up? The 28-year-old actor touches upon this whole "crisis in the Middle East" thing and its relationship to his filming Alexander with director Oliver Stone:

RHYS-MEYERS: You had 20 young male actors, as his main friends, and then 350 soldiers who'd recently pulled out of Basra and Tikrit - they were all actual soldiers. These guys were constantly living their life to the full, because when they were finished, they were being sent back to the Middle East.

WAXMAN: Let's talk about "Match Point."

OK, so the subject of Iraq doesn't interest Waxman so much. Or, at least, an Irish actor's take on Iraq. What about an Irish actor's take on being, hmmm, an Irish actor?

WAXMAN: Are you very Irish?

RHYS-MEYERS: What's very Irish?

WAXMAN: Are you attached to being Irish?

RHYS-MEYERS: Am I in touch with my roots? Yes, I am very Irish.

And with that matter settled, young Jonathan returned to his pensive brooding, coyly maneuvering his gaze about the room, pausing ever-so-briefly to flit his eyelashes...and looking anywhere, anywhere but at this cursed interviewer who had deigned to help him promote his most recent film.

Rims sold separately
12 mpg city/16 mpg playground
Some rollover risk

You assume they're referring to Chris Martin, lead feyboy of Coldplay, not Paul Martin, Prime Minister of Canada.

This week we made funny with:

Chris Ware's eavesdropping, sexist cripples!

Elmore Leonard's alcoholic spinsters and blood-thirsty lawmen!

"You shot the four guys who drove their car into the roadhouse that time, all of them coming out armed and standing fairly close. One of 'em, Nestor Lott, the ex-federal agent gone bad, packed two .45's cinched to his legs. Nestor pulled on you and you shot him and turned and shot the other three." Gary paused.

Carl said: "This friend of Peyton's, Venicia Munson, was an old-maid schoolteacher who drank Peyton's wildcat whiskey and didn't care who knew it. We're sitting in her kitchen waiting for Peyton to show, she told me she was scared to death. I said, 'Well, that'll teach you to get mixed up with a bank robber.' She said: 'You're the one scares me, not Peyton. I can tell you'd rather shoot him than bring him in.' She said it was why I became a marshal, to get to carry a gun and shoot people."

And Firoozeh Dumas' racially-profiled family!

As soon as my father showed up, we started singing "Happy Birthday" in English. It would have been more natural for us to sing in Persian, but if you are part of a large Middle Eastern contingency these days, you're already scaring people. Add to that a loud song with guttural sounds and clapping, and you have passengers speed-dialing the Department of Homeland Security.

Previously: More Hilarity from the New York Times Magazine's "Funny Pages," and As Seen On The New York Times Magazine's "Funny Pages"

As Slate has been less-than-stellar about maintaining "The Breakfast Table," a once-beloved feature that, regrettably, has since been allowed to languish, we asked the site's editor Jacob Weisberg for permission to license it for our own usage, and he, of course, agreed, recognizing that low culture has always outshone his own tepidly downtrodden site in all the ways that matter, but most notably in the manner in which we've historically been very strong at using the format of two disparate-yet-complementary experts weighing in on the issues of the day. Also, he acknowledged how great we were with excessively long and unnecessarily verbose introductory sentences. He's a good editor.

And with that, we introduce our two "Breakfast Table" panelists for this leisurely Friday afternoon; first, we have one Alex Pareene, a student of dramaturgical matters and working-class struggle, and Jean-Paul Tremblay, a self-employed and self-professed expert in theatrical composition and post-Jamesonian Marxism.

---

From: Jean-Paul Tremblay
To: Alex Pareene
Subject: Scooting out the door?
Friday, October 28, 2005, at 2:06 AM EST

Alex:

I probably shouldn't be starting our exchange yet, because it's not yet dawn and I just got back from the loudest, most raucous fucking dress rehearsal ever, but I just got a hunch on the cab ride home from the theater that Libby's going to go down today. I've traced this idea to a realization I had while watching my play's lead actor limp around onstage in crutches, whereupon I saw that if the character had been unable to afford healthcare, we'd have had to reformat the setpieces such that the entire play was comprised of a conversation on a couch. Which'd be far more David Rabe than Luigi Pirandello, and you know how much I go for an early twentieth-century motif with my body of work. Anyways, the dude's in crutches. And so is Libby, and Libby has money, and the crutches are his means of power...the money is the crutch. And the disability is his means of power. And if he's indicted today, and goes down, it'll totally be this unjust transfer of power. Why do I ingest so much ketamine when working with these dress rehearsals? I have to stop. It fucks with my mind and logistical reasoning.

---

From: Alex Pareene
To: Jean-Paul Tremblay
Subject: Puttin' On the Fitz
Friday, October 28, 2005, at 10:25 AM EST

Jean-Paul,

Pirandello, my friend, was an inspired reference -- seeing Scooter Libby "go down," as you put it, brought to mind nothing so much as Pirandello's Enrico IV. Scooter, of course, is Berthold the valet. I see Cheney as the doctor and Judy Miller as Donna Matilda. The "mad" king is America itself, and today we learned that she is tired of wearing her mask.

"I just got a hunch," you say. I keep coming back to those words. Hunches and crutches, those tired dramatic devices. The hunch, Richard III's power, repugnant but impossibly attractive. The Neo-liberal hegemony fuctions in almost exactly the same fashion. And the crutch -- not money, I think, but the classical liberal ideal of the social contract. It's weakness, it's bathos, the greatest enemy of neo-liberal society. I've been revising my musical revue of historical materialism ("Sing, Sang, Materialistische GeschichtsauffasSung!"), so my thoughts are a bit scattered at the moment, but I think the entire leak investigation can be read as a critique of the Annales school's perversion of Marxist historiography. I'll tell you what I mean by that as soon as I finish skimming the Wikipedia entry about them.

---

From: Jean-Paul Tremblay
To: Alex Pareene
Subject: uggggh
Friday, October 28, 2005, at 4:04 PM EST

Alex, boyo,

It's really late in the afternoon, and I just woke up. Sorry about that. This is where the deconstructionist punster in me says, "Guess I missed 'breakfast,' huh?" And where you, the audience, groan.

Such audience participation is really what this whole Plame investigation was all about, I feel...with contributions from a range of professions as diverse as journalists and chiefs of staff. My theatrical production, premiering tonight, is derived from this participatory spirit, wherein I hope workers laboring within the coils of both Media and Government can unite to applaud the work of my crippled lead actor. Crippled by a staggering deficit, an astoundingly piss-poor educational system, and exposure to too much reality television.

In that vein, it's good to know that the populace will be focusing on possible jail time for this Libby fellow. Which, perversely, could be a boon for all of academia...just think of what Antonio Gramsci produced while in prison. I've often thought about adapting his "Prison Notebooks" for the stage, but have consistently come up short in this regard. Whom would I cast as "Hegemony," as you so briefly touch upon above? And in terms of undertaking such an adaptation, I never understood "hermeneutics" very much, to be honest.

I feel like such a sham. When people view my play tonight, they're going to know how phony I am, and how much I've borrowed from the Italian master. "Six Characters in Search of an Author"? I feel like my rendition is more akin to "A Nobody in Search of Some Credibility."

I hope you can make it. Coming by my show, I mean. I know you'll "make it" in all the other ways that matter, kid. You've got talent. Me? I feel like I'm about to pull a Benjamin and shoot myself.

From Wednesday's Entertainment Weekly Popwatch!

Who knew cult director Darren Aronofsky was a fan of the boob tube? The Requiem for a Dream helmer has just signed on to direct an episode of ABC’s Lost, which will likely air at the beginning of May sweeps... "We will try to put together a story that will be well-suited for Darren’s talents and visual imagination."

So what can we expect from Aronofsky's turn behind the camera? low culture has the exclusive preview, but beware, SPOILERS AHEAD!

Hurley grows increasingly crazed when he starts using amphetamines as an appetite suppressant.

Charlie's heroin habit hits an all-time low.

Those damned amputees are finally explained.

And someone's eye figures as a visual cue... But whose?

NB: The Kate-Claire "Ass to Ass" scene is too graphic to be shown here.

by JACOB LINDSTROM
SPECIAL SCHOOL PAPER CORRESPONDENT

I'll tell ya, if there's one thing a young columnist likes me dislikes more than irresponsible kids doing irresponsible things, it's irresponsible adults doing irresponsible research. How else to explain the occurrence of yet another media frenzy about kids and their newsgathering sources?

Today's Romenesko (a daily news and gossip website for working journalists, both professional ones, like Kenneth Turan of the Los Angeles Times, and amateur ones, like myself) features another infuriating posting: a link to a story in the Chicago Tribune entitled "Papers not a must read: A generation of young adults turns to the Internet as its primary news source".

Well, guess what, Mr. Mike Hughlett? (He's the author of the piece.) I'm tired of having lesser-minded twits like one student you quoted, Heather Tody, whose "favorites are CNN.com, Weather.com and Oprah Winfrey's home page" represent my tastes and reading pleasures! Or Josh Darrah, whose information-gathering consists of "sites devoted to comics that are exclusive to the Web."

Mr. Hughlett, why don't you bother digging deeper in your investigative research? For instance, you could have asked me about my reading habits. Though I'm only 16 years old, and not part of the collegiate demographic you cite in your article, I still think I count as part of the generation about which you were trying so hard to make broad, sweeping generalizations. The Generalization Generation? That's you, Mr. Hughlett!

Each and every morning as I make my way to the dining halls here at Exeter, other students may be clutching their copies of Romeo & Juliet by William Shakespeare, or Algebra II by Houghton-Mifflin, in preparation for homeroom discussions or pop quizzes...but I always make sure to stop in the school's library and check out the headlines on the print edition of the New York Times and the Boston Globe. Why? Because you know that when something is printed on paper, it has endurance going for it, and more importantly, legacy, unlike the online editions of newspapers' websites, or the blogs kept by some of my classmates. Yes, Google has already cached the unpleasant things that Jeremy Forrester and Alfred Liu and Jesse Quinlan said about my behavior at lunchtime last Tuesday, when I slipped on a wet spot on the floor near where the trays are stored, but that doesn't mean Google was able to cache the cellphone photos they took of this unfortunate incident after I complained to Vice Principal Hartley and they had to take their entries down.

See what I mean? If this news had been reported in the print edition of the New York Times, it would have lived on forever, searing the truth into the public's conscience for all eternity. Much like the paper's reports about Superdome rapes, Wen Ho Lee, and Ahmad Chalabi, people many years from now might have picked up hard copy portrayals of my embarrassing tumble and laughed at my misfortune...and known the truth of that shameful day.

Ultimately, how we read is important. It's a matter of the comfort and security that holding a hard copy of a broadsheet newspaper provides its readers, whether they're scanning the familiar page layout for relevant headlines, or using the massive width of the sheet of unfolded paper to shield their eyes from their classmates' scowls and laughter. I only wish the paper stock were thicker and stronger, to better withstand the writing utensils and pen caps thrown my way.

But I'm still sticking with print, Mr. Hughlett.

(REPRINTED ONLINE WITH KIND PERMISSION OF MR. CLARK TURNER, SCHOOL PAPER ADVISOR)

Yes, it's that most wonderful time of the year, when Christmas yet again comes under siege from the shadowy forces of secular evil. It is fair to say that most American children today don't even know who Christmas is. But who can we blame? Two new books dare to finger the partisan Grinches responsible for stealing Christmas. A tale of the tape.

Title
How the Republicans Stole Christmas	The War on Christmas
Wordy Subtitle
The Republican Party’s Declared Monopoly on Religion and What Democrats Can Do to Take it Back	How the Liberal Plot to Ban the Sacred Christian Holiday is Worse than You Thought
Ethnicity-Free Author Name
Bill Press	John Gibson
White-Bred's Qualifications
Bill Press is a political commentator for MSNBC. Prior to joining MSNBC, he was cohost of CNN’s Crossfire and The Spin Room with Tucker Carlson.	John Gibson is the host of The Big Story on Fox News Channel, which airs daily at 5:00 p.m. and is currently the sixth highest rated show in all of cable news.
Attractive?
If you go for that kind of thing.	Hell yeah.
Christmas Tree on Cover?
Yes	Yes
American Flag on Cover?
Yes	No
Ostensible Grinch
Republicans	Liberal activists and "media people"
Real Grinch
Evangelical Christian cabal	Jewish cabal
Sample Five-Star Amazon Review
I read this book in the aftermath of Katrina--ironically when Christian groups are now silent about morality. The federal, state, and local governments (packed with 'their' people) are accused of neglecting predominantly poor African American people who could not just jump into their cars and evacuate. Meanwhile, FEMA came under public scrutiny because then-director Michael Brown delayed sending in aid.	80% of our country is Christian and many of our national slogans etc. have the word God in them. How did it ever come to this, that the minority is calling the shots. NO ONE is taking away Christmas for me. Oh yeah, maybe they want us to celebrate Kwanza instead. This is an eye opening book.

Situated at the tail end of one of the most recent missives on the Huffington Post, Arianna Huffington's new(ish) website with a political bent (and a penchant for really nailing, several times a week, the various inculcations of "Judith Miller Sucks" that fans of responsible journalism and transparent government have come to demand), was this incredibly depressing statement:

“The Secret Presidential IMs” will now be a regular feature on HuffPo. Check here each Tuesday for a new installment.

Tragic, this news...for this post's author, one Danielle Crittenden, is one of the most painfully untalented, uninspired writers currently occupying space online. And “The Secret Presidential IMs”, this "feature" of which she speaks? In computer parlance, we'd call this a "bug"...one which seems to recur on Arianna's site whenever anyone of her stable of writers attempts to post something that one may conceivably interpret as "funny".

"Ahhhh," you're saying to yourself right now, "the so-called humor content available on the site can't be that uninspired, that unfunny, and that insipidly unoriginal...can it?" (Because that's how you speak to yourself, isn't it? You faux-academic wonk.) And then you read these sampled lines below, and you weep with tears of great solemnity, sadly mulling over the Death of Laughter, and her playdate, Originality.

SumNobel4u2: yo prez
Kickass43: ?
SumNobel4u2: bono
SumNobel4u2: yr nu best bud
Kickass43: sonny?!
Kickass43: i thot u wer ded!!!!
SumNobel4u2: BONO
SumNobel4u2: as in rok star
SumNobel4u2: not as in “& cher”
Kickass43: o

"O," indeed. It's not as though Crittenden is cribbing from Arianna's own friend Bill Maher with her oh-so-fresh "Bono/Sonny Bono" take, right? Except, well, she is. And it's not as though the overarching framework, the "mock conversation" device, has already exhausted itself..."O," nevermind.

Time for some "hack"ing, then. Through some intrepid computer geekery, we got ahold of a recent IM conversation that was recently held between Arianna's Guffaw Gang: Danielle Crittenden and her partner in inept, unoriginal joke assembly, Bill Diamond -- or, as he's perhaps better known, the original Funnee Foto Guy. (Greg Gutfeld, the British Maxim editor, and another purported funneeman who sometimes posts on the site, is mostly exempted from this elite list because he's proven semi-capable of working the blogroom for an occasional laugh here and there, at least when he's not himself relying heavily on the Onion's template.)

frumkinsgal: i'm thinking of doing another presidential im post
BillDiamondsare4eva: ok, and then help me with a caption?
BillDiamondsare4eva: i found a funnee foto of bush in front of a statue
BillDiamondsare4eva: its funnee
frumkinsgal: haha ok
frumkinsgal: so david suggested this to me
frumkinsgal: harriet miers is pretty frumpy right and unqualified?
frumkinsgal: it would be funny to make fun of that and have her im with bush
BillDiamondsare4eva: maybe you can make it like she doesn't know how to use a computer even though she's a secretary
BillDiamondsare4eva: thatd be wickedly funny
BillDiamondsare4eva: she can keep messing up and saying "i dont know how to use this keyboard, its not an old typewriter, im so old!" haha!
frumkinsgal: haha ur great
BillDiamondsare4eva: haha
frumkinsgal: hahahah
BillDiamondsare4eva: hahahahahaa
frumkinsgal: hahaahah
BillDiamondsare4eva: hahaa
frumkinsgal: hahhahahaa
BillDiamondsare4eva: hahahahaa
frumkinsgal: hahahahhahah
BillDiamondsare4eva: haha
frumkinsgal: hahaahaha
BillDiamondsare4eva: haha
frumkinsgal: haha
BillDiamondsare4eva: haha
BillDiamondsare4eva: i wish i could come up with better captions to my funnee fotos though
BillDiamondsare4eva: the commenters seem to hate me and think i'm not funny
frumkinsgal: me too
frumkinsgal: it took me this long to realize that long im transcripts won't be read by impatient people
frumkinsgal: particularly if theyre unfunny
frumkinsgal: you know why i'm going to make it a weekly feature?
frumkinsgal: i hate myself
frumkinsgal: did i ever tell you i wanted to kill myself after i got my husband fired
frumkinsgal: i felt so "evil"
BillDiamondsare4eva: i dont understand
BillDiamondsare4eva: i'd say thats really meta if i understood the concept
BillDiamondsare4eva: but i'm too busy looking at yahoonews photos for funnee fotos
frumkinsgal: i would kill myself if it werent for humor
frumkinsgal: humor keeps me going
frumkinsgal went idle

ANSWER, FOR PEOPLE WHO'VE NEVER BEEN TO THE L.E.S.:

Bearded men in ballcaps = National Leaguers feigning their being up to the task of winning the 2005 World Series.
Bearded man in black and white = anonymous Silverlake-type dweller who probably feigns liking Elliott Smith and Paul Auster. Also, he seems happy, unlike the soon-to-be-eliminated Houston Astros.

RELATED: Time for a shave: Astros rookie shares thoughts on Game 2 loss

You'll laugh as Chris Ware "takes out the trash"!

You'll roar when Elmore Leonard's tough guys hash over the Holocaust!

You'll roll in the aisles when Allison Silverman confronts the ugly face of anti-Semitism!

The Times Magazine Funny Pages -- Does the fun ever start?!?

Previously: As Seen on the New York Times Magazine's "Funny Pages"

Key: Nutty Charlie Manson divided by Pretty Orlando Bloom equals Folksy Devendra Banhart

low Expectations: Jean-Paul Tremblay, left; Matt Haber (A/K/A, Guy Cimbalo), right. (The editors requested a photo of the creators of low culture to accompany this article and received this one.)

Walking down the streets of New York's Greenwich Village, Jean-Paul Tremblay goes almost entirely unnoticed. Passersby young and old—and youngish and oldish, as well—walk by him, all but unaware that within their midst is a celebrity, albeit a celebrity of a wired, self-selecting, long tail-chasing, niche-y, early 21st century sort. Nobody knows that Tremblay, who is 29 but looks more like an undernourished 15 year-old street urchin in need of a haircut, a cup of soup, and a hug, is a bona fide celebrity of blogging: A blogebrity.

Then again, they may be walking by because he's merely a B-List blogebrity.

As he walks the streets, occasionally fielding cell phone calls that make him groan theatrically, he stops for a moment to ponder the new issue of TIME Magazine on the newsstand. The cover shows Secretary of Defense Donald Rumseld wearing a Yankees cap, eating a banana, and listening to iPod. "In the old days, I'd probably run right home and Photoshop that shit and make a post out of it," Tremblay says wearily.

"But now... I can't even figure out the joke. I couldn't even tell you where I'd begin."

No matter how many bananas public officials consume in photos, Tremblay cannot bring himself to post about it. Call him a "no-blognik": Lately, he feels he can't bring himself to blog, which has resulted in a pitiable lack of posts on his site as well as a declining profile among fellow writers of free, ephemeral web content.

"Blogger fatigue is very real, and it very really affects real bloggers," according to Dr. Owen Spielvogel, chair of the American Psychiatric Association's gossip- and media-focused Loud Family Institute. "Anecdotal research indicates it affects 1 in 10 real bloggers in a real way. Really."

I mention "blogger fatigue" to Tremblay as he glances at the cover of Time Out New York, which features Wayne Coyne of the band Flaming Lips also, inexplicably, eating a banana, wearing a Yankees cap, and listening to an iPod.

Tremblay sighs.

An autumnal breeze rustles the trees above us. I can almost see Tremblay's eyes misting up.

Continue reading...

From today's New York Daily News:

William Ross, a retired U.S. Coast Guard captain now working for the Department of Homeland Security's Transportation Safety Administration, was being questioned for allegedly alerting his son of a possible terror attack - three days before Mayor Bloomberg and the FBI went public with the warning, sources said yesterday.

"As some of you know my father works for Homeland Security, at a very high position and receives security briefings on a daily basis," his son, Nick Seligson-Ross, who runs a dance troupe, wrote in an Oct. 3 E-mail...

Yesterday, ASME (that's the American Society of Magazine Editors for you great unwashed) announced the 40 greatest magazine covers of the last 40 years. So how does one create a truly great cover? Well, once all the excitement died down, low culture began to search out the subtle threads that link so many of these great, iconic images. Next time, consider the following indicators of greatness before you go to press...

Nudity is Great

Pop Art is Great

Little Kids are Great

Gays are Great

Also consider: Black Backgrounds are Great, Vietnam is Great, Animals Doing Wacky Things are Great, 9/11 (2001 only) is Great

October 17, 2005 (avail. on newsstands): "How Apple Does It," Time Magazine's cover story from the October 24, 2005 issue

October 13, 2005: "The Apple Polishers: Explaining the press corps' crush on Steve Jobs and company," by Jack Shafer, the "Press Box," Slate

Because nothing says funny like emotional abuse, POW's, and Klosterman's fat mug.

Outside the Apple Store in Soho, downtown New York, Sunday, October 9, 2005

A close-up of the books featured in the window display, above.

Not one, nor two, but three copies of a book about "The White Power Movement"...?

Perhaps this reading selection explains why the black model of Apple's new iPod Nano is particularly weak, and prone to scratching and complaints?

This past weekend, Manhattan's customarily quiet and genteel neighborhood of Chelsea was overtaken by lesbian rage, as 22nd Street became the site of the LTTR Block Party, in honor of the release of the fourth issue of this largely-unknown feminist art/literature/music journal. (That's one more issue than n+1, in case you're wondering. Collect them now!)

So, what sort of clash ensues when the upper-income brackets of Chelsea's brownstone-residing queers play host to a bunch of art-world dykes? Hmm...phrased like that, the whole situation becomes confusing. Let's sort it out by pitting LTTR versus that beacon of aspirational capitalism, BusinessWeek.

BusinessWeek	LTTR
The publication's title pretty much says it all...you're getting the news of "this week in business". Concise, but boring. Kind of like your typical V.P. of Development. Not very gay in the least.	The publication's title serves a dual function; first, it's an artful abbreviation of LETTER, get it? Because the printed word is comprised of letters. Secondly, it's an acronym of sorts, wherein issue number 1 went by the longhand variant of LESBIANS TO THE RESCUE, issue number 2 spelled out LISTEN TRANSLATE TRANSLATE RECORD, and then there's some additional wordplay with the idea of LESBIANS TEND TO READ. Semi-clever, mostly creative. And, therefore, very gay.
Inserts: Each issue includes subscription invitation cards that frequently fall out on the floor of the Metro North train on which its readership rides.	Inserts: Past issues have included insert CDs with rare and exclusive tracks by artists such as Le Tigre. Apparently the group's frontwoman Kathleen Hanna has some sort of penchant for lesbianism?
Current Cover Story: When Rita Came Calling, examining how "after Katrina, Gulf Coast outfits like SBC, Coke, and Texas Instruments prepared extensively for this hurricane." Informative and matter-of-fact. And, again, boring as all fuck.	Potential Cover Story: When Rita Came Calling, examining what happens when an ex-lover comes by your studio apartment in Williamsburg while you're racing to hide your new girlfriend's undergarments. Assuming she wears undergarments. Poetic and beautiful.
Packaging: Bound like ninety percent of all other magazines. Three staples straight down the side, gloss on the front, and poker in the rear. (Sorry, we're getting ahead of ourselves. Account Executives are just so goddamned aggressive after happy hour!)	Packaging: The latest issue comes wrapped in textured paper, bound by a frilly ribbon. Very feminine, but not very durable –– and certainly not built to last in perpetuity. Where are those all-important subscription cards?

This, then, is why the breeders will always win.

From L-R, McDonald's new female Ronald McDonald, as seen in a current Japanese TV campaign, and Milla Jovovich as Leeloo in Luc Besson's The Fifth Element (1997)

Talk about Hamburglars! (Ba-dum.)

Today's Salon features an insightful, probing piece by Rebecca Traister on the humdrum, sorry state of being a Modern American Woman, and the trouble with dating the contemporary early-adult American male – specifically, how today's women are dissatisfied with this "new breed of man: a man of few interests and no passions; a man whose libido is reduced and whose sense of responsibility nonexistent. These men are commitment-phobic not just about love, but about life. They drink and take drugs, but even their hedonism lacks focus or joy. They exhibit no energy for anyone, any activity, profession or ideology."

Traister sagely acknowledges that writers such as Candace Bushnell et al have explored this subject to death, and, as such, she seeks a new hook: What might Ben Kunkel, the author of Random House's Indecision – this month's literary hotcake amongst the city's subway- and nightstand-reading set – have to contribute to this line of discussion? Of the author and his text's protagonist, she asks, "After I finished Kunkel's novel, I was curious about the man who had so precisely drawn a figure whose initial indifference is so painfully familiar. With Kunkel, I thought I might be able to have a safe, objective conversation about the kind of guy Dwight is as his story begins. How did we get a population of Dwights? Will they ever get better? Why do my friends and I continue to date them?"

But why limit Kunkel to a simple, one-track discussion on dating and relationships? We asked him, this literate, Harvard-trained man-about-town, to help our sullen readers with some of their sundry dilemmas. And boy, did he ever!

Welcome, then, to the first installment of our new, groundbreakingly opinionated, and most important, gentlemanly advice column.

ASK BEN KUNKEL

Dear Ben,

I recently left my wife of five years after – for lack of a better way of phrasing it – losing my passion for her. Not falling out of love, mind you...just losing that sense of passion that keeps people together. Lately, however, I have been regretting my decision, and want her back. The problem is, she has taken up reading all sorts of self-help books that seem to discourage exes from reuniting. What should I do?

It can be very difficult dealing with the repercussions of our actions, particularly when it comes to love and the causalities thereof. Do we love for the sake of loving, or do we love merely to stay afloat in this pool of the everyday, the human interactions that define our existence? Hannah Arendt hit it right on the head when she put forth that being female was akin to being imprisoned by one's mind and morality, and that, no matter what we may do to attempt to break free, we – and, it may be said, all of humanity – will forever be subjected to a greater external framework, an ethical morass the likes of which no mere mortal can transcend. Which is why she encouraged her lover, Walter Benjamin, to take his own life. Ever the slattern, she then wound up fucking Heidegger over, too.

Dear Ben,

I recently moved into an elite co-op in Chelsea, and was thrilled to become a part of what felt like a second home, this tightly-knit community of likeminded, intellectually vibrant, book-reading wage-earners. But since settling in last month, I have learned my upstairs neighbor insists on playing his music far too loudly, and usually at moments when I am trying to sleep. I have thought of leaving notes on his door, but am uncertain of what this might do to upset the otherwise tranquil balance of our collective abode. Any ideas?

Noise, and music in particular, can be a source of great asymmetric tension. Historically, one may note, Theodor Adorno espoused nothing but the severest disdain for jazz music, or rather, what he termed "jazz music", but which was, in fact, a series of sounds akin to "big band" music, henceforth confusing generations of Marxists and music critics alike. It was his literal reading of this cacophony, the simpleminded focus on aberrant rhythms and layered ideas, that confounded his aesthetic judgment, and led to a great deal of turmoil in his dealings with his onetime partner in the Frankfurt School, Max Horkheimer. Horkheimer really got down with the horns, the clarinet, the vibrato...all of which conveyed an intricate melding of joy and sadness and expedient physicality. This tapestry of the old and new, incidentally, can be found in the recent works of Radiohead.

---

Benjamin Kunkel grew up in Colorado. He has written for Dissent, The Nation, and the The New York Review of Books, and is a founding editor of n+1 magazine.

This post is dedicated to Jean-Paul Tremblay, who was found dead in his apartment beneath a stack of old Nation magazines, surrounded by anti-Bush paraphernalia. Now you're Photoshopping with Jesus, sweet prince.

From "What's in a Name, Katrinas?", an article exploring the irksome after-effects of being named "Katrina" in these troubling times of ours, appearing in Sunday's New York Times, by Allen Salkin:

Katrinas can expect three to five years of stoking bad memories before the sharpness of the pain recedes, said Katrina Cochran, a disaster relief psychologist who has worked with victims of the Oklahoma City bombings and the Sept. 11 attacks.

Ms. Cochran, who has been hired by Church World Service to counsel hurricane victims, said she hopes they will forgive her name. "People will see me trying to help and offering care and compassion, and it might actually help them recover more quickly," she said.

Meet the new face of "poking fun".

The noted socially-responsible, orphan-adopting, AIDS-research financing, poverty-reducing, and Chilli-fucking R&B musician Usher on Kanye West's "outburst" last week:

"And the R+B star, who will be among performers appearing on an MTV telethon tonight (10SEP05), states, 'I wasn't mad at Kanye's statement - that's his opinion - but it's obviously not the opportunity or the time to poke fun or appoint blame.'"

Emphasis added, because, of course, you can't speak in boldface. Well, you can, but then you'd be a liar, as opposed to an idiot.

From Wired News' "Queer Blog for the Straight Web", September 1, 2005:

There are blogs for just about every hobby, interest and persuasion, but why don't any cover gay lifestyle?

[...]

I can't claim to have come up with the idea, though. David Hauslaib, 21, who operates gossip blog Jossip, did. Next week he is planning to launch Queerty (a play on Qwerty, the keyboard standard), which will feature the blogging of Bradford Shellhammer (yes, his real name: I checked his driver's license). Shellhammer, 29, spots fashion trends for JC Report, the online fashion magazine published by Flavorpill Productions, and has written for Abercrombie & Fitch Quarterly, The Baltimore Sun and Gay.com.

Recently I interviewed the two of them at a cafe in Manhattan's Greenwich Village, where they talked about their plans for Queerty.

SCENE: A small brick-walled cafe, colorfully--yet tastefully--adorned with the most masculine of motifs, including Robert Mapplethorpe photographs and rich, transcendently phallic iron sculptures. An isolated table with three chairs stands in the center of the room, at which is seated BRADFORD, a sleek and stylized prototype of homosexuality, and DAVID, a young and cherubically aspirational "gay bloke" who is wiping his face with stock certificates.

DAVID (sighing): Must reporters always be so fucking late? I swear...it's scandalous how delicate the nature of time is to these people. And time, of course, is money. Gay money!

BRADFORD: Oh, relax. This is his big piece. I'm sure he'll be here any moment. Give the fellow a break, eh?

DAVID: But we don't even know if he's cute!

BRADFORD: David, relax. I am so, so off the market. And he's just a writer! Hardly big-money-man material. Truly, while a little plug-and-play here and there has never hurt anyone, I am not willing to betray Gus' confidence in my behavior after that last fiasco in July.

A trim young bespectacled gentleman, ADAM, enters from STAGE LEFT. He smiles confidently at DAVID and BRADFORD and seats himself between the two.

Continue reading...

"The Pat O'Brien's motto is "Have fun!" and visitors to this cornerstone New Orleans establishment have been doing so since 1933. With roots that extend into the Prohibition Era, Pat O'Brien's has been serving signature drinks for more than 60 years and is best known for the Hurricane, its original invention."
-from the AOL City Guide

(courtesy Blender Magazine)

...or as Kayne Kanye put it, "It's Kanye, but some of my plaques, they still say 'Kayne.'"

Available now on Salon's elite newsfeed for premium subscribers, your questions about "why guys do those things they do", finally answered:

Killer instincts
What inspires young men and women to become suicide bombers? Religious fanaticism? Nationalism? Alienation? Or some toxic mix of all three? (by Laura Miller, July 26, 2005)

Divine secrets of the comb-over brotherhood
What makes powerful men embrace the world's lamest do? Twang those glistening strands and you'll hear a strange song about virility, status and even death. (by Melena Z. Ryzik, July 27, 2005)

Ladies, sleep soundly. Successfully unlock the secrets of either of these famous cults of masculinity, and this War on Terror™ will be over justlikethat, we're sure of it.

"How many years have I got? She's mine, too": Above: 74 year-old Rupert and three year-old Grace Murdoch, Sun Valley, Idaho (via The Age); Below: Noah and Katherine Cross in Chinatown.

Earlier: At Risk Kids

A.B.C. (Anybody But Cowell): Let the record show, Paula Abdul already has an affinity for ruffles.

O'Connor, First Woman on High Court, Resigns After 24 Years, by Richard W. Stevenson, The New York Times, July 1, 2005.

Yeah, we know it's a little late, but it's not every day you discover someone copping Abba's style.

Big ups to James R.!

So Fresh and So Clean: Via The New York Times/Victor Lopes

Are Men Ready for the 5-Step, 10-Minute Shave?, by Nick Burns, The New York Times, June 30, 2005.

Apparently Silky Smooth was on assignment covering the "last throes" of the Iraqi insurgency.

Earlier: Beard Hacker: The low culture Guide to Shaving

The recent revelation that Saddam Hussein has a taste for Jay Leno-approved nacho-cheese chip Doritos has sent shock waves through the snack food industry. I recently contacted PepsiCo's board of directors about their thoughts on the shocking, possibly treasonous, matter. (Disclosure: PepsiCo owns Frito Lays which owns Doritos which holds a majority stake in low culture heavy industries.)

From: guy v. cimbalo [guy@lowculture.com]
Sent: Thursday, June 23, 2005 12:13 AM
To: SPA - Board Of Directors {PEP}
Subject: Investment Concerns

Dear Sirs and Madames:

I am very concerned about recent revelations that Saddam Hussein enjoys Doritos. This man is a tyrant, while Doritos should represent peace, justice, and American snack food at its best.

PepsiCo. forms a large part of my mutual fund's investment portfolio and I have begun to feel that I should divest myself of the holdings.

I would like to know what Frito-Lay intends to do in order to quell this public relations nightmare.

Yours,

Guy Cimbalo

Their response after the jump...

Continue reading...

Courtney Love (L) and Rocky Dennis (R)

"What's the matter, never seen anyone from the planet Vulcan before?"
1985's Mask

Welcome to the bleeding edge! It's official, then...this "podcasting" thing is bloody hot!

low culture is proud to present the first, inaugural, premiere episode of "No Jacket Required", a no-holds-barred look at contemporary arts and culture. This mp3/podcast/olde timey radio broadcast runs somewhere around eleven minutes: perfect for your commute home, downtime at work, or on constant repeat throughout your day (it's possible to enjoy "No Jacket Required" over 130 times in the course of a 24-hour period).

You've come to rely on low culture for reasonably entertaining satire and comedy -- now give "No Jacket Required" a try. Seriously, we think you'll enjoy it. Earnestly, even.

And maybe it'll explain why we've been so damned absent of late?

No Jacket Required, Ep. 1, 11:35, 10MB

Vanilla Guy: "I WANNA WAKE UP!"

Film star Tom Cruise has asked girlfriend Katie Holmes to marry him, he announced on Friday, ending weeks of speculation over whether Hollywood's hottest couple would wed.

Appearing with Holmes at a Paris news conference, the 42-year-old explained how he had chosen the Eiffel Tower in the city of romance to make his move.

"Yes I proposed to Kate last night ... because it is very beautiful and romantic here," Cruise said, clarifying later that the engagement had actually begun in the early hours of Friday. - Cruise proposes to actress Holmes at Eiffel Tower, by Joanna Partridge, Reuters, June 17, 2005.

"That's more than a dress. That's an Audrey Hepburn movie. We barely know each other. I don't think we've had a single conversation about anything except your father. We got nothing to talk about. Sometimes you just gotta say 'What the fuck.' In this life, it's not what you hope for, it's not what you deserve—it's what you take I feel the need... the need for speed.

"I've drained you to the point of death. If I leave you here, you die. Or you can be young always, my friend, as we are now, but you must tell me: will you come or no?

"Where exactly are we going... exactly?...Where the rainbow ends? Good. Because for a minute there, I thought we were talking about A FUCKING MASK!... I'm afraid you'll break my heart. I want the truth!

"Help me help you. I will not rest until I have you holding a Coke, wearing your own shoe, playing a Sega game featuring you, while singing your own song in a new commercial, starring you, broadcast during the Superbowl, in a game that you are winning, and I will not sleep until that happens... I'm gonna let ya' in on a little secret: K-Mart sucks.

"Don't be afraid. I'm going to give you the choice I never had... No one could resist me, not even you... Just forget about that mortal coil. You'll become accustomed to it, all too quickly.

"Let me ask you something: are you out of your fucking mind? I will not apologize for who I am. I love you. You... complete me... Cause you're good. We're in this together. Fates intertwined.

"You're my motherfucker! I had your ass over the grinder and it's okay enough to thank me, shithead. Jump in my nightmare, the water's warm!"

RADAR

ELLE

POP

T

AOXOMOXOA

*Is it too late to jump on the Radar blogwagon? Oh, it is? Well, fuck off! I've been busy, okay?

Awww, c'mon, baby. Don't cry. Don't be like that. Matty's sorry. You know I love you, right? Oh, I don't? Then why do I do so much for you? Writing all these entries—for you. Finding photos that look like other photos—for you. Coming up with hack jokes—say it with me, for you.

What did you say? Don't you dare talk back to me! One more word out of your mouth and you'll be sleeping over your sister's blog tonight.

SHOCK VERDICT CLEARS JACKO OF KIDDIE SEX - AND CROWNS DA TEAM THE KINGS OF FLOP, by David K. Li and Kate Sheehy, The New York Post, June 14, 2005.

BOYS ARE BACK, by Maxine Shen, ibid.

Lucky (Boy) Fucker: Relieved, Jackson's going home to bury himself in his Blanket.

"Denise Jack and other car owners thought they had it bad when a 75-foot retaining wall in Washington Heights in northern Manhattan collapsed on May 12, burying their parked vehicles beneath untold tons of debris. But their ordeal was actually just beginning.

"Their cars remain buried there today, and none are expected to be unearthed until the rest of the wall is stabilized and the rubble removed - up to a year from now.

"Until then, they are caught in the world of insurance limbo.
"[...]
"'These people have a bit of an uphill battle,' said Anthony Michael Sabino, a law professor at St. John's University."

- A Wall Fell on Their Cars. Then Bad Luck Set In., by Anahad O'Connor and Rachel Metz, The New York Times, June 11, 2005.

Click for larger version.

Traditionally famous for his red hair and yellow jump suit, Ronald will be seen juggling fruit and snowboarding in a TV advert to be screened on Friday.

The leaner, more health-conscious Ronald will encourage children to get up and join him playing sports.
-Ronald McDonald turns health guru, BBC, June 8, 2005.

Hackier: The George W. Bush Book Club (All Hack Edition)

"Wow, Anne Bancroft is dead."

"Oh my God, I just got a text saying Britney got married."

"Holy shit, Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston are filing for divorce."

"Trey from the OC is on 1st Ave!"

"The Killers show is awesome."

"Fuck, I forgot to tivo SNL."

"'I have this little game I play in my head when someone gets an appointment,' said Chris Matthews, the host of MSNBC's 'Hardball.' 'And I say, "Now, how did that happen?" And then someone will say, "Well, they went to school together," or "They live next door to each other," or "Their wives are friends." And you go, "Oh, yeah," and it clicks.' On the other hand, he said, 'serendipity is a big part of our lives, but it grows in direct proportion to sociability.'"
- If They Gave Nobels for Networking. . ., by Elisabeth Bumiller, The New York Times, June 5, 2005.

Further Listening: Psychoanalyis: What Is It?, by Prince Paul
Related: Letters to a Young Blogger, by David Maria Brooks

This summer, as we eagerly await the release of yet another crop of comic book movies from the Marvel/DC Comics pipeline, Twentieth Century Fox's upcoming Fantastic Four is looking to be quite a rough-and-tumble tale. Well, at least the trailers make this out to be the case, featuring little more than a series of elaborate, action-packed falls from buildings on the part of the film's heroes and villains.

After all—and most studio executives will agree with us, here—nothing is more thrilling to today's moviegoing audience than a character's being hurled from atop a great height, right? I ask you, can an intriguing sub-plot be thrown from a skyscraper? No. A complex, well-shaded character arc? Can that cling desperately to a window ledge suspended fifty stories above street level? No, of course not.

So, here we are, with the Fantastic Four's fantastic falls:

An unidentified firefighter, on the verge of falling (from a bridge)

Mr. Fantastic, also on the verge of falling, but from a building

The Thing and Doctor Doom, actually falling, also from a building

Johnny Storm/The Human Torch, also falling, also from a building

The film's director, Tim Story: soon to throw himself from the highest building in Hollywood?

Thursday evening, 8 o'clock sharp. I used to spend this special time perched atop my loveseat, giddily staring at the television set and mentally preparing to absorb the wonders of West Coast suburban culture as filtered to me via the broadcast networks.

And then summer arrived, and they all abandoned me. Not the networks, I mean...they're still there, doling out quality product week after week. No, I've got a very specific axe to grind. I'm talking about Peter Gallagher. Mischa Barton. Josh Schwartz. Despots of the airwaves, each and every one of them. And Schwartz? He's their tyrannical leader.

My kids think I have a problem. My eldest son, fully-grown and fresh out of culinary school, has scolded me for what he deems an "unhealthy" interest in the goings-on of fictitious characters and/or executive producers and/or series creators. But my son, you see, never understood my focus, my diligence...

How I hate my son for his lack of compassion. How I miss presiding over real family bonding, such as the antics of Ryan Atwood and his nettlesome older brother, or Kirsten Cohen and her Jewish husband.

Sitting here at work, gazing out the window upon the parking lot below...I'm a sour, lonely, bitter old man. To hell with my initial idea of taking laps in the pool; I think I'll sleep in my office tonight.

Actually, I've never seen The O.C.; I'm sure it's pretty good.

The O.C. used to air on Thursdays at 8PM EST on FOX, but then summer started. It's not yet noon, and my night is already ruined.

Earlier: O.C.-centric entries, wherein we celebrated our joyous embrace of "all things Newport Beach".

WHICH set of former has-beens-that-never-were returned to the glare of the spotlight earlier this month? WHO reissued their most prominent document of fame and fortune yet, in what is either the ultimate comeback or merely another attempt to cash in on the zeitgeist of bourgeoisie socialism? WHAT makes this sort of bougie urban politicism that far removed from an overriding cultural interest in Jessica Simpson's techniques for obtaining a bikini-worthy body?

Unrelatedly, Maer Roshan's Radar project is out anew this month.

And, hey, you know what? Our tried-and-true "This looks like this, which is like that, which is like this" routine never ends! We'll be here all week.

(with thanks to Adit Nathan)

Separated at Bulge: Saddam Hussein on the cover of The Sun (via Drudge); Pat Buchanan on the cover of SPY, May 1992.

Today's New York Daily News cover story touts the boldest of exclusives: "New York's top lawmakers have been warned: Mess around with the West Side Stadium and the Olympics are lost." Meaning, of course, that unless the proposed real-estate grabbing, massively bond-and-taxpayer-funded West Side stadium is erected near Penn Station, there can be no 2012 New York Olympics. (How very sad! New Yorkers have surely been pining for a long-term re-enactment of the hassle that was last fall's 2004 Republican National Convention, right?)

Or, as the Daily News declares in their more appropriately condensed tabloid headline parlance, "NO STADIUM, NO GAMES."

Logic and deductive reasoning? It's, for the time being at least, another Daily News exclusive!

Of course, the rival Post won't take this challenge sitting down. Look for their very own upcoming series of cover-story exclusives, including, but not limited to:

NO CEASEFIRE, NO PEACE
NO NEWSWEEK, NO WAR
NO TRUMP, NO BOMBAST

And, of course,

NO POST, NO PUNS

Sigh. It's clearly time to move to Paris, huh?

The celebration of Iraqi democracy's second launch continues. In fact, it's moved into the wacky publicity stunt phase!

Last night, as part of the ongoing launch party for the most expensive, anticipated democratic regime since Tina Brown's revamp of the U.S.S.R., an insurgent lackey escalated the war of words by hurling several bullets at Dr. Ali Hameed, an official from Iraq's Oil Ministry. Dr. Hameed responded by being pronounced dead at 8 AM!

Did somebody say CATFIGHT!!!! Oh, yeah, it's on!

Iraqi Oil Ministry official gunned down [CNN]

Lindsay Lohan at some KIIS-FM event and Janis Joplin in mid-slur

Mourning Wood: Nine out ten respondents surveyed said they'd sleep with three of the above people. Can you guess which ones? (via Yahoo/Reuters)

Related: "The harrah... The harrah..."

Have you seen The Huffington Post yet? Isn't it sort of... funny? (Get it!?!)

From, Why Is Chappelle's Show at a Halt? Not Because of Drugs, an Aide Says, by Jesse McKinley and Lola Ongunnaike, The New York Times, May 6, 2005:

Representatives of the comedian Dave Chappelle yesterday denied rumors that drugs were involved in the suspension of production of his acclaimed sketch comedy show, 'Chappelle's Show.'
[...]
Indeed, some of the internal pressures may have come from the unique style of production employed by 'Chappelle's Show,' in which dozens of comedy sketches, musical numbers and other bits are shot in no particular order and assembled later in the editing room. 'They don't necessarily have a shooting script for a set episode,' said Mr. Labov.

Also, those elaborate sets and visual effects probably don't help.

Related?: Dave Chapelle [sic]

Per low culture's reliable sources deep within Skywalker Ranch, there's a good reason Revenge of the Sith is getting such glowing reviews -- Tom Stoppard wrote the script. Producer Rick McCallum insisted Lucas find a ghost writer, and Stoppard was the only writer Lucas wouldn't interfere with.

[Confirmed here]

Tara Reid's putty-like stomach

via ez board

Shakira's "La Tortura"

Massive Attack's "Karmacoma"

Christina Milian's "Dip It Low"

Above: Scenes from Jonathan Glazer's 1998 video for UNKLE's Rabbit in Your Headlights
Below: Scenes from Timur Bekmambetov's 2005 feature Night Watch

Previously: Twentieth Century Fox, Meet Award-Winning Director Chris Cunningham

Finally, a more shocking joke than "The Aristocrats." From, Man Says 7-Year-Old Joke Led to Killing, AP, April 26, 2005:

A man shot a former co-worker to death on Easter because he was offended by a joke told seven years ago, authorities said Monday.

Stanford Douglas Jr., 29, was arrested on murder charges Sunday after a two-hour standoff with police. He allegedly shot William Berkeyheiser, 62, three times in the chest and shoulder on March 27 at Berkeyheiser's suburban home.

Prosecutor Diane Gibbons said that Douglas told police he had been thinking about killing Berkeyheiser since 1998, when the two men worked at a Philadelphia nursing home and Berkeyheiser told a joke that offended Douglas.

The prosecutor would not say what the joke was.

The downside: This joke was clearly hurtful.

The upside: It was also clearly memorable.

Disclaimer: low culture does not advocate laughing at people getting killed. That would not be funny. In fact, it would be totally hack.

That Word Must Mean Something Different in Danish: The Manderlay trailer.

The trailer for Lars Von Trier's latest exercise in actor torture, Manderlay, is out. If Von Trier brings his characteristic subtlety and humanism to the project, I'm sure it will transcend the Tarantino-esque language of his trailer. And it might even be better than what it looks like: a remake of Gualtiero Jacopetti and Franco Prosperi's execrable Goodbye, Uncle Tom.

Eh, who am I kidding? This thing has Mandingo 2005 written all over it. I'm guessing the reason Nicole Kidman's not in it is that it offends her kids. Wonder what New Wave song will close this one out.

[via Greg.org]

C.K. TK: Williams, left, and Louis, right.

C.K. Williams won the Pulitzer Prize and this year's $100,000 Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize.

Louis C.K. won an Emmy for The Chris Rock Show and is developing a sitcom for HBO.

C.K. Williams was born in New Jersey.

Louis C.K. was born in New York.

C.K. Williams published Flesh and Blood.

Louis C.K. made a joke about Bill Clinton breastfeeding puppies.

C.K. Williams wrote:

A squalid wayside inn, reeking barn-brewed vodka,
cornhusk cigarettes that cloy like acrid incense
in a village church, kegs of rotten, watered wine,
but then a prayer book's worn-thin pages,
and over them, as though afloat in all that fetidness,
my great-grandfather's disembodied head.

Louis C.K. wrote: "Dirty Dee, you're a baddy daddy lamatai tebby chai!"

C.K. Williams has a head of salt and pepper hair.

Louis C.K. is bald.

C.K. Williams has been published by Slate.

Louis C.K. has his own website.

"Why is this leather interior different from all other interiors?": A Pesach caravan of Mitzvah Tanks led by a white stretch SUV limo head uptown on Sixth Avenue and West Fourth Street; noon, April 20, 2004.

Congratulations on adopting or purchasing your Ashton Kutcher. In the coming days and weeks you will bond with your new Ashton Kutcher in ways that you can only begin to imagine at this time. Ask anyone who's welcomed Ashton Kutcher into their lives, and they will tell you that he becomes a fast member of the family, brings hours of fun, laughter, happiness, and joy to children, adults, and seniors.

But in order to enjoy your Ashton Kutcher to the fullest, there are a few things you need to know to take care of him the best way possible. Ashton Kutcher is an independent, mischievous animal; he needs attention, love, and a little discipline to feel comfortable and safe in your home. These helpful hints will make your life with Ashton Kutcher that much easier.

First off, know that in the wild Ashton Kutchers roam in packs, also known as 'posses.' This is an important fact, since as you bond with your Ashton Kutcher, he will come to think of you as his posse. Ashton Kutcher is loyal and intensely protective of his posse and he has a tendency to bond closest with the older alpha-female of the posse. Some even say Ashton Kutchers are nature's 'Mama's boys.'

Continue reading...

Through all the accusations of pederasty, paedophilia, and boy-fucking, fans of both the Papacy and Michael Jackson have stood tall. Can you tell the difference? Click through for the answer.

It's Gotta Be The Shoes: Ann Coulter on the cover of TIME, April 25, 2005

Yankee Gary Sheffield inappropriately gropes at a fan at Fenway Park last night; Jimmy Fallon inappropriately gropes at Drew Barrymore in Fever Pitch.

Many have argued about whether and how powerfully movies can influence our behavior. Should filmmakers bear responsibility when the scenes they present as fantasy are reenacted by overzealous fans? Generally, we prefer to encourage freedom of speech and personal responsibility, but when a filmic scene of overly intimate contact across the low wall at Fenway Park is so eerily reprised at the same spot in real life, it's pretty clear where the idea came from.

	James Earl Jones as Lt. Lothar Zogg in 1964's Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb Kills thousands.
	Scatman Crothers as Dick Hallorann in 1980's The Shining Dies.
	Dorian Harewood as Eightball in 1987's Full Metal Jacket Dies.

EARLIER: As 'Wicker Park' approaches, we present this definitive and comprehensive list of good, quality films starring Josh Hartnett

Here's To You: Todd Solondz's Palindromes, 2005; Mike Nichols' The Graduate, 1967.

Hi, Bob: The Bob Newhart Show, season 1; I ♥ Huckabees.

Salvete in VaticanAir! Recumbete et relaxate in levamentum dum vos refovemus cum mantele madido.

Welcome to VaticanAir! Stretch out and relax in comfort as we refresh you with a moist washcloth.

Probate defigere balteum vestrum per acensum descensionemque.

Be sure to fasten your seatbelt during takeoff and landing.

Gaudeamus praebere varietatem de materias lectorium pro iucunditate vobis.

We are happy to offer a variety of reading materials for your pleasure.

Servabitur prandium parvum per fugum.

Light in-flight refreshment will be served.

Cistas vestri portabitur cum curam maioram.

Your luggage will be handled with the greatest care.

[Indulgete omnia errata mea, magistri mei...]

Reports of the "festive" atmosphere in Rome, where hundreds of thousands of pilgrims have camped out to celebrate grieve the death of the Pope, can't help but prompt speculation about how many little miraculous conceptions -- immaculate or otherwise -- might arise from this event. A clever newspaper editor should keep track of some of these pilgrims and then check maternity records in 9 months or so.

Of course, it should be no surprise that young love can blossom in even the gravest circumstances:

High Rate of Failure Estimated for Silicone Breast Implants, by Gardiner Harris, The New York Times, April 7, 2005.

Better make room next to that 2001 Impact award for Story Telling.

Is anyone else looking forward to when Solondz makes the John Waters-like transition into Broadway musical kitsch maestro? Welcome to the Dollhouse is basically ready. (It even has a killer signature song.) Happiness, on the other hand, is a harder sell.

Well, people paid to see Assassins.

Related: Prince Charles Pushes Wedding Back a Day.
Elsewhere: Deconstructing Harry

Bloggers, or 'Web loggers,' may not have invented April Fool's Day (that would be Pope Gregory with his conversion to the eponymous Gregorian Calendar in 1582), but as with so many other things, they have taken credit for improving on it.

As the clock struck midnight on April first, several prominent bloggers created puckish, at times almost humorous, stabs at April Fool's content. As you might expect, many were parodies of other websites and the conventions of the medium. "Bloggers are a world onto themselves," said Jeff Jarvis, who runs the website Buzzmachine.com and who actually called this reporter himself assuming she'd be doing this story. "So, of course, they'd parody their world."

Continue reading...

Father Guido Sarducci

Remember the party scene in The Graduate where Benjamin Braddock is buttonholed by his father's friend who has one word for him, "Just one word"?

Well, we have one word for you: Premium.

Due to the amazing success of our reader feedback module (you know, the little "Did you find this content useful?" radio buttons that have sprouted up on this site like wild flowers on the side of the highway), we've decided to go premium. Following the successful model of Salon and several other pay-per-view sites, we've implemented a premium area to provide our core readers with the best this site has to offer.

Membership has its privileges:
- Only Premium subscribers can turn off pop-ups and sirens.
- Premium members get a 10% discount at the low culture store.
- Premium members get customized content: no more 'Shallow' posts for all you political junkies; no more 'Grave' for all you pop culture vultures.
- Premium members are automatically signed up to receive information from our advertisers and special weekly e-promotions.

Sign up now!

From, The Five Obstructions, Jørgen Leth, 2003.

Lord Byron once called shaving “A daily plague, which in the aggregate, may average on the whole with parturition.” After looking up that last word, it’s obvious that this Byron fellow probably had no idea how to shave. Had he been lucky enough to live in the era of informative how-to websites such as this one, he could’ve learned in eight simple steps.

Following these eight steps, you’ll be a smarter and closer shaved man than Lord Byron could ever have hoped to be.

Continue reading...

Meet the Tuminator, by Barry Wigmore, Daily Mail, March 29, 2005.

Curing Obesity through Sterility: California 's Controversial Program Under the Microscope, Pacific Northwest Medical Journal.

Related: Is it April Fool's Day already?

As some have noted, Beck's latest work, Guernica, is his most mature offering to date. At a time of war, the artist has brought us a wrenching, disturbing work that confronts his fans while pushing his oeuvre into newer, more challenging directions. It's a breakthrough—and a triumph.

Guernica emerges after Beck's much-remarked upon 'Blue Period,' in which his work wallowed in despair. While sadness was the dominant feeling in his recent work, Guernica's prevailing emotion is anger: anger at war, anger at the flaws of his fellow man, anger at the simplistic head-on view of reality. Guernica shows us different sides of man, the various, conflicting dimensions in each of us. All at once. Every character in Guernica is twisting, groping, angling for recognition. As we're reflected in Guernica, people are complex, frightening, and beautiful beasts.

These are just preliminary thoughts. Fans and historians will be marveling over Guernica for generations. And then it will be covered by callow idiots.

Once Were Worriers: Ben Stiller and Janeane Garofalo in 1999 (via CNN)

Art and Commerce.

The truth about art and commerce is not unlike a certain movie title about cats and dogs: the two don't always get along. In fact, they rarely ever do. And like animal lovers, sometimes you have to choose which you want in your life more: art or commerce. You can't have both, unless you want your house torn apart and your life to become a dizzying mess of complications and compromises.

I was reminded of this fact this weekend while reading The New York Times' 'Arts & Leisure' section, particularly two stories that, while not linked editorially, were nonetheless inverted images of each other. One reflected art (more or less), the other commerce (pretty much intrinsically).

Continue reading...

The already heated debate about the proposal for a new West Side stadium for the New York Jets has reached a new level of outrage and absurdity this week with the stunning news that the Jets are to be sold to Pakistan!

Now, I'm sure that the NFL would like to expand into Central Asia, but it seems like a losing proposition to try to impose, top-down, an American-style football regime in an area of the world that has had no experience with it. On the plus side, Gang Green's color scheme matches the Pakistani flag rather nicely, so perhaps there's hope after all.

[Thanks to Lamont Cranston for the tip!]

Now only $9.99 at The NBC Store.

[Michael] Moore's newest project, Sicko, about the health-care industry, for which he'll be paid about $25 million, will have a more resilient target: "It'll never be the same for the H.M.O.'s again," says Moore.
- "Moore's War", by Judy Bachrach, Vanity Fair, March 2005.

Since Moore's last film was so successfully at solving the problem it addressed, here are some other topics we hope he tackles with his magical movie camera:

Hot Hot Heat: Global Warming, Local Warning - A hard-hitting look at how changes in the environment affect the weather. "This one's gonna fix the whole planet—and the hole in Ozone above it," says Moore.

Genocide X - Moore takes on another 'Big One': Genocide in Darfur. "We're gonna speak truth to powerful warlords. We're gonna save lives."

Persons of Interest - More Americans are in debt; Moore, American, is incensed. "We're gonna turn Greenspan green with this one."

Don't Drink the Water - Those clear bottles of spring water may look pure, but what's inside them is anything but: the bottled water industry is all wet. "This film will refresh you—with insight!"

OUTRAGE!


From Reuters: "Penitents take part in the Holy Week procession of the 'Santo Cristo de la Santa Cruz' brotherhood in Palma de Mallorca, late March 23, 2005. Hundreds of Easter processions take place throughout Spain during Holy Week around the clock drawing thousands of visitors. Picture taken March 23, 2005." (REUTERS/Dani Cardona)

***IMPACTING***

Main, Michael Jackson, Santa Maria, CA, March 23, 2005 (via Reuters); inset, Tommy Smith and John Carlos, Mexico City Olympics, 1968 (via Sixties City)

Earlier: Dancin' Fool and Radical Shnook

Today's 'Real Life Workplace' interview is with Agent Jack Bristow, a thirty-five year veteran of the CIA. What sorts of challenges come from working in a high pressure environment where national security is a daily concern?

What's the CIA like on the inside? Read on and find out.

low culture: Thanks for taking the time to talk to me, Agent Bristow.
Jack Bristow: It's my pleasure, I'm sure. I am, however, a very busy man, so let's get down to it.

low culture: Sure, sure. So, in case you don't know, low culture is a careers website. We offer information for job hunters, employers, and the like. I'm interested in talking to you about your work.
Jack Bristow: Fine. But know that some things are classified.

low culture: Right. So, you work for the CIA, right?
Jack Bristow: Classified.

low culture: But you previously worked for an organization called SD-6, right?
Jack Bristow: Again, classified. I cannot answer these questions and if you persist in asking them, I'll have to terminate this interview.

low culture: Got it. Okay, so, you, um, you work with your daughter, Sydney, right?
Jack Bristow: Yes, that's true.

low culture: Your daughter is so hot.
Jack Bristow: Pardon me?

low culture: Nothing. So, is it difficult working so closely with a family member?
Jack Bristow: There are challenges inherent in any workplace. Ours is no different. People occasionally don't get along, alliances and relationships shift or breakdown. These things happen.

low culture: Right, but, you had problems with your daughter for a long time, is that correct? Didn't you kill her mom?
Jack Bristow: What? What sort of interview is this? I'm going to have to hang up now unless you refrain from such inappropriate personal questions.

low culture: Sorry, sorry. So, is it hard working with your daughter when she has to get dressed up in so many different outfits all the time? Does that weird you out?
Jack Bristow: Weird me out?

low culture: You know, do you ever see your daughter done up like a blond Swedish hooker or a Russian astrophysicist and you, like, get wood?
Jack Bristow: Now you listen to me...

low culture: Wait, wait. You misunderstand. I apologize: English is my second language. I'm French Canadian.
Jack Bristow: Really? I was born in Ontario.

low culture: No way! Did that make it hard to get high level CIA clearance?
Jack Bristow: That's classified.

low culture: Oh, right, right. So, your daughter was dating a colleague. Is that strange?
Jack Bristow: Why so many questions about my daughter?

low culture: Have I been asking so many questions about your daughter?
Jack Bristow: Yes, in fact you have.

low culture: Oh, she's just so super hot. What's her email address?
Jack Bristow: Now you listen to me, this is the least professional interview I've ever been subjected to!

low culture: Alright, alright. Is it like yours? I assume it's something like s.bristow@classified.mailer-daemon.cia.gov. Would that work?
Jack Bristow: This interview is over. I don't even know how you got this number.

low culture: Can you just tell me one last thing? One last thing for all the job hunters, employers, and the like? Please?
Jack Bristow: Fine. One question.

low culture: What does she smell like?
Jack Bristow: Whom?

low culture: Your daughter, Sydney. I kind of imagine she smells like soap, but also a little bit of sweaty b.o.
Jack Bristow: What?

low culture: Clean, sporty girl b.o. like a field hockey player. Not gross b.o. like some sweaty freak.
Jack Bristow: Rest assured, you will be disappeared within 24 hours.
[click]
low culture: Hello? Sounds like you're still on the line. Helllllo? Agent Bristow? Jack...? Sydney?

Related: If you have any information on Jack Bristow's daughter (particularly photos), please email low culture. (Within 24 hours at the latest.)

Totally deaf human-person Marlee Matlin deserves to be given the hand gestures for enthusiastic applause and patronizing congratulation upon the news of her appointment to head a new, conservative imprint for Simon & Schuster. Despite Matlin's complete inability to hear, and her limited ability to speak like a normal person, she has not only won a Special Academy Award but also managed to domesticate notorious pussy-hound James Carville. The two have become ubiquitous for their "opposites attract" romance: Carville is the classic Clinton-era liberal while Matlin is completely, defiantly deaf. They both starred in the cult classic K Street and have become poster children for people who have starred in K Street.

Because of Matlin's handicapability, her as yet unnamed imprint will undoubtedly offer its conservative titles in Braille editions. And that presumptive breakthrough, shattering the conservative publishing industry's notorious deaf-glass-ceiling, deserves enthusiastic, visually demonstrative applause.

Featuring "Honey, Just Allow Me One More Chance (To Eat Your Ass)."

By now you've probably heard Insider host Pat O'Brien's latest release: nearly five and a half minutes of repetitive, profanity-laced nasal sex talk with occasional music. Naughty, nasty stuff. Frankly, I can't believe he kisses George Clooney's ass with that mouth.

You probably also know that this Internet-only single has landed him where countless artists have gone before: rehab.

But what you haven't heard is Pat O'Brien's rehab iTunes playlist, which he put together shortly before his twelve step journey. Here's but a small sample:

- "I Wanna Hold Your Hand (And Eat You, If Betsy Says It's Okay)," The Beatles

- "You Can't Always Get What You Want (Even Though You're So Fucking Hot. I'm So Into You)," The Rolling Stones

- "This Love (Plus Some Coke, and Betsy. Let's Get Crazy Together)," Maroon 5

- "Oh, Pretty Woman (I Want to do Everything With You, Eat Your Ass, Everything)," Roy Orbison

- "Baby I'm-a Want You (To Be Into Betsy. You're So Fucking Hot)," Bread

- "Why Can't We Be Friends (With Betsy, Too. I'm So Into You)?," War

- "Don't Speak (Just Give Me a Smile Next Time I See You, You're So Fucking Hot)," No Doubt

- "Pour Some Sugar On Me (And By 'Sugar,' I Mean Coke. I'm So Fucking Into You)," Def Leppard

- "Eat It (And By 'It,' I Mean Your Ass. You're So Hot)," 'Weird Al' Yankovic

Guess What I Won't Be Seeing: Above, Guess Who, 2005; below, Guess Who's Coming to Dinner, 1967.

But, man, its go-cart racing scene kicks the original's ass!

I'm sure you have something hilariously topical to say about this, sir:
An Al Jazeera IPO?, by Aaron Smith, CNN/Money, March 18, 2005.

Don't let Jay Leno make the awesome jokes about "exploding markets" and/or Control Boiler Room first!

1980s carmaker DeLorean dies at 80, CNN.com, March 20, 2005.

This past week, we've received a lot of emails and been approached by a lot of people concerned about the direction of low culture. We tried to explain why we hired four new writers, pointing out that we were giddy about the success of our shop and the major awards we were then being nominated for. But looking over the new writers' work, it's clear we made a mistake.

After much soul searching and consultation with our backers, we've reluctantly decided to lay some people off. As of today, Otto Preminger, Miranda Gonnerman, and Carter Blanche will no longer write for low culture. (They are now available for other work, if anyone remains interested in their endeavors.)

On the positive side, however, Stevie Boots has been promoted to editorial director of the site.

Although I thought the previous Lilytones split 7" with Shindig! sounded decidedly sub-par, I took the dare, did the deed, and bought the Lilytone's newest EP, Blowin' Fuses. I should have known better.

All the post-coital sensuality of Lilytone's debut, The Dreyfuss Affair, is gone. Even worse, the gimlet-eyed lyrical sensibility that earned singer Pete Crease comparisons to Davies and Albarn has been undone by Crease's insistence on singing in an incoherent, vocoder-ed falsetto.

Consider the track "Fish Are Flying": over Blather's soaring guitar and Rott's pounding zither, producer Russ Argent (late of twee supergroup The I Reckon's) insists on gilding the lily with an upside-down theremin and a full woodwind section. And when Crease's squeaking falsetto finally makes its appearance, the song simply equals more than the sum of its parts.

Even guest-vocals from Regina Spektor on "Pincushion," Crease's lighthearted sing-along about heroin addiction, can't hide the fact that the Lilytones are just painting by numbers.

It pains me to say it, but this could spell the end of the Lilytones - for this reviewer, at least. Let's hope their forthcoming LP, Disemployment Officer, finds the band in back-to-basics mode.

Hey party people - Miranda here, ready to answer all those embarrassing questions you might have about you know what. You know, it. So without further ado, let's get down to it...

Dear Miranda,
My boyfriend isn't circumcised and it kind of creeps me out. What can I do to get over it?
Fore-Skeeved

Dear Skeeved,
Isn't it liberating to talk about sex like this? Getting your problems out in the open can really put things in perspective.

So don't worry! You're not the only one who thinks Abraham and God had the right idea with that whole covenant thing - foreskins also creep me out. I have to admit balls kind of creep me out too. I still don't have an effective technique to get around my testicular trepidation, so I asked an expert, Dr. Nancy Ambergris, author of Getting the Shaft: A Modern Girl's Guide to Fellatio.

"Miranda," Dr. Ambergris explained to me, Miranda, "that's an age-old problem. And aside from holding your breath, closing your eyes and thinking of something else (like the Hamptons), there's not much option. Of course, depending on Skeeved's commitment level with her boyfriend, she could always start dating someone else."

So there it is, kids, advice from the experts. Keep your questions coming!

On behalf of the entire low culture team, I wanna thank everyone who voted for us!

This is so awesome, I don't know what to say. I wish I'd prepared something. Basicially, we're just a bunch of goofy guys doing our own thing: it makes us really proud that people are enjoying it so much. We gotta share this award with all of you!

We never thought we'd win an award, but just because it's not your dream doesn't mean it can't come true.

Next year: World's Greatest Lover!

Earlier: Aim High, Vote low (culture, Duh)

To paraphrase the name of a classic TV sitcom, ABC Can't Lose!

Following the commercial and critical success of Desperate Housewives, Lost, and Blind Justice, last night ABC introduced Jake in Progress, the best midseason replacement show I've seen in years. Maybe ever!

Jake in Progress stars John Stamos as "Jake Phillips," a likable, fast-talking New York publicist. The twist is, Jake is a heterosexual and he loves women—a lot. He's sort of a male version of "Carrie Bradshaw" from Sex & the City: he's a bit glib, a bit flighty, but he has a heart of gold. He also dresses well. (There's another piece to be written about the new trend of TV show's about publicists, but that's for another time.)

You might remember Stamos from his other ABC hits, Thieves and Full House: he's so at ease on TV, there's no doubt why he's a star. But Jake in Progress is also marked by an amazing supporting cast, all of whom have long, illustrious TV careers.

Playing "Jake's boss" is Wendie Malick, who was amazing in Just Shoot Me (and, for fans of obscure TV history, she was also on Dream On with Brian Benben—where's that guy been?). Ian Gomez, whom you might recall as "Javier" from Felicity is Jake's best friend, "Adrian." (Little bit of trivia: Gomez is married to My Big Fat Greek Wedding phenom Nia Vardalos. Wonder if he uses Windex as aftershave?) Rounding out the cast is Rick Hoffman, whom I loved in The $treet, which was also like a male version of Sex & The City and not just because it was exec. produced by Darren Star. Oh, and I forgot Mädchen Amick from ER and Twin Peaks.

But enough about the awesome cast: Jake in Progress is also extremely well-written. This is a show so hip, the writers were able to sneak in tons of cool references for people who "get" them: David Blaine, Lipsynka, Jerry Maguire, Seabiscuit. You've gotta be smart to keep up. This is definitely not CBS's Yes, Dear. (Although, that show is pretty great, too.) The dialogue is snappy, like one of those old screwball comedies. And the camera work is frenetic but not overwhelming.

Most of all, this show is for adults—and not in an HBO way. (Don't get me wrong: I looooove HBO: The Sopranos is the best, followed by Six Feet Under, then Deadwood, then Carnivale then Unscripted: love it all!) I mean, it's a show about what it's like to be a grownup in contemporary New York. It's not a show where 35 year-olds have roommates and ducks like on Friends (though I love Friends and still watch it in syndication) and it's definitely, definitely not a show about "nothing" like Seinfeld. (Which I got on DVD for Christmas this year—thanks, Randy!).

I can't wait to see how this show develops over the course of the season. Jake is already making great "progress."

(3 out of 4 "Boots")

And now, like the host of my favorite guilty pleasure show, I can say: Stevie Boots—out!

Related: Other shows with "Jake" in the title: Jake and the Fatman; Jake 2.0; Body by Jake.

Hey, everybody. I don't usually write for the site that often, preferring instead to stay behind the scenes working on business stuff, but I'm stepping out from behind the curtain to announce some super exciting changes here at low culture.

Since we did so well with our line of T-shirts, mugs, and undergarments, we have enough money to hire some new writers. We're super-psyched to have these new voices on the site and we're sure they're going to revitalize low culture for the better.

First up is Stevie Boots, our new low culture TV critic. Stevie's written for People, The Chronicle of Higher Education and Res. (Don't bother googling his name: his stuff was all un-bylined.)

Also on the culture front is Carter Blanche, our new music critic. He co-edited the semi-legendary MP3 blog Sound, Dur, which was nominated for a 2005 Bloggie and was mentioned in Time Out NY. He listens to everything from hip hop to crunk and we're proud that he'll be bringing his expertise to low culture.

On the 'Grave' side of the spectrum is our new politics and books writer, Otto Preminger. Otto was an assistant editor for The Public Interest and has contributed to Post-Neo-Natal: The Under-30 Political Generation Comes of Age, the highly regarded anthology of political writings. Otto's also an excellent cook and runs a sort of political cultural salon out of his Brooklyn Heights apartment that has attracted staff members from The New Yorker and The New York Times.

Last, but definitely not least, is our hot new sex columnist, Miranda Gonnerman. Miranda wrote 'Miranda's Right,' Kenyon College's sex column where she covered everything from bisexuality to lesbianism to threesomes! (Her column was so hot it's not even available online! Sizzzzzle!) You can send your sex queries to Miranda and she'll offer you expert advice.

So, that's us. Consider this a soft launch for low culture 2.0. We've got a lot of awesomely excellent ideas we're bouncing around with some powerful, creative people in the industry. Stick around and see!

	Seth Green as Joe, Radio Days. Physical Appearance: Tiny, boyish Physical resemblance to director: High. Demeanor: Nervous, fearful of women. Personality resemblance to director: High.
	John Cusack as David Shayne, Bullets Over Broadway. Physical Appearance: Bespectacled, stubbled, handsome. Physical resemblance to director: None. Demeanor: Nervous, condescending to women. Personality resemblance to director: High.
	Edward Norton as Holden Spence, Everyone Says I Love You. Physical Appearance: Slight, thinning hair, poorly dressed. Physical resemblance to director: High. Demeanor: Nervous, condescending to women. Personality resemblance to director: High.
	Kenneth Branagh as Lee Simon, Celebrity. Physical Appearance: Bearded, handsome, given to tweeds. Physical resemblance to director: Moderate. Demeanor: Nervous, condescending to women. Personality resemblance to director: High.
	Jason Biggs as Jerry Falk, Anything Else. Physical Appearance: Small, twitchy, unattractive. Physical resemblance to director: High. Demeanor: Nervous, condescending to women. Personality resemblance to director: High.
	Will Ferrell as Hobie, Melinda and Melinda. Physical Appearance: Tall, oddly attractive. Physical resemblace to director: None. Demeanor: TBD. Personality resemblance to director: TBD.

Recently seen on the scene… Penelope Cruz in a photograph from an extravagant Oscar gala, partying with the likes of Salma Hayek and Julia Roberts… Ashton Kutcher on the side of a bus, advertising his new film Guess Who… Lauren Graham on ABC Family's 11 am showing of Gilmore Girls… Lizzie Grubman in the post just below this one…

Send your seen on the scenes to low culture!

For those who didn't witness the grand guignol debut of MTV's PoweR Girls, the show follows four primped PR interns and Lizzie Grubman – the suppurating spin doctor, that leathery, bottle-blonde grotesquerie – who is established as the show's object of aspiration. It seemed impossible that a reality-show godhead could get more nauseating than short-fingered vulgarian Donald Trump, but with PoweR Girls, MTV's endlessly innovative programming incubi have found reality TV's latest emetic. Is it Lizzie's factory-made face, the impossible sense of entitlement, or, lest we forget, the fact that she drove Daddy's Mercedes into a crowd of people?

To her credit, neither Lizzie's nature nor her nurture is all that – her father (who represents Barry Manilow) has a portrait of his wife's nether region hanging over the bed – seriously. And she is the one who discovered hip-hop.

For a group of people whose entire job is to kiss ass, these women don't quite manage to ingratiate themselves to the audience. The half-hour was enough to make me wish her offices weren't on Lafayette but were instead in the World Trade Center. PoweR Girls was like watching a quick-cut adaptation of Bret Ellis' Glamorama, but at least you could imagine those ciphers were attractive – with Power Girls we get four repellant wannabe's and one revolting queen bee. God knows I'll watch it next week – it was excellent.

I've got a second-floor office in Irvine. It's only a few years after the war with the Japs, and there ain't a P.I. left in Irvine that's better than me, but that don't mean business is steady down here. I've got too much time on my hands, kid, and too much whiskey in my desk drawers.

Then this dame walks in. Says she's stopped in from Riverside, but I can tell right away the broad's from Newport Beach. She's got shoreline written all over her. Beachfront property, I'd say. The kind of class babes just don't have in the inland empire. Classy, this babe.

She's got her hair up and her sunglasses on, and I can see she's hiding something. Tears. Maybe she's lost someone or something, or maybe her man's the abusive type...that's for me to find out, is all I know. I'll hear it soon enough.

She starts in with her story, about how her husband's in the real estate game, and her father's a bigtime mover and shaker, a real player. But this dame knows too much about her husband's business, I can tell. Taxes, liens, eminent domain...knows a bit too much about real estate in general. It's clear she's the brains in the enterprise. The father's just the moneyman, and the husband...the husband? What's his role? And why's she crying like this?

I hand the babe a tissue. She dabs her eyes, starts in on her ex-husband. Says he’s on a boat. Something about someone’s sister. She’s bawling again, I can’t understand what she’s saying. She wants my help, she says. Needs to find her ex-husband, but she doesn’t know where he is. Her daughter won’t speak to her, she’s crying, unless she can get this ex-husband to come back to town.

Retrieving a lost love? No big deal, I can handle that. No, she says – he’s no lost love. She’s fine with her husband and his money. This is about her daughter. The broad is taking deep breaths now, trying to tell me about her daughter. The kid sounds like a real rebel. Hellcat with a flask. Bringing punk girls home just to shock mom. I try to be sympathetic, but this sounds like a job for a shrink.

Now she’s getting defensive. I’m the one to help her, she says, not some mental magician. The back story doesn’t matter, does it? She wants to bring back her ex, this Jimmy character, so that crazy daughter of hers will straighten up her act and she can go back to watching her husband’s money. She's glaring at me, now, but she opens up her pocketbook and takes out this wedding photo from years gone by. Coolidge administration, I'd say. That'd make the daughter older than I thought, and this dame...let's just say looks can be deceiving, but age never lies.

And there's a problem. This Jimmy guy...I recognize him. Of course. The dame's trying to read my face, so I whip out my P.I. cards and play poker with her. The boat, the money...I should have put two and two together when the broad came in through the door. Then again, that's why I'm working out of Irvine and not up there in Hollywood with all the other, better, private dicks.

Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy. I took him out last weekend under a pier in Long Beach. He'd gotten rough when I confronted him on some outdated loans my client had needed collected, and I'd had no choice but to gun him down. It hadn't been easy, either, and I'm not normally that cold-blooded – I mean, I work in Irvine. But I'd had no choice. And I sure as hell hadn't known he was a family man.

I shake my head. This daughter, there ain't no helping her now.

Actually, I've never seen The O.C.; I'm sure it's pretty good.

The O.C. airs Thursdays at 8PM EST on FOX.

Earlier: O.C.-centric entries, wherein Raymond Chandler ravages Mickey Spillane in a shed out back. Intense.

Now that everyone's favorite pseudo-liberal Texan is off the air, it's reassuring to know that the remaining network newsmen are still sticking to the really important issues in their relentless pursuit of the Truth.

(Thanks to Jeff. Sorry about rendering you "shallow".)

Come on, Michael.

Michelle Malkin ditched that look weeks ago.

[via Reuters]

From Done Deal:

Title: Unknown
Log Line: Being kept under wraps.
Writer: Darby Parker and Matt Waynee
Agent: Jon Huddle and Shaun Redick of ICM
Buyer: GreeneStreet Films
Price: n/a
Genre: Thriller
Logged: 3/8/05
More: Rick Lashbrook, John S. Schwartz, and Stronghold Entertainment's Darby Parker will produce. Simon Brand will direct. GreeneStreet will handle foreign sales. Jim Caviezel, Greg Kinnear, Joe Pantoliano, Bridget Moynahan, Jeremy Sisto and Peter Stormare will star. This film will be independently financed.

Last week, low culture presented "Be Excellent to Each Other: A One Act Play," in which fictional versions of the actors Keanu Reeves and Alex Winter discussed their lives and careers.

At the time of that writing, we had no idea that Missy Schwartz, a writer for Entertainment Weekly, one of the nation's most respected and highly regarded weekly entertainment magazines that focuses on entertainment and comes out on a weekly basis, was working on a "Deal Report" column about Alex Winter (with additional reporting by Geoff Keighley, Michelle Kung, and Adam B. Vary):

Remember Alex Winter? He was Bill to Keanu Reeves' Ted. Now he's set to write Napster: The Shawn Fanning Bio Project for Paramount/MTV Films. Winter penned a version of the script as a TV movie in '03, but the story of the college dropout who developed music-file-sharing was so rich that Paramount decided to make it a feature. It's about "a punk kid with a lightning-bolt moment," says Winter, "who takes that dream into the shark-infested deep end of the big-business world and then has the whole thing blow up in his face." Winter also plans to direct Acts of Charity, an indie political satire with Alan Rickman, this year. Excellent! (Entertainment Weekly, March 11, 2005.)

Had we known that Entertainment Weekly was working on this story, we would've instead focused on Curtis Armstrong, one of America's greatest character actors who is back from his post-Revenge of the Nerds exile with roles in Dodgeball, Ray, and Man of the House. (The latter of which is out now.)

We would've written a gag intro hailing a familiar but semi-unknown actor who's worked with "greats" like Tom Cruise, John Cusack, and Bruce Willis then thrown in Steve Guttenberg to be funny, before launching into a short, pithy piece that argued, far from being a relic of the 80's (we'd mention Bronson Pinchot here), Armstrong's been working more or less steadily since the days of Duran Duran (a slightly decontextualized reference that would nonetheless ground the piece in a certain time period). We would've concluded by suggesting that one day (god willing), Armstrong might be the first Oscar winner to ever have a character named Booger on his resume.

low culture regrets the error.

Earlier: New York Second;
Twentieth Century Fox, meet award-winning director Chris Cunningham.

Related: Paramount/MTV Taking a Napster

Being a choreographer isn't all that bad, really. It's being a male choreographer that gets somewhat awkward, at times. I mean, I like to dance, you know? And more significantly, I like to envision grand schemes in which others convey the motion of the human form, the ways in which our bodies can take flight while syncing to a hot, hot beat, or a sweepingly majestic orchestral hook...I'm versatile.

No, that doesn't mean I'm gay. I get that a lot. Most men in this field are, of course, homosexual. To such an extent, really, that I felt at some point I'd need to hide my attractions for the female gender, just to get ahead. A man's got to do what a man's got to do, right? And sometimes a man's got to do a man. (I'd use that line a lot more than I do, but, you know, I try to keep this heterosexuality thing quiet.) That was my younger-incarnation line of thinking, at least...Until I began to watch The O.C. every Thursday.

I think it was watching Marissa and Alex share that first lesbian kiss on the beach a few weeks back that really got to me. I mean, yeah, the raging heterosexual in me started getting all lascivious, like, "Hey, you fucking prudish censors, don't pull away now," but the part of me that hooks up with guys like Mark Morris in order to get continued work just flat-out cringed. Like, I was disgusted with myself. Was I pulling a Mischa Barton, and making out with the wrong gender just to advance my goddamned career? I'm so above and beyond that.

When I work with my dancers, I try to instill a sense of pride in the art form in the way in which they approach their evening's endeavors. I try to get them to think about the rich history and tradition of dancing as a mode of expression, to get them to open their eyes to the ways that a graceful, limber body can convey a range of emotions heretofore untapped by the limitations of language. And I think they listen, and understand it, which makes me feel good about my role in propagating this grand pageantry of dance.

In that vein, that commitment to the craft, some of my dancers, though, are hard to get through to...like on this Faith Evans video I worked on yesterday, for instance. The motif? It was a high-school cheerleader-themed video shoot (I think the director was ripping off "Smells Like Teen Spirit," just between you and me) and there was this one girl who kept complaining about her toes hurting. As you can imagine, this happens a lot with dancers. And while lesser choreographers may readily insist that gout is the classic big-red-toe disease – and I'm not naming any names, there – I myself am prone to thinking sometimes a girl just stubbed her toe. Simple as that.

Necole, that's her name, is this totally sweet, pretty young babe. Sophisticated and not at all naive. Given her character, I insisted that she handle the distribution of props to the other dancers. Wait, let me explain. So as part of the routine I had drafted, various dancers congregate on the simulated playing field and toss lightsticks and batons to and fro. It may sound asinine, but, I swear, it really works well with the source material. Faith Evans, right?

This other dancer, a guy named Bradford, whom I had put in charge of managing a difficult baton-twirl/hip-flipping manuever, starts freaking out about how heavy and weighty the baton prop is. And, I swear, he was right. The prop department had whipped up some gargantuan lead-based relic. But we were on deadline, so I insisted Bradford work with what we had on-set. And the motherfucker challenged me! Said, "OK, give it a try, and see how difficult it is!" I'd show him.

So I stand up straight. Curl my toes. Bring my elbow perpendicular to my ribcage, and...a problem. I was dismayed to find that I could no longer control the mighty baton between my legs. It was just too heavy, too dominating, too physical...and Necole, Necole was looking at me. And it hit me, just like that, like that moment on the beach between Marissa and Alex, but from a different angle: I'd had enough of the gay-choreographer charade that was my life. I wanted to fuck Necole. Right then and there. I could see she had it in her, as well. Though I'm no semiotic genius, and am just a fabulously gifted choreographer, I could tell it was the whole baton thing that was getting her attention. This girl, this dancer, wanted to get avant-garde, you know? And engage in some very public, though very intimate, frolicking with the dancemaster. I motioned Bradford over...I had fucked him the week prior, I mean, despite my suspicion that he, too, was straight (It's a sick fucking business, yeah?), so I knew he had no problem with sex, or physicality, or anything of that nature. I clutched Necole's shoulders, and explained to Bradford that he needed to get the photographer's light-deflecting umbrella, and hold it to the side, so as to shield the intense round of fucking that was about to ensue from the rest of the crew. Gaffers can't handle impromptu sex, you know?

Bradford just smiled, and said cryptically, "Farnsworth Bentley is the original personal umbrella holder, that lucky bastard." And I knew then, I had to put on the show of all shows, even for this audience of one. Biggie would've wanted it that way.

Actually, I've never seen The O.C.; I'm sure it's pretty good.

The O.C. airs Thursdays at 8PM EST on FOX.

Earlier: O.C.-centric entries, serving as exercises in hating the player, and not the game.

How's the low culture shop doing? Amazingly, thank you very much! Soon enough we'll be able to afford a wheelbarrow for the piles of cash we're making.

Here's our latest sales report. Read it and weep, bitches!

I know we did.

Serving Suggestion: Dumb shirts for smart people, and vice versa

Ever since we took that Learning Annex course on maximizing your brand through cross-promotional marketing (taught by Fonzworth Bentley of P. Diddy's umbrella-handling fame), we've been trying to figure out a surefire way to extend the mighty brand that is low culture.

At first, we considered branching out into television, but honestly, any moron can get a show on TV nowadays. Next, we thought about a line of children's multi-vitamins, but the damn Flintstones have that market locked. Also, our bodies aren't available in easily-swallowed shapes.

Then it hit us: Poorly made T-shirts, undergarments, and mugs with clever slogans: those would sell, right? Heck, even halfway clever slogans might sell.

So we went with the halfway clever slogans. With that in mind, we present to you lowculturemart, home of our new, excessively large line of overpriced, crummy products.

Buy our crap, please: Fonzworth will be so proud.

Title: 2 Million Dollar Baby
Log Line: Sequel to the Oscar winning film. A female boxer from the wrong side of the tracks fights her way back from heaven to kill the man who snuffed her out.
Writer: Brian Helgeland
Agent: CAA
Buyer: Warner Bros.
Price: n/a
Genre: spiritual boxing drama
Logged: 2/28/05
More: Clint Eastwood will direct, star, and score. Oscar winners Hilary Swank and Morgan Freeman will reprise their roles

8:43pm: Fuck, I am so, so late. Supposedly this shit started at 8pm, right? But then there were all these issues with the express A-train lingering between stops in the tunnels under Manhattan for what seemed like forever. So I finally show up, and the hostess is all, "Hi, you're early...only a few people are here yet." I totally should have taken the C-train. It makes local stops.

8:44pm: The handful of attendees who have shown up thus far are dressed, shall we say, excessively well. Like, ties, and coats and shit like that. Apparently, there was a dress code of sorts? My t-shirt neglected to actually read the invite. Or rather, Evite. That's probably related to the fact that I fucking hate Evites.

The hostess, meanwhile, looks great in a sleeveless knit top and dark pleated skirt, and her boyfriend is wearing a magnificent outfit by D&G. I ask her who she's wearing, and it's clear she's already drunk as fuck, because her response is something along the lines of turning to the boyfriend and saying, "By the end of the night, him." Not so funny, and slightly dated, but, damn, the boyfriend's shoes really do work well with the slacks.

8:57pm: People have begun arriving in disparate groups of ones and twos and threes. We watch them as they stroll down the hallway into the living room, and pepper each new arrival with questions: Your name? Did you find the place OK? Did you fill out your Oscar ballot? You already missed the best original screenplay award, did you know that?

9:25pm: Everyone is talking about how great Cate Blanchett looks, you know, for a Brit. One guest makes a joke about British people's teeth that's met first with a chorus of laughs then several examples of British people with good teeth. Everyone agrees that Jude Law is very good looking and was robbed this year, maybe twice. Also, the pretzels bowl is getting dangerously empty.

9:54pm No one can name a single Sidney Lumet film before the montage begins. Man, the hostess' cat is so cute. He rubs his head into my ankle and even lets me pick him up.

10:20pm Cat's still in my lap! I can't believe it. Everyone is cooing at him, saying he's so cute. I sense some jealousy over how quickly the cat has taken to me. "I'm just a cat magnet," I say. "Like Jack Nicholson!" one of the guests says. When no one laughs, he explains that he meant "'Pussy magnet'—Nicholson's a pussy magnet." Groans all around. Penelope Cruz is on stage for some reason.

10:35pm People start taking photos of themselves. Someone says that Natalie Portman looks good, but I'm busy looking for the cat, who ran away a little while ago. It was my fault for shifting my weight in my chair.

11:03pm One of the guests makes fun of Sean Penn for his trip to Iraq. Another thinks he's brave. I go to the fridge and get another drink. How many has this been? I lost count around the second Beyoncé song. Damn, only hard ciders. 'Whatever,' I think, and twist the cap off.

11:05pm There's that cat. He's crapping in the litter box. Best not to bother him now, I guess.

11:07pm Still shitting.

11:10pm What the fuck did this cat eat?

11:20pm He's sitting on someone else's lap now. There's an opening next to her, so I go sit down. Cat seems to like me petting him better, but doesn't move to my lap. Oh, so that's what Charlie Kauffman looks like.

11:30pm Everyone chants along with Jamie Foxx. The cat runs from the room in fear. I'm getting a bit dizzy. Maybe the shrimp was bad.

11:36pm Maybe Dustin Hoffman had the shrimp, too. He looks bad. What? The room is practically spinning. Pretzel bowl empty.

11:40pm Everyone applauds and the girl next to me kisses me. Then I black out.

Monday, Feb. 28, 1:00pm What time is it? Where am I? Where are my pants? Who won what? And who is this next to me in the bed? Oh, it's that cat! I told you I was a pussy magnet.

In the elevated, sanctimonious tradition of the inestimable Lloyd Grove, we issue this call to arms to pundits, writers, tastemakers, and (dare we say it) bloggers far and wide: Let us not speak of Paris Hilton again. Let us disregard those antics that would otherwise warrant so much fleeting press from so many fleeting media outlets. Let us divorce ourselves from her poisonous presence in American popular culture. Let us focus on more enriching enterprises, like rigorous discussions of the 17th season of The Apprentice, or Roger Avary's screenwriting, or the career of Ben Stiller. Let us speak of steroids, of baseball, of horse racing. Let us embrace the Kentucky Derby with renewed vigor.

Let us look past Ms. Hilton's three seasons of moronic reality-television output. Let us salivate no longer on the entity known as Paris Hilton: her casually-flouted nudity, her vapid imbecility, her patented pronunciations of "That's hot." Paris? Hot? You're not.

Let us look forward to a day when this name will be synonymous with an endgame in the turning point of American culture, a utopian point at which we will have foregone such asinine documentation of these characters: the intellectually frail, the idiotically fulsome, and the irritatingly frivolous. Let us collectively embrace an era when we, the pundit class, can transcend such vile antics, and shall no longer forcibly parlay in matters of such juvenalia, such loathsome simplemindedness.

Paris? Ms. Hilton? We shall never speak of thee again. We are so much better than that.

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Office betting pools for the 2005 Oscar race are fast coming due, with the race for Best Actor seeming to pose a particularly difficult challenge for casual bettors and/or filmgoers. With that in mind, we've prepared this annotated list of nominees for Best Actor to help you make your picks this weekend...

	Leonardo DiCaprio Not honored for his role as Luke Brower in 1991's Growing Pains Getting into character for this part required hours and hours of sleeping in a classroom closet. And being unbearably fucking handsome. Or is that unbearably fucking homeless? Aw, fuck it, look how goddamned cute this little street urchin is! First he stole our hearts, and then he fucked Katherine Hepburn.
	Johnny Depp Not honored for his role as Officer Tom Hanson in 1987's 21 Jump Street Yeah, that's stubble on my chin. I haven't shaved in like two weeks, you know. You can totally tell. I'm thinking of growing it out. What? Huh? Yeah, that's a fucking gun in my backpack. It goes nicely with those drugs in your pocket, punk. You, against the lockers, now!
	Clint Eastwood Not honored for his role as Philo Beddoe in 1978's Every Which Way But Loose Because who doesn't like to fuck monkeys? (This character was purportedly spun off to create the hit 1979 television series, B.J. and the Bear.)
	Jamie Foxx Not honored for his role as Wanda the Ugly Chick in 1990's In Living Color Being blind is one thing. But the foulest lay imaginable?
	Don Cheadle Not honored for his role as Basher Tarr in 2001's Ocean's Eleven Getting into character for this part required hours and hours of listening to George Clooney and Steven Soderbergh's pitching each other various TV series and film projects. All of which seemed like good ideas at the time.

The American Psychiatric Association (APA) has designated a new psychiatric disorder called Paris Syndrome, named for socialite and Reality TV star Paris Hilton.

Paris Syndrome is characterized by an acute sense of empathy towards Paris Hilton, particularly during times of public scandal and embarrassment.

According to Dr. Owen Spielvogel, chair of APA's gossip- and media-focused Loud Family Institute, "It's natural to feel a sense of guilt and shame at the pleasure one derives from the travails of Ms. Hilton. She's a larger-than-life figure, the subject of mockery and contempt. Paris Syndrome is different than mere guilt, something closer to Stockholm Syndrome. It occurs when the individual's superego overrides the giddy pleasure at Ms. Hilton's failures and the individual begins to identify with her. 'What if my personal life got splashed across the internet? What if people openly wished for my death?' goes the thinking. At that point, Paris Syndrome has set in and psychiatric consultation may be the answer."

The APA estimates that thousands of Americans, most of whom work in the media or as bloggers (web-loggers), may be afflicted with Paris Syndrome. There is no suggested course of treatment for Paris Syndrome at this time, but according to Dr. Spielvogel, "It passes eventually and the so-called 'normal' feelings of Paris Hilton hatred return." He also notes that a related disorder—Paris Hilton Fatigue, first designated by the APA two years ago—often cancels out Paris Syndrome. "Once the individual grows indifferent to Ms. Hilton and her assorted sex tapes, utterances of racial slurs, bruises, and hacked personal communication devices. It's likely that Paris Syndrome has passed."

The APA is the nation's oldest national medical specialty society with more than 35,000 members, all of whom hate Paris Hilton.

Secretary: Alex Winter for you, Mr. Reeves.
Keanu Reeves: All right, put 'im through.
[connecting]
Hey, Alex.
Alex Winter: Ted Theodore Logan!
KR: Ha ha. What's up, man?
AW: Excellent!
KR: Funny. So, what's up, Alex?
AW: Heinous!
KR: Right, right. So, what's goin' on?
AW: Nothin' bro. Just calling to congratulate you on the boffo Constantine box office, man. Congratulations.
KR: Oh, thanks. Yeah, it's a good movie. We're all really proud of it.
AW: Cool, cool. Did I ever tell you how much I loved that Matrix series? God, it was so good!
KR: Aw, I'm flattered, dude.
[silence]
So, what's up with you?
AW: Oh, you know me. Writing, auditioning, do my thing. I'm still in the game, you know. I mean, not in the Constantine type game, but you know it's like a trade-off: you make those hundred million dollar flicks, but you gotta, like, get on that treadmill and sell it, promote it.
KR: Right...
AW: Yeah, I'm totally happy where I am, you know? Remember when we were kids, man, and we'd dream about our careers between set-ups? God, we were so fucking naive, dude! I wanted to be the next David Lynch, you were gonna be the next Marlon Brando!
KR: Funny. Hey, Alex—
AW: And you said you'd be my Kyle MacLachlan and star in all my movies.
KR: Right—
AW: Anyway.
KR: Anyway.
AW: So, any sidekick parts in your new flicks?
KR: No. Sorry, man.
AW: What about, like, secondary sort of—
KR: Alex, you know, the thing is, I'm taking some time off since I worked, like, nonstop since '99.
AW: What about The Night Watchman?
KR: Alex, I gotta—
AW: What about Il Mare?
KR: Shoot, Alex. I've got a meeting and—
AW: Cool, cool. Let's talk again later.
KR: Totally. Good to hear from you, man.
AW: Hey, do you know anything about the Lost Boys remake? Wouldn't it be hilarious if I played the grandpa? Like, in age make-up, you know?
KR: Yeah, if I hear anything—
AW: I mean, I did age makeup in Bogus.
KR: Alex. I got people outside the door. Talk to you later?
AW: Yeah, yeah. Well, congrats again on Constantine. I mean, wow!
KR: Thanks.
AW: Well, um, be excellent, Ted.
[silence]
KR: Be excellent... Bill.
[click]

Earlier: Two Friends Talking: A One Act Play

You Do the Math: Harvard President Lawrence Summers

"Among his comments to a conference of economists last month, according to the transcript, Dr. Summers, a former secretary of the United States Treasury, compared the relatively low number of women in the sciences to the numbers of Catholics in investment banking, whites in the National Basketball Association and Jews in farming."
-Furor Lingers as Harvard Chief Gives Details of Talk on Women, by Patrick D. Healy and Sara Rimer, The New York Times, Feb. 18, 2005

...he'd probably look a lot like his older brother Jason.

Comedy Gold: Iraq's possible new Prime Minister, Ibrahim Jafari (via The Washington Post)

The Man Who Would Be Jafari: Andy Blitz (via Seattle Post-Intelligencer)

We can almost hear Blitz campaigning for Jafari now: "We... Want... Ibrahim... Jafari... To be Prime Minister of Iraq... To... Bring... Unity... And peace... And... I kinda look... Like him... And it... Would be funny... If I played him... On the show... But unity is the key... And my resemblance...."

The Few, The Proud: Johnny 5 alive and in action.

"The American military is working on a new generation of soldiers, far different from the army it has.

"'They don't get hungry,' said Gordon Johnson of the Joint Forces Command at the Pentagon. 'They're not afraid. They don't forget their orders. They don't care if the guy next to them has just been shot. Will they do a better job than humans? Yes.'

"The robot soldier is coming."
- A New Model Army Soldier Rolls Closer to Battle, by Tim Weiner, The New York Times, Feb. 16, 2005.

Falling Fuel Tank May Have Caused Iran Blast - TV, Reuters:

A fuel tank falling from an Iranian plane could have caused an explosion in Iran's Bushehr province, where the country is building a nuclear power plant, Iran state television said on Wednesday.

"A local source said the explosion could have been the result of the falling of an empty fuel tank from an Iranian plane," Al-Alam said.

New 'Darko' Sheds Some Light, the Washington Post:

After a jet engine falls through the roof and into Donnie's bedroom, things really get weird.

IN NO WAY RELATED: Iran, Syria Team Up to Confront Threats, Associated Press

Iran and Syria, who both are facing pressure from the United States, said Wednesday they will form a united front to confront possible threats against them, state-run television reported.

(With thanks to Dave.)

Time magazine correspondent Matthew Cooper, left, and New York Times reporter Judith Miller, right

Access Hollywood "reporter" Nancy O'Dell sports Wendy Pepper's winning abomination from Project Runway

"But Nancy, saffron is so hot right now."

It should be noted that the Inside Deep Throat soundtrack is killer, laced with pounding hits from the '70s. - A Little Variety, Inside Deep Throat Blog, Feb. 4, 2005

Building a motion picture soundtrack from the component parts of other popular motion picture soundtracks is a great way to reward your audience for their previously exhibited good taste. Besides, the deeply rooted associations the audience has with the other film (whether it's the giddy rush of the adult film business in the 70's or the gritty thrill of crime addled Times Square) will act as a Pavlovian trigger, placing your film in a richer, more satisfying cultural context.

Here's how to do it the Inside Deep Throat Way:

"Spill the Wine," by War
&
"Brand New Key," by Melanie
(from Boogie Nights)

"Jungle Boogie," by Kool & the Gang
(from Pulp Fiction)

"Superfly," by Curtis Mayfield
(from Superfly)

"Love Is Strange," by Mickey & Sylvia
(from Dirty Dancing)

"Draggin' the Line," by Tommy James & The Shondells
(from Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me)

The Inside Deep Throat Soundtrack will, no doubt, be available in stores soon.

Separated at the Kleenex Box: Brooke Burns, Maxim, Feb. 2005... Brooke Burke, Stuff, March 2005

Stick It Up: Former KISS billboard-turned-roof (via The New York Times)

That would be The KISS Kasket.

Kanye West at the Grammy's and Emma Thompson in Angels in America

Sunday's New York Times embraces the Point-Counterpoint, albeit in entirely different sections.

From Week In Review, Balding Rockers, Big Money:

But according to a new list of the 50 top-earning pop stars published in Rolling Stone, over the hill is the new golden pasture. Half the top 10 headliners are older than 50, and two are over 60...This means that, while it is good to be the next big thing, it is better to be a-couple-of-big-things-ago. Though pop music glorifies the young and the new, it actually sells these qualities at a discount..."In five or six years you're going to see Echo and the Bunnymen and New Order and the Cure getting the high ticket prices," Mr. Calderone said, referring to a generation of bands that is not yet content to rest on its oldies.

From Arts & Leisure, We Hate the 80's:

Yet despite the grass-roots enthusiasm and VH1 dogma - not to mention millions of dollars in marketing - the 80's are not selling...some label executives said they had turned away former stars who came shopping for new record contracts. "I just wasn't convinced that the songs were compelling enough to compete in today's marketplace," said Andrew Slater, president of Capitol Records, who says he passed on both Duran Duran and Billy Idol...But those lucrative concerts play to fans eager for one (or two) glorious nights of nostalgia, not those interested in watching the band try to grow.

There is no getting rid of him. He’s the enigma who came to stay.
- Louis Menand, Mystery Man, The New Yorker, Feb. 14 & 21, 2005.

Enigma my aunt Sally! I am no enigma, I am a man. And since Mr. Menand conveniently forgot to mention a key fact in his little piffle, I must tell you myself: I am still alive.

Of course, I'm not quite as active as I was in the old days: you try donning your top hat and starched collar when you're nearly 100. These days, my monocle is bifocal and instead of examining butterflies up close, I squint intently at my own dark, brown liver spots.

It wasn't always so. Back in the old days, I was quite the playboy! In the '30s, high on all that early New Yorker acclaim (what the limey dame editor of the magazine in its bloated late life would've termed "buzz"), I was everywhere, celebrating the glorious literary life with Joey Mitchell, Bunny Wilson, Dotty Parker, and James "Jiminy Cricket" Thurber.

Oh, the gay times we had! And by 'gay,' I mean it in the old sense of the word: we drank gin distilled in our bathtubs, danced with negro chorus girls, and on occasion, performed oral sex on each other. (We called it 'rhinebecking,' after the quaint little town where Bunny rented a cottage during the summer of '36.)

Continue reading...

Opening today is Pooh's Heffalump Movie, the newest attempt from Disney to expand its Winnie the Pooh franchise. The Heffalump, for those of you not up on A.A. Milne's creative output, never actually makes an appearance in the original books. As imagined by the Heffalump screenwriters, this mythical beast appears to be nothing more than 68 minutes of treacly good cheer (does 68 minute running time count as a feature?).

It would further appear that Heffalump is no more than the well-medicated counterpart to Eeyore, Pooh's perpetually depressed donkey friend. Although Disney now disputes even Eeyore's seemingly certain clinical diagnosis. Their character bible claims,

Eeyore doesn't see himself as gloomy; he just has low expectations... Eeyore's tiny bright pink bow on his tail, the one hint of color against his gray, is a perfect symbol of the kernel of joy that occasionally surfaces in Eeyore.

So bring on the ultra-pink plastered smiles - the good folks at Pfizer et al. would be proud.

(Big ups, Patrick)

Leave it to the humanitarians at US Weekly to lend a hand to tsunami relief. (If you can’t remember, the tsunami was that thing before Brad and Jen broke up and after Christmas.) As if bravely publishing the brave photographs of brave Petra Nemcova weren’t enough, US Weekly and its stable of concerned celebs have bravely assembled an eBay auction to benefit tsunami victims.

Unfortunately the auction isn’t quite living up to expectations - the lion's share of brave donations have yet to earn a single bid. But with items such as Debbie Rowe’s signed original Fox and the Hound pencil drawing, how could they possibly go wrong? From the sketch's description:

The drawing has been framed and signed on the back by Debbie Rowe and includes the message, "Best wishes, enjoy from my collection…Debbie Rowe." She has also included a doodle of a face below her signature. Debbie Rowe is known for being Michael Jackson's second wife and the mother of his first two children, Prince Michael I and Paris Jackson.

The item has yet to register a single bid.

Or how about the bikini that Ivana from The Apprentice revealed to allure the financial district's finest? Though eBay doesn't specify if the item has since been washed, who could resist Ivana's sharpied signature on the ass? The H&M bikini bottom and top (a mere 32A) can be yours for anything above a $72.50 bid. Meanwhile, the Nicole Miller dress and Nike shoes worn by Apprentice skank Heidi has not garnered any interest.

Most surprising, perhaps, is that Eva Longoria's cheerleading uniform from her days shaking it at Texas A&M is similarly un-bid upon. Frankly America, you should be ashamed – don't the children deserve better? Think of the children.

But US Weekly isn't the only venal rag to auction off empty celebrity signifiers in support of tsunami relief – Teen People and Ashlee Simpson have also thrown their hat in the tax-deductible ring. Their auction, however, is doing significantly better.

A phone call from One Tree Hill hunk Chad Michael Murray is going for over $600, and an Ashlee Simpson concert experience (start your jokes) is already fetching over $3000.

Incidentally, a personalized phone call from low culture's resident hottie Jean-Paul Tremblay is also available, with all proceeds going to the "low culture Jamster Ringtones Fund."

You peer out across the rolling vista stretching endlessly away from your frame, your gaze occupied by the gently sloping ups-and-downs of miles upon miles of unfettered grain, sprinkled with two distinct herds of buffalo, and what appears to be a small outcropping of what must be oak trees. Oak trees, yes? The horticulturist concurs. This is the Other Country, he says. The O.C. But what is that over yonder?

It appears to be savagemen on horseback. Reds. Indians. The horticulturist nods again; yes, they are Indians, and that is what they are to be called (as though this were really his specialty; James merely tagged along on your voyage out West to escape the clutches of your sister's affections, and while you understand this motive, you nonetheless resent his schooling Degree from that University in the Northeast––though not his presence, as his understanding of the numerous families of barley and grain has proven to be quite useful for your campfire dining endeavors of late).

But digression is your latest endeavor, no? The savages, the Indians...they appear to be rapidly approaching your camp. What will become of this, James asks you, and you nod in Daniel's direction. A thuggish lad by nature, Daniel has proven to be quite...versatile in your travels. And handy with a shotgun, too, though you recklessly traded away far too many shells at that last outpost in Nebraska several nights ago, because you were overloaded with ale and that gentleman who claimed to have traveled all the way from Southern California mistook you for a Betting Fool. And wound up being quite right, it seemed, as the ale had its way with you, and you were suddenly awakened several hours later by a comely red-headed whore's bottom perched atop your face in an upstairs parlor. Several shells short. Even sturdy Daniel had proven unable to re-acquire them.

How you could use those shells now, you yell at Daniel! O, to fire gracefully upon these savages, and thereby prevent a recurrence of the episode in Missouri Country even earlier, when you found your youngest compatriot scalped mercilessly after he forced his way upon the Red-skinned lass your crew had encountered as you swept across the great Mississippi River. Victor had never been much much of a ladies' man in Virginia, and after the Depression of 1839, and his loss of steady employ at the stitcher's place, he asked if he, too, could come with you as you set forth to cross the frontier, and establish a legacy anew in the Western Territories––particularly Southern California, as you heard they were riddled with wide-open ports which served as gateways to the Sea, the open Sea, and you aspired to return to your Father's once-proud tradition for shipping. You would make your money back, and start life anew. Crates beckoned, they did. 'Twas destiny, and 'twas manifest.

But these Indians, these savages! They arc across the nearest crest of grain-laden hills, far too close for this to be a pleasant experience. James corrects you, and asserts that they are, in fact, cresting atop what is actually an offshoot of maize, and is therefore not a grain in the literal sense. James can be quite a cretin, and you've more than once grown weary of his verbal antics. Most notably, just the other evening in the Kansas Territory, when he kept your entire camp up well past nightfall with his forlorn tales of what he imagined young adulthood must be like out West.

While you enjoyed hearing his fantastic stories of neighborly betrayal, and wanton adolescent lust, which reminded you of your own boyhood, you felt his characters lacked the great depth that only a Serious Novelist could bring to such a tale. And these names he used were quite questionable. You were proud of characters such as Caleb and Luke, who would carry themselves in a good Christian fashion, but Marissa? Seth? Sandy? Were these not the ideals of Jewry embodied in James' storytelling? His schooling had poisoned his Nature, it seemed.

And Nature is now unkind to you, too, as the savages are upon your camp. It seems these Redskins are of the same bloodline as those Indian females that several of your men had been, well, rather...aggressive with yesterday morning after your morning baths. James had warned your lot about the perils of this sort of sexual and physical recklessness, but the gentlemen had laughed off his concerns as they wantonly had their way with the Red women. And now, it seems, there is, indeed, a price to pay; James, that smug bastard... Oak trees, maize, and immoral sexual congress.

You toss aside your rifle, and the empty, spent shells, and you run. You run, run, run across the fields. You know not where you go, but the West beckons. James' Other Country, his O.C....it's there, a ways across the horizon.

Actually, I've never seen The O.C.; I'm sure it's pretty good.

The O.C. airs Thursdays at 8PM EST on FOX.

Earlier: O.C.-centric entries, embodying the Manifest Destiny inherent in Rupert Murdoch's modern-day empire.

Editor's Note: Since lesbians are way hot (both in the media right now, and, you know, like, in general), low culture asked our special alternative lifestyles correspondent to weigh in. Here now, from our Soho office, Nikki:

The recent coupling of Ellen DeGeneres and Portia de Rossi has given rise to many inches of tabloid gossip. (And for one delirious week, before the door slammed shut, everyone and his two mommies were trying to pair up Marcia Cross with another TV star.)

Everyone likes to hear about women getting it on, but it's also comforting when famous gay people go out with other famous gay people—that's fewer gays to keep track of! So it was with a sigh of relief that straight people everywhere read that two celesbians were newly nestling in the Hollywood Hills, after dumping what's-her-name and what's-her-face. Meanwhile, the Christian Right can point to the degeneracy of the liberal film industry and take heart that soon Scientology will make straight pod people of them all.

(The English, of course, outclass us even in lesbians. Instead of a high-profile stand-up and TV twosome, they have the theater-and-film duo of Fiona Shaw and Saffron Burrows. Cherry Jones has taken note, but none of you care about theater people, so let's move on.)

In light of this, here's a fun game you can play alone or with friends: Come up with your own gay celebrity pairings to make things easier for everyone! Strangely enough, there aren't too many gay famous people, so the permutations are limited. Don't worry if the stars are in committed relationships and even have children together-- at least there won't be messy papers to file! Extra points for matching haircolor. Send in your answers to Liz Smith, or post them in the comments.

Coming soon: Famous people of color should hook up with other famous people of color.

According to the New York Times, Texas Homos, a play about... well, guess, was written by one Jan Buttram.

Um...

You know, we hate to be so skeptical, but after Dan Rather's superscript problems, and Jayson Blair, and that time that some random Sub Pop employee convinced the Times that "swingin' on the flippity flop" was what people in Seattle said instead of "hanging out," wouldn't the alleged authorship of this little bit of stagecraft raise an eyebrow or three?

But perhaps the liberal media types over at the Times are in on the joke? Exhibit A:

"Ms. Buttram doesn't quite know when to stop; the momentum she builds is squandered by a drawn-out denoument."

But cha AAH, Nicky, ya AAH in that chair.

Actress and Johnny Depp's baby mama Vanessa Paradis shows her support for the Iraqi elections.

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to edit the financial black hole and editorial snooze that is Playboy magazine? With Playboy: The Magazine, a new game for Xbox, you can. After a little practice, you couldn't do much worse than Christie Hefner. For those of you who only play Playboy for the pictures, here are some exciting screencaps from the game:

A successful magazine launch is always fun for the serious gamer.

Unless that's a 30,012 word essay, I'd pass.

Nothing says party at the grotto like a formal handshake with "rockstar" Uncle Kracker.

(Screenshots courtesy Gamespot)

Since The New Yorker's a double this week, and Andy Borowitz has been spreading himself a bit thin lately, I'm gonna take bad comedy matters into my own hands.

Here's something twice as unfunny as you're likely find on The Times op-ed page or in The New Yorker's 'Shouts & Murmurs' and you can read it for free.

If you ask the White House what President Bush is reading these days, the press office will call back with the official list: "His Excellency: George Washington" by Joseph J. Ellis, "Alexander Hamilton" by Ron Chernow and, not least, the Bible.

What the official list omits is Tom Wolfe's racy new beer- and sex-soaked novel, "I Am Charlotte Simmons." The president, a fan of Mr. Wolfe, has not only read the book but also is enthusiastically recommending it to friends.
- Bush's Official Reading List, and a Racy Omission, by Elisabeth Bumiller, The New York Times, Feb. 7, 2005.

Also on George W. Bush's reading list:

The Five Thousand Dead Iraqi People You Meet in Heaven

Beats, Shoots & Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Abu Ghraib

Baby-killers' Club Friends Forever # 12: Wolfowitz and the Disaster Date

Me Talk Pretty One Day

Blank : The Power of Thinking Without Thinking

He's Just Not That Into You: The No-Excuses Truth to Understanding Gays

Dreams from My Father : A Story of Golf and Inheritance

This I Believe: An A to B of a Life

Ford Mustang convertible
Diet Pepsi (and P. Diddy and Carson Daly and Wilmer Valderrama)
Bubblicious
Olympus M:Rope
Ameriquest Mortgage
FedEx Kinko’s (and Burt Reynolds)
Bud Light (and Cedric the Entertainer )
Volvo (and Virgin Galactic and Richard Branson)
Diet Pepsi (and Cindy Crawford and Carson Kressley)
Godaddy.com (and enormous breasts)
The Longest Yard
Bud Light
The Longest Yard
McDonald’s (and Abraham Lincoln)
The Simpsons
Visa Check Card (and Marvel Comics)
Ameriquest Mortgage
Quizno’s (and Baby Bob)
Ameriquest Mortgage
MBNA (and Gladys Knight and John Travolta)
24 (and nuclear disaster)
American Idol

Continue reading...

Yes, it finally happened on Saturday, and it was low culture to first break the news of Julian Casablancas' engagement to Juliet, on April 21st of last year. Best wishes, kids.

low culture, your online gossip resource.

Perhaps you've seen the ads for Marlboro Seventy-Twos in Seventeen magazine, while watching MTV, or at your local youth center. And perhaps, like low culture, you've been tempted to find out more about Philip Morris' newest teen sensation and buy a pack. Don't.

A quick phone call to the suicide hotline at Philip Morris revealed that the "Seventy Twos" are merely shorter cigarettes. That's right - no value-added tar, chemicals, toxins or tobacco - it's just less cigarette at the same obscene price. If the tobacco companies can't be trusted to offer their consumers the best value, can they be trusted at all? Probably.

Okay, we admit we're not above begging. Please go to The 2005 Bloggies site and vote for us for 'Best Weblog About Politics' and 'Best Group Weblog.'

It means a super lot to us! (Which is why we're begging!!) And we'll totally remember you when we're famous. And, um, we'll make T-shirts! And we'll do TV talking head shit. Please, anything. Please, baby, please, baby, baby, baby, please!

Go vote today!

(I'm Matt Haber, and I approve this message.)

So,
there it was.
The endowment was bequested
(requested?)
to POETRY magazine.
The Eli Lilly widow's 2003
was a banner year
for gifts, for life, for language,
and
you've felt a renewed hope for
your dead, dead
(Empty? Forsaken? Barren?)
Poetry. Poesy, posies...

You prey upon the culture
around you, within you, upon you
and you are Us. And

You are thus told, nay
commanded, commandeered, commended
to know about The O.C..
Newport. The lives of the rich
(Empty? Forsaken? Barren?)
in turn prey upon you.

And you love Seth Cohen. Desire
knows not these constraints,
these passionate ties
of 8 through 9pm on Thursdays.

They occur
religiously
regularly
gaily
gleefully

And you take a breath (deeply!). And
contain your desire, and
sit up in your couch, and
Grab your notepad.

Are you pretty sexy?
What sort of knickers are you wearing?
These are not lines that Seth would ask of you.
He listens not to you, but he reads
and, verbally, you smile upon him (deeply!)

And the theme music begins. This

Means you are the Winter to his
Summer.

Actually, I've never seen The O.C.; I'm sure it's pretty good.

The O.C. airs Thursdays at 8PM EST on FOX.

Earlier: O.C.-centric entries, which may or may not avoid both iambic pentameter and high-school caliber angst.

If Fahrenheit 9/11’s and Super Size Me’s box office numbers didn’t prove evidence enough, the recent Sundance Festival should convince you – documentaries are a hot commodity. And amid the non-fiction hullabaloo arrives The Documentary, the sizzling hot hip-hop debut from Dre’s latest discovery, The Game.

Unfortunately, The Game’s depiction of thug life stands up to scrutinous fact-checking no more than your average Stephen Glass color piece or Michael Moore agitprop. Aftermath Records? There is a Fabulist among you. Consider the facts:

Fabrication: On his rap song "Dreams," The Game asserts "They say sleep is the cousin of death..."

Fact: Virgil considers death the "brother to sleep," ("consanguineus Leti Sopor") (VI.18). Cf. Heine’s Death, and his Brother Sleep. Brother and cousin represents a material discrepancy.

Fabrication: On the track "Hate It or Love It," The Game declaims "Kill a nigga on my song but really do it/ That's the true meaning of a 'ghostwriter.'"

Fact: According to Merriam-Webster's Online Dictionary, ghostwriter means "one who writes for and in the name of another" (transitive sense). No proffered definition, contemporary or obsolete, describes "killing niggas."

Fabrication: On his hot joint "Higher," The Game boasts "Like Dre did/ I created a buzz without a single…"

Fact: Per hip-hop resource Rolling Stone, "The Documentary" relies upon the "killer single, 'How We Do,' an A-list Dre tune that's piled with hooks." Rolling Stone is beyond reproach. Obviously.

Fabrication: On "Don’t Need Your Love," The Game goes so far as to brag, "got all the critics watchin [sic] my pivot/ On my block in the Coupe reading [sic] kites from prison…"

Fact: To document this statement’s countless failings in source materials and matters of fact would require more space than is available. However, let it be said that New York Times critic A.O. Scott, among others, has never acknowledged watching The Game’s pivot, publicly at least. Additionally, kites, whether box, sled, delta, or winged box, are rarely, if ever, allowed in prisons.

Fabrication: According to The Game's flow on No More Fun & Games, "Not to down Eminem I fuck black bitches, fuck white bitches, nigga I like bitches/ Them half and half Alicia Keys dyke bitches."

Fact: There is no evidence that Alicia Keys sapphic inclinations represent only half her gender identity. The preponderance of oral history suggests Ms. Keys is entirely a "dyke bitch."

Fabrication: On his track "Special," The Game promises, "I’ll take you to New York City, Atlanta too/ Show you how to fly them birds…"

Fact: Thus far, The Game has not taken me to New York or Atlanta, nor has he shown me how to fly any birds. I am, however, available for promised activities – The Game can contact me here. I also like bitches.

From the February/March issue of Complex magazine:

Maldives in Monsoon Season
Some of the best surfing in the world takes place on this small island off the coast of India as winter comes to its stormy end.
"The Complex Dozen: Things that matter in February and March"

Related: Tsunami, a Long-Term View

If I wanted to watch a bunch of people sitting around doing coke and talking I could have stayed at the apartment.

(With apologies to Overheard in New York, and David Rabe's Hurlyburly)

The Vivian Girls, in What is known as the Realms of the Unreal, identify their Assailant.

At Neverland Ranch, only to escape again.

More on Henry Darger, and more creepy courtroom sketches of Michael Jackson.

Take the V.F. poll, at the all new VanityFair.com.

Related: Graydon Rides the Wave, by Jennifer Senior, New York, 12/11/00

The Aristocrats, the documentary directed by comedian Paul Provenza and featuring George Carlin, Whoopi Goldberg, Gilbert Gottfried and others performing their variations on the legendary, unspeakable 'aristocrats' joke, has emerged as a surprise hit at the 2005 Sundance Film Festival. It was acquired by ThinkFilms for an estimated $750,000, according to Reuters.

Most articles about The Aristocrats point out that even if they could publish the shocking, disgusting 'aristocrats' jokes, they wouldn't dare for fear of ruining the punch line. According to press reports, 'the aristocrats' is the funniest joke ever, and to reveal it would be tantamount to a crime against comedy, not to mention, the film's word-of-mouth marketing effort.

Well, since we walked out of The Crying Game and told everyone on line for the next showing that Jaye Davidson is a man, and delighted in revealing that the wife did it in Presumed Innocent, we're gonna break ranks. Once you read the joke, you can decide for yourself if it is, indeed, the funniest joke ever told.

Knock knock?

Who's there?

The Aristocrats.

The Aristocrats who...?

Continue reading...

You're so goddamned livid right now. The DVR is fucking up, again, and keeps looping the first few frames of tonight's episode of The O.C., which you had set to record because you were in Queens visiting your old friend from college. Well, not so much a friend, but an ex-lover. Girlfriend, whatever. You broke it off with Claudia before graduating, you recall, and that worked out fine until she moved to Astoria and called you up saying how nice it would be to visit her using the fucking 7 train. As if, man, as if. That line on the map is fucking purple, and you look that homo shit right in the eye, and renounce it like there never was a Bravo Network. But you had a momentary relapse and went out to some goddamned Greek restaurant to have a catch-up dinner with her. Fuck, it was tedious, and she kept talking about how Manhattan real estate was so over-rated, but at least you knew you had your DVR slated to capture The O.C. to its 80-gig harddrive. The grape leaves were worth it, though, as was your knowledge that you had hours of available recording time free on your machine.

At least you think you did; the tech/sales guy on the phone wasn't entirely certain, but then again, he was working out of some fucking province in India. So you're now back at your place in Gramercy. And you're feverishly gripping the goddamned all-in-one remote, and trying to get the episode to play, because it's approaching midnight and you need to get into work tomorrow before 8am. PLAY, goddamnit. Peter Gallagher's face is frozen in some actorly-contortion, and the image keeps flickering back and forth between two consecutive frames of video. The DVR's interface is just hanging there onscreen, its cutesy late-'90s fast-forward and rewind arrows just taunting you with their promise of television on your terms.

You hit the exit key rather ungracefully, and you're now out of the onscreen programming guide. You were almost clumsy in your haste to remedy this shit. Got to be more pro-active, responsible. Rational. Calm.

You select tonight's episode again. And it jumps to the credits, the fucking end credits. 1:00:01, it says on that cutesy little bar at the base of your 32-inch television screen. That's just what you needed, right, for it to be midnight and Point Pleasant to come on and taunt you with its insipid content. It's not nearly as inspired as The O.C.. You fucking have to find out what's going on with that Mexican gardener boy, and Julie Cooper's reconnection with Mischa's dad, and that hottie bartender. Yeah, the hottie bartender. Blond. And fucking bisexual. You read online that there's going to be some lesbian shit in upcoming episodes, and, despite your general protestations of all things homo, you can, and will, make an exception when it comes to some tongue-kissing action between Mischa and the blondie.

But these Point Pleasant title sequences are just hanging there, teasing you. You put your hard-on away. You bring up the dialog box, the one that says, "Play from the beginning," and, fuck, fuck, it does just that. You are content. Peter Gallagher appears onscreen again, only as he's speaking fluidly, now, that single-frame grab you were subjected to moments ago seems so much more appealing. Almost Emmy-winning in caliber. He's going to wreck the rich motherfuckers in Newport! Low income housing, he's saying, low income housing. Tell that shit to Claudia, maybe, because, fuck, Astoria pissed you off tonight. And now you're distracted, so you try to rewind a minute or so. And, again, the screen fucking freezes. Fuck you. Time Warner Cable is getting a curt little phone call first thing in the morning tomorrow. You'll be at your desk, and your friends will be talking about The O.C., and you're going to hate them for that.

Actually, I've never seen The O.C.; I'm sure it's pretty good.

The O.C. airs Thursdays at 8PM EST on FOX.

Earlier: O.C.-centric entries, now collected in a limited-edition DVD box set, retailing for $34.97 at your local Best Buy. Formatted for Region-1 players.

Veruca Salt's Louise Post goes Anna Nicole Smith.

From Willy Wonka's I Want It Now, sung by Veruca Salt (the character, not the band):

I want a feast
I want a bean feast
Cream buns and donuts and fruitcake with no nuts
So good you could go nuts
I want a ball
I want a party
Pink macaroons and a million balloons
And performing baboons
Give it to me
NOW!

Indeed.
(Thanks Erin)

Among the attendees at the World Economic Forum, (clockwise from top left) world spokesman Richard Gere, U2 point man Bono, Citigroup Chief Executive Hottie Charles Prince, and Catwoman star Sharon Stone.
(photos via AP)

Despite Page Six's lede, Pete Doherty, formerly of The Libertines, currently of Babyshambles, is indeed disappointingly, crashingly sober. And not only do Kate and Pete dance the 12-step together, he's now attempting to guide the ur-waif's new singing career.

Update: Or not.

And yeah, Juliet and Julian dance down the red carpet of commitment this spring. But what of the band's rhythm section, similarly due for new tax filings, and the ceremony newly transported from France to New York? Now that's news...

J.K. Rowling Names Daughter Mackenzie

L-R, Tegan and Sara, So Jealous; Bright Eyes, Digital Ash in a Digital Urn

Hmmm...and you're still wondering what the next Bloc Party or Dears LP will look like?

Bond Beauty Drops in to Boost World Record Abseil Attempt: Rachel Grant at Twickenham Rugby Stadium, London

Who in the hell is Rachel Grant?

Abseil?

Was the attempt successful?

We assumed a brief Google could set our minds at ease. We were wrong.

Jude Law in Alfie... Jude Law in I ♥ Huckabees

Jude Law in Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events... Jude Law in Closer

Jude Law in Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow... Jude Law in The Aviator

Bastards just hate a handsome motherfucker.

Ask Men, the online portal for anything with testes, has declared its Top 99 Most Desirable Women (get it? That’s one less than a hundred). Aside from the rather disappointing photos, the accompanying text for each babe also leaves something to be desired – any sense of actually describing the buxom beauty in question.

It’s a sure sign of the homogenization of popular culture. Or a sign of the overwhelming demands that society places on women’s appearance. Or maybe it’s a sign of AskMen’s lackluster editorial content. Eh, it’s probably something.

Just try to match each babe with her sexy vagaries.

Total Hottie	Banal Sentiment
1. Vivica A. Fox	A. …this girl could rival NASCAR. There's a sweetness about her that keeps people tuning in for more. Add to that a curvaceous figure and cleavage like the Appalachian Mountains -- well-shaped, impressive and all-natural.
2. Kristanna Loken	B. Her mocha skin highlights every nook and cranny of her flawless body.
3. Alicia Keys	C. What, you never looked at her legs? You never imagined what those bee-stung lips feel like? For all men and -- let's be honest -- many women, X remains an icon of unique sexiness that begs for further screen appearances.
4. Fergie (from Black-Eyed Peas)	D. She's no teenage waif in skimpy clothes. She's got the curves, the moves and the attitude to make any man pay attention. She oozes more sex appeal per square inch than the whole of Sweden.
5. Nikki Cox	E. X's striking face and luscious body attract men and women alike -- she has an impressive lesbian following. She's been dancing for years and it has paid off with a tight and toned body.
6. Demi Moore	F. Her proportions and facial features are flawless, and there's nothing we can say about her lips that hasn't been said a dozen times already.
7. Uma Thurman	G. In a blonde-saturated popular culture, X provides a refreshing respite with her sensual dark-haired aura. Her luminous eyes still give the movie screen an extra glow in those many close-ups.
8. Halle Berry	H. Her beatific face, long legs, perfect curves... is it hot in here? One look at her is enough to realize why she became a model before turning to acting.
9. Angelina Jolie	I. Yet she still maintains an allure usually restricted to the mysterious, and each time we see her scantily clad it's like the first time.
10. Brooke Burke	J. A perfectly contoured stomach, toned legs and a more than ample chest should secure X a spot on this list for years to come.

Answer Key: 1-d, 2-h, 3-b, 4-e, 5-a, 6-g, 7-c, 8-i, 9-f, 10-j

On crotch-cam auteur Larry Clark's new feature, Wassup Rockers:

The story follows Latino skateboarders from South Central Los Angeles who eschewed the gangbanger lifestyle in favor of their boards and punk rock. In an interview with Variety, Clark says "I got to know them and became fascinated by their lifestyle and the peer pressure they encountered because they didn't like hip-hop, didn't want to be gangsters and weren't into drugs."

Ken Park, we hardly knew ye.

[via Dark Horizons]

Stinkbomb Sue Anna Yeh, left, poses between classes in Sugar Land, Texas Thursday, Jan. 20, 2005. Yeh, a total spazoid and obvious lesbo at First Colony Middle School in Sugar Land, wrote a poem about No Name-Calling Week that won first prize in a lame-assed contest related to the event, which will be observed at hundreds of middle schools nationwide next week. (AP Photo/Pat Sullivan)

(We’re really not always this mean. It must be the time of year.)

Alexandra Kerry and Tobey Maguire make love to the camera.

Today marks William Safire’s last Op-Ed piece article for the New York Times, and the paper has set up a lovely multimedia farewell to him online. Even readers are encouraged to get in on the good cheer and offered the chance to “share memories of the columnist.” We thought it might be nice to share some of their moving tributes below.

From Rajivshorey:

Outright thugs in the administration and out of it like Mr Safire are responsible for the utterly venal and criminal policy on Iraq war.

From farmhand07:

Think of all the good he could have done if he had just stayed with selling refrigerators. Instead he used his "salesman" writing style to foist and then prop up the most reprehensible figures in recent American politics. Agnew, Nixon, et al.

Good riddance.

From krome9:

Safire's logic was sometimes just missing and most times corrupt.

From richeeboyee:

You’re a hell of a liar – good riddance.

From jazztenor:

Mmmmm...interesting illustration by Barry Blitt of Safire's self-important melodramatic farewell...

Are we to surmise he is jumping into an empty pool?

Continue reading...

Dear Sirs/Madames:

I was sorry to hear about the recent loss of your editor, Brigid Hughes. All consolations aside, may I suggest my own editorial services to the rescue?

Much like your former editor George Plimpton, my many urbane acquaintances would describe me as possessing the bonhomie and ruddy good cheer of any chronic tippler, whilst still maintaining adequate compos mentis to run the football pool on a Sunday afternoon.

Unlike Mr. Plimpton, however, who forever played the "professional amateur," I am a "consummate professional." Could Mr. Plimpton program basic HTML? I can. Did he boast a proficiency in Excel Spreadsheets and the rest of the Microsoft Office suite? I boast. And I can safely assume that my WPM’s far outstrip Mr. Plimpton on even his best days.

To put it bluntly – I am not possessed of the terminal wanderlust that so plagued Mr. Plimpton. Nor do I possess any aspirations to play the jack-off-of-all-trades: I have no interest in getting in the ring with Archie Moore. I have neither the interest nor the talent to write the Great American Oral Biography. In short I have few, if any, interests – a valuable asset when it comes time to meet the bruising deadlines of a literary quarterly.

If and when I do pursue my acting career, I will serve as a far better representative for The Paris Review than Mr. Plimpton did in the failed Tom Hanks vehicle Volunteers.

When I served as Editorial Intern for Harper’s in the summer of ’97, my dedication to fact-checking the trademarked Index was responsible for the eventual publication of several scathing statistics that concerned federal budget allocations. My recent experience in posting to low culture has presumably prepared me for other things, things of which Mr. Plimpton could only have dreamed. Did Mr. Plimpton post to low culture? I’m fairly certain he didn’t.

As for meeting (and exceeding) the qualifications of your most recent editor, let’s just put it this way: I can urinate standing up.

I am available to move into Mr. Plimpton’s apartment effective March first (when my sublet ends). I look forward to speaking with you about this opportunity.

Yours,
Guy Cimbalo

Excerpted from "The Tonight Show," September, 1991, on the occasion of the Soviet Republics' movement toward independence:

To me, democracy means placing trust in the little guy, giving the fruits of nationhood to those who built the nation...Democracy is people of all races, colors, and creeds united by a single dream: to get rich and move to the suburbs away from people of all races, colors, and creeds.

Democracy is buying a big house you can't afford with money you don't have to impress people you wish were dead. And, unlike Communism, democracy does not mean having just one ineffective political party; it means having two ineffective political parties. Democracy means freedom of sexual choice between any two consenting adults; Utopia means freedom of choice between three or more consenting adults. But I digress.

Democracy is welcoming people from other lands, and giving them something to hold onto -- usually a mop or a leaf blower. It means that with proper timing and scrupulous bookkeeping, anyone can die owing the government a huge amount of money.

Yes, democracy means fighting every day for what you deserve, and fighting even harder to keep other, weaker people from getting what they deserve. Democracy means never having the Secret Police show up at your door. Of course, it also means never having the cable guy show up at your door. It's a tradeoff. Democracy means free television. Not good television, but free.

And finally, democracy is the eagle on the back of a dollar bill, with 13 arrows in one claw, 13 leaves on a branch, 13 tail feathers, and 13 stars over its head--this signifies that when the white man came to this country, it was bad luck for the Indians, bad luck for the trees, bad luck for the wildlife, and lights out for the American eagle.

"A 40-year-old woman faces charges of sexual assault and contributing to the delinquency of a minor for allegedly supplying drugs and alcohol to high school boys and having sex with some of them.

"Sylvia Johnson, 40, told police she wanted to be a 'cool mom,' according to an arrest affidavit..."

- 'Cool Mom' Threw Sex Parties for Boys, AP, Jan. 21, 2005.

How to Enter: Using the 'comments' area, enter your best caption to the above photo (via AP).

Prize: The best caption, as chosen by the editors of this site, will be posted on the main page.

Rules: Enter as often as you like. No libel, etc.

* low culture cannot guarantee that you have "super-fun".

"Other strategies are being considered, such as having a regular column devoted to 'The O.C.,' the Fox show, which is a huge hit among girls in their twenties�'so much so that the CollegeHumor boys have discovered that discussing the show’s plotlines is an excellent way of striking up a conversation with a girl." -Funny Boys, by Rebecca Mead, The New Yorker, Jan. 24, 2005

Hi, is this seat taken? Oh, god. That sounded so cheesy. I mean, that's worse than asking your sign, right? I'm such a cheeseball.

My name is Dave, what's yours? Marissa? Like Marissa on The O.C.?

What? You don't watch The O.C.? Ha! I totally knew you'd be into The O.C.! Not that you're, like, a 'type,' I mean, you're not a cliché.

You know what the best part of The O.C. is? During the winter, it's like a blast of sunshine in my apartment. Isn't that weird how some shows totally make feel, like, seasons? Like, I always need to wear an extra sweatshirt when I watch The Ice Storm! Weird, right?

Or, like, some albums are the same. For me, Bob Marley is spring. Whenever I put on Legend I just feel I'm on spring break in Jamaica like I was junior year of college.

Have you ever been there? Oh my god, it is awesome! It was just me and my boys for five days: sleeping late, drinking, hanging out on the beach all day. And there were so many hotties—

Wait, that sounded so childish. What I meant was, there were great people from all over, just meeting each other, hooking up... God, I'm sorry. I sound like such a fucking fratboy.

I'm really not like that. I mean, I was in a fraternity, but I'm a regular, down-to-earth guy. I mean, the fact that I would admit to watching The O.C. is, like, totally proof of that. If I were some sort of macho frat dude, would I admit to watching a show that's—let's admit it, okay, Marissa— is kinda gay. I mean, it's totally the sort of show that some closet case would watch at the gym before having down low sex in the locker room, right?

But, um, the fact that... What the hell was I saying, Maria? I mean, Marissa? Wait! Where are you going? I was gonna buy you a drink—and not in a cheesy way!

Wait, come back.

Fucking bitch. If we were in college she'd worship my di-dick. Damnit. I'm so lonely. Why am I so very lonely?

Actually, I've never seen The O.C.; I'm sure it's pretty good.

The O.C. airs Thursdays at 8PM EST on FOX.

Earlier: O.C. crapola

Shock and Awe: Fireworks over the White House, top (via Reuters), Independence Day, bottom (via Catastrophe in the Movies)

Ah, Park City in January, otherwise known as the Dance Season – that’s Sundance, Slamdance, and Nodance (now defunct). Those of you foolish enough to brave Park City’s bad hat weather and blue law strictures, however, would do well to catch the debut of Crispin Glover’s What Is It?

That’s right, Glover’s long-awaited, first-in-a-trilogy, what-the-fuck, madhouse will enjoy three public screenings, all followed by Q&A Sessions with the creepy auteur. The film, as per imdb:

Being the adventures of a young man whose principle interests are snails, salt, a pipe, and how to get home. As tormented by an hubristic, racist inner psyche. What Is It? is a bewildering, unnerving, surreal, blackly comic film from the visionary mind of Crispin Glover that tells the inner and outer struggles of a young man facing villains and demons on multiple planes.

The film features a cast consisting largely of actors with Down Syndrome, a snail with the voice of Fairuza Balk, and legendary publisher Adam Parfrey playing “Jealous Minstrel.”

What is it? Indeed. Some help might be gleaned from Glover’s Apocalypse Culture II essay of the same name, in which he blames Steven Spielberg for Columbine, kind of.

The trailer for “What Is It?” is available from Crispin Glover’s official site – it is, however, not safe for work.

After the jump, witness an early poster for "What Is It?" featuring Shirley Temple nude, in Nazi garb. Clearly not safe for anywhere.

Continue reading...

Best Actor, White (aka "Drama"):
Leonardo DiCaprio, The Aviator

Best Actor, Black (aka "Musical or Comedy"):
Jamie Foxx, Ray

P. Diddy and Rosario Dawson

Nicole Kidman, Naomi Watts and Juan Valdez

Hugh Hefner (forgive the watermark)

(Thanks TK)

Rashomon, in case you were wondering, is Akira Kurasawa's 1950 classic in which the account of a murder-rape is told from four very different points of view. There's nothing quite like it -- an opinon borne out by newspapers' insistence on invoking the film whenever accounts of any given event differ, which is, like, all the time. A brief Lexis-Nexis search later and it becomes apparent -- the New York Times is by far the most egregious abuser of the "Rashomon" shorthand. Confer:

Rashomon in Melbourne
To hurl a bustling, kaleidoscopic, Rashomonian novel into the present climate is to indulge in a gamble -- a bid for space and quiet and the willing suspension of disbelief -- that is either foolish or heroic or, most likely, both.
by Daphne Merkin, 1/16/05

The Suspense Is Killing Me
Burt makes the most of a Rashomon approach, deftly demonstrating that what lives vividly in one person's memory can be erased or deeply buried in another's.
by John Hartl, 12/19/04

Five Faces of Antigone, From Surfer Babe to Widow
''Antigone Project'' fast-forwards its Greek heroine to the present, then offers a Rashomon-ized view of her tragic plight, interpreted by five female writers paired with five female directors.
by Phoebe Hoban, 10/27/04

"Rashomon" Meets "Gilligan's Island"
''Lost,'' a new ABC drama about air-crash survivors marooned on a spooky deserted island, sounds ludicrous -- ''Gilligan's Island'' meets ''The X-Files.'
by Alessandra Stanley, 9/12/04

Moody Loners Vs. Bad Guys
[...] and on "Boomtown," the Rashomon of crime shows, all the characters get a chance to interpret the evidence their own way.
by Alessandra Stanley, 10/26/03

Partly Mozart Followed by the Real Thing
Mozart got the Rashomon treatment at the Mostly Mozart festival on Tuesday night.
by Anne Midgette, 8/7/03

Corrections
An article last Sunday about the Albany budget negotiations misstated the source of the "Rashomon" narrative technique, which reveals shifting views of the same event through different witnesses. It was used in the 1950 film of that name by Akira Kurosawa, not in the short story by that name. (The film was based on two stories by Ryunosuke Akutagawa -- "In a Grove," which uses the technique, and "Rashomon," which does not.)
6/1/03

We could go on, and we will -- more "Rashomon's" after the jump.

Continue reading...

Despite low culture's attorney's protestations, we're pushing through with our New York Times Op-Ed Page blind item guessing game, pesky legal troubles be damned.

From yesterday's Maureen Dowd column:

A few years ago at a White House Correspondents' dinner, I met a very beautiful actress. Within moments, she blurted out: "I can't believe I'm 46 and not married. Men only want to marry their personal assistants or P.R. women."

Send your (nonlibelous!) theories to tips@gaw, er, just post them in the comments or something.

Russell Simmons offers up some truly troubling stills from the set of Phat Farm's new sneaker campaign.

At least it doesn't look like his maids are going to make another appearance...

Apparently, The O.C. is all popular and shit, and a lot of people seem to like it. They're all, like, "We love The O.C.!" We, however, are alternative-minded types. We vote Nader. We drive Toyota Scions. We shop at fucking Trader Joe's and buy their cheap-ass wine. And then we don't get drunk, we get intoxicated. And, also, you know what? We watch Joey.

That sounded more hostile than was intended.

Actually, I've never seen The O.C.; I'm sure it's pretty good.

The O.C. airs at 8PM EST on FOX.

Earlier: When we had a bit more time than at the present, it turns out we were all just a bit too O.C.-centric.

Hols from £9.50? That 8-Page pullout and booking form must be amazing.

[via bOING bOING, via waxy, via Eye Beam, via Pop Gadget, so you've seen it]

From everyone's favorite Columnist of the Year, Andrea Peyser, in today's New York Post:

C' mon, Amber. I'm really a lot of fun when you get to know me.
Her blue-green eyes puffy from apparent lack of sleep �' or was it tears? �' and her hands trembling nervously, the literary welterweight formally known as Amber Frey looked up into my eyes. And grimaced.
Well it's true �' I'm no Scott Peterson.
...
And in this starkly unromantic setting, our eyes met. Amber clutched her stomach queasily with her hand.
I feared she'd throw up.
Amber 'Victim Tour' Lands Here

And in only vaguely related news, enjoy another look at Amber's massive braces and minimal assets. (Safe neither for work nor much anywhere else.)

In honor of today’s DVD/video release of the Dax Shepard vehicle Without a Paddle, low culture is proud to present the following unpublished excerpt from an interview with Ashton Kutcher, Dax’s Punk’d co-star. (The interviewer shall remain nameless.)

X: Alright my friend has a question for you. He wants to know if we were supposed to accept Dax Shephard as an actor in Without a Paddle or if we were being Punk’d? (chuckles)

Kutcher: I haven’t seen the movie. It may have been. You better tell your friend to stop talking shit about my friend unless he’s an actor and he can outperform that.

X: (chuckling) Do you ummm… are you doing like… your roles like a business person and like a producer?

And now Ashton will finally have his chance to catch the film, described by the Boston Globe as “harmlessly cretinous.”

America's Funniest Rescue Video

You gotta watch this dramatic real-time video (QT) of a guy being saved from the Los Angeles river from CNN.com. (Or, choose your preferred version here.)

Now, try watching while listening to the music from The Benny Hill Show.

And before you get mad at me, the guy was okay.

Update: Turns out video is for CNN Premium subscribers only. Damn, but it was so funny.

King of Queens: Will Smith and Kevin James in Hitch.

"Talking about Six Degrees [of Separation] with Premiere magazine a decade ago, Smith raised eyebrows in the p.c.-sensitive media by confessing that before he accepted the role, his friend Denzel Washington had warned him, 'Just don't be kissing no man.'"
- It's a queer eye for the straight thesp, by David Rooney, Variety, March 14, 2004 (subscription required).

(Answer Key: John Goodman + Ricky Gervais = Michael Moore at Sunday's People's Choice Awards)

Previously: Vol. 2, Vol. 1

From the (barely visible) cover of February, 2005's Seventeen magazine:

Jamie Lynn Spears - Britney's Sister Confesses... "I Don't Want to Get Too Famous"

Really? Then why exactly are you on the goddamned cover of Seventeen?

With a new Amazon entry for the Jonathan Safran Foer novel Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close (via Maud), the literary set is treated to a sneak-peek at the wonderblah’s sophomore effort. And boy-o, does it look hot…

From our Amazonian product description:

Oskar Schell is an inventor, Francophile, tambourine player, Shakespearean actor, jeweler, pacifist. He is nine years old.

Already we’ve got a Wes Anderson adaptation waiting to happen (Rushmost?). Maybe Jonathan Lipnicki is a little old – but wouldn’t he be perfect? Precocious, non-threatening and Tiger Beat enough to pull off this acrobatic feat of cutesiness. But wait, there’s more. Still from Amazon:

And he is on an urgent, secret search through the five boroughs of New York to find the lock that fits a mysterious key belonging to his father, who died in the attacks on the World Trade Center.

Oh, snap. No he didn’t.

Oh, yes, he did. But it couldn’t get any bigger, could it? It could, and it does:

His search for the lock careens from Central Park to Coney Island to the Bronx and beyond. But it also travels into history, to Dresden and Hiroshima, where horrific bombings once shattered other lives. Along the way, Oskar encounters a motley assortment of humanity �' a 103-year-old war reporter, a tour guide who never leaves the Empire State Building, lovers enraptured or scorned �' all survivors in their own ways.

Now we’ve got firebombing, nuclear annihilation and the Cyclone thrown in the mix – you just know this shit’s gonna be deep. Oprah deep. Liev Schreiber deep.

If only Foer had a chance to add the tsunami – this thing could have been really hot.

"'Strange Love' is a documentary about Brigitte Nielsen, the Danish giantess from 'Rocky IV' turned dissolute nudist, and Flavor Flav, the wily Ritalin-deprived clock-wearing Public Enemy hype man from the South Bronx.
[...]
"But Flav, who steals the show here, also lets his guard down sometimes, admitting to crippling anxiety. And when he is not able to make Brigitte laugh with his antics, and the cultural gulf between them seems unbridgeable, he can also look like a small, lost old man who has come far from the South Bronx but does not quite know how or why."
-Flouting Convention, Embracing Eccentricity, The New York Times, Jan. 8, 2005.

"[Meth] Aiyyo Flav
[Flav] Whassup Meth?
[Meth] What you know about niggaz from Long Island right?
[Flav] Huh?
[Meth] True Long Island right?
[Flav] All my life!
[Meth] All your life right?
[Flav] All my life!
[Meth] Westbury
[Flav] Word up, Freeport, Long Island, Roosevelt, Long Island"
- "Soul Power (Black Jungle)," Wu-Tang Clan, feat. Flavor Flav

Related:
Artist Name: Flavor Flav
Born: 1959
In: Roosevelt, Long Island, NY
- AOL Music: Flavor Flav

Date of birth (location)
16 March 1959
Roosevelt, Long Island, New York, USA
- IMDB

The Woodsman, in theaters now... Coach Carter, opening Jan. 14, 2005

The following are troubling sentences taken out of context from Clay Aiken's sure-to-be-smash hit, Learning to Sing: Hearing the Music in Your Life, his memoir-cum-self helper-cum-religious manifesto. All quotes courtesy Amazon's "Search Inside This Book."

Page 5: She replied that a wife was someone who would cook for me and wash my clothes and love me, and I said to her, "I'm already married." Mom laughed and said, "To whom?" And I said, "You, Mama!"

Page 38: I was so conflicted.

Page 65: Little boys don't wake up and say, "Gee, my yanking that little boy's underpants out of his corduroys is mean-spirited..."

Page 96: For some reason I've rarely been able to say "I love you" straight to his face.

Page 126: I felt out of control. I was this big, wet mess, trying to crawl into an old woman's arms.

Page 145: Jeff trusted me to run a camp of 150 kids.

Page 197: That I never need to see another video with a pretty young girl dressed like a hooker.

Page 224: I met some people who were Moravian.

Page 229: Determing what faith a child will have is a decision that should be made at home, not at the YMCA camp.

Rule 1: Whilst attending an event with Mohamed Al-Fayed, avoid photo ops at all costs.

Jennifer Love Hewitt and al-Fayed open the Harrods January 2004 Sale.

Lucy Liu and al-Fayed open the Harrods January 2005 Sale.

Lucy Liu and al-Fayed open the Harrods January 2005 Sale (cont.).

[Big ups TK...]

You're going to write the perfect three-minute pop song. You've been saying this to yourself since you saw Beck open for Beth Orton at that secret show he did at the El Rey for her a few years back, only, for you, it wasn't a secret show, because you knew about his playing an intimate acoustic set hours in advance. And when an excited hush fell over the floor when Beth Orton came out to announce her opening act, you smiled knowingly. Your friends said you glowered, but that was most likely because you thought Orton's Central Reservation was such a letdown. You have nothing against Beck.

Besides, he's the old guard. You're all about Rooney, now, and The Walkmen, and labels like Sub Pop. You adored Eric's Trip way back when, and you've been listening to Minnesota's slowcore riot act Low well before they first appeared on "Music From the O.C. Mix 3: Have a Very Merry Chrismukkah". Fuck, you had that original EP before the word "Kranky" was being whispered by every other record-buyer at Amoeba. You know droning music, and you're not even Finnish like that Mika Vainio motherfucker. That shit's just noise. Static. Like Felix Kubin on fucking heroin. You know this because you got yourself a Nord Lead years ago, just so you could create your own take on the percussive mathematic chaos of labels like Schematic and Warp. You were going to outshine Autechre.

But then you ended up having to work seventy-plus hours a week at your marketing firm during that product launch for Coke's newest clear soda, and you lost interest. You fucking hated clear soda. You did, however, develop a severe drinking problem, in that other sense of consuming fluids. And started to appreciate the way that vocal-based indie music better complemented your commute on the fucking 10 freeway as you rolled into work later and later after those long nights out, and you tuned off KCRW and KXLU and popped in the latest Doves record. That somehow led to your getting, finally, that old Unkle record from 1998, which you had ignored for so long, because you never liked DJ Shadow, even when he did his own production work, much less his manning the decks for that cross-eyed James Lavelle motherfucker as he did on this record...but then you heard Ian Brown sing on that remake of that one song, and Richard Ashcroft, and Thom Yorke, and you were hooked. It was like the Britpop fad from the mid-90s, all NME and shit, but, somehow, cooler. Like, Flaunt- or index-caliber. And so you bought the soundtrack to Jonathan Glazer's "Sexy Beast" because Unkle collaborated with South on it. And you grew to love South, too. Those beats were so slinky. And the guitars, so synthetic. You traded in your Nord Lead for a Fender Stratocaster and an amp. You couldn't really figure out which effects pedals to get, so you winged it, and fucked around with the sounds as they ran through your G4 laptop.

And it all sounded like shit. It certainly didn't sound like Interpol's first record.

You had somehow failed to capture that mélange of angst and self-loathing and morose despair that ran throughout "Untitled". Instead, you had penned a series of asinine ditties that sounded more like the fucking Shins, which was ok, except you weren't into Sub Pop just yet, so it wasn't ok at the time. You were a wreck. You hated yourself, and your friend Leslie, who had played drums on the record in certain parts, invited you over to her place in Los Feliz to watch this new Fox TV pilot for which she had done some of the casting. And when The O.C. began, and you heard those first few strains of Phantom Planet singing their rapturous hit "California", you were hooked. Really, it was, just...rapturous (and yes, you fucking hated the DFA up to this point, so re-treaded disco beats had been done to death as far as you were concerned, and you were instead eagerly seeking out guitar hooks).

Phantom Planet, man...You still hate Jason Schwartzman. He was at the Wiltern once while you were watching Damien Rice play, and he just looked so fucking smug. Then he made some small talk with the bandmembers, and they ushered him backstage, and you really, really hated him. You fucking love Damien Rice. And you're going to write the perfect three-minute pop song about that. It'll be like that song that girl group wrote about David Duchovny in 1998, only less stalkerish. Probably more like the song Ben Gibbard wrote about Evan Dando in 2001 as part of the build-up to his later Postal Service success. You could totally do that. Three minutes. That's all you need. Now for some inspiration...sixty fucking minutes thereof.

Actually, I've never seen The O.C.; I'm sure it's pretty good.

The O.C. airs at 8PM EST on FOX.

Earlier: You can't stop R.O.C.K.ing, can you? You just can't.

From US Weekly, January 10, 2005:

"Three days later, [Angelina] Jolie strolled around a market near Beirut, Lebanon. '[My son] Maddox is Buddhist, so I'm making Christmas a time where he learns about new countries,' she said recently."

Comic Book Resource features its share of explosive comic book rumor-mongering (Magneto fears for the life of Scarlet Witch?!), but nothing can quite compare to the journalistic dynamite contained in Rich Johnston's most recent column. Specifically,

But then there was the Superman movie rumour. Still not totally resolved, still looking more likely by the minute, with massive impications all over the place, it had to be Rumour Of The Year.

That Bryan Singer wanted to cast an actor who was in the closet, and who would declare themselves to be gay in the lead up to, or during the release of the film. So that it would have a meta-textual element, over secret identities, and also give young gay individuals a positive role model in their lives. And presumably, not make stereotypical remarks about men dressed in tight colourful leotards.

On, and then, Brandon Routh being cast in the lead.

As the evangelical churches of the USA hold their breath, ready to start an onslaught of whipped up mob-hatred, Dan DiDio gingerly accepted the award on behalf of DC. "You know, we're appointing a Senior Vice President of Marketing? Something tells me I think we're going to need him..."

Let's take a look at some of the evidence available for speculating on Brandon Routh's sexuality, and see if we can't clear things up.

-According to his imdb entry, Brandon is sometimes credited as "B. J. Routh". B.J. is homosexual slang for a hummer.

-Among B.J.'s television appearances? An episode of Will and Grace, a homosexual sitcom, titled "A Gay/December Romance."

-B.J.'s official site is BrandonRouth.tv. In homosexual patois, TV stands for transexual.

-According to some, largely unsubstantiated reports, director Bryan Singer is gay.

The verdict? Get ready to start your righteous indignation...

From Reuters, "Bride and Prejudice" Star Mulls Screen Kiss, Sunday, Jan. 2, 2005:

"Bride and Prejudice" star Aishwarya Rai, one of the top stars of India's prim film industry, says she won't rule out kissing in films when she moves from "Bollywood" to Hollywood -- although she says it is certain to create a minor scandal among her fans.
...
She has never kissed on screen -- not even after 24 films because kissing is taboo in the Indian cinema. Rai said if she did kiss someone on screen in a Hollywood movie, it would create a minor scandal among her fans.

Related: Your Ultimate Movie Guide

You've never seen The O.C., but you're sure it's pretty good. You're gonna watch it tonight, though, since there are two back-to-back episodes.

You need to watch it, especially since your career is in the crapper and your New Year's resolution is to write a decent spec script and land an agent. Maybe then you can move out of Culver Fucking City and get a decent car like a Mini-Cooper or a BMW or, seriously, a Prius, please, a Prius, and maybe finally get a development deal with a major. Then, barring any further complications, get laid without paying for it.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. When you moved to L.A. five years ago, you were bursting with ideas and potential. You were gonna be David E. Kelley, Joss Whedon, and J.J. Abrams combined.

Now, look at you. You're writing questions for a kids' basic cable game show that unwisely has the word "Cyber" in the title. In '98 it seemed like such a great title, what with the web-television convergence plan the 29 year-old producer pitched: now, the website's been dead since 2003 and that 29 year-old producer drives a Boxter and is developing a show with Jon Lovitz for Gavin Palone. (Why won't that fucker not return your goddamn calls?) You still live in a one bedroom—and not even a big one by L.A. standards— and you're not in a union. You can't get a single agent on the phone and most of your friends with deals laugh and say they'll call you when they need a little 'cyber' touch. Assholes. It wasn't your idea: you weren't even part of the show until last year!

That's why tonight's O.C. is so important. You're not gonna just watch, you're gonna study it, figure out what makes it tick and become an instant expert. It'll be like when you pulled all-nighters in school: you'd spend a couple of hours catching up on all the Folk and Myth readings you'd snoozed on while attempting another round of 'Poon submissions, then spend the rest of the night just banging out the paper. And some of them were great! One professor—okay, one adjunct—even suggested you submit your paper on The Family Guy ("In the Family Way: Stewie and Freud's Theories of Early Childhood Sexual Development") to a journal. You could've had a big career in academia, pounding out searing interpretations that turned conventional pop culture 'wisdom' on its head. You might've even gotten to write for the mainstream: Times op-eds, maybe some droll "Shouts and Murmurs" for The New Yorker.

Instead, you're basically rephrasing Trivial Pursuit questions for 9 year-olds. You need to do something better with your life, something more meaningful.

Like writing for The O.C. If you could just watch the show, get a sense for its rhythm, internal logic, and... that third thing the screenwriter of the Justine Bateman film suggested in that Learning Annex class that cost you $400, you can do that. (Where are your notes?)

You need to hitch yourself to this show: It's like this year's Ally McBeal or Popular: It's the show, and only a quality O.C. spec script can change your life—can make your life. You can almost envision your plot already: it'll be something about a foreign exchange student from Sudan and it will address genocide and female genital mutilation. And a love plot. A love triangle. God, this is gonna be so good: your script is going to fully embody the show while simultaneously transcending it! Where's your notepad? This is too good to forget.

After that, it's a top tier agency. Then a good writing gig. Then a side project and movie sale. Then a producer job. Invites to Stuff parties and the "Midsummer Night's Dream" party at the Mansion. Then, who knows? All this from The O.C.! Can you feel it? I can feel it!

Tonight I will watch The O.C.; It better be pretty good.

The O.C. airs Thursday nights at 8PM EST on FOX. Even when they're just reruns.

Earlier: O.C.

From today's edition of the Los Angeles Times (December 29, 2004):

"Tsunami Death Toll Hits 60,000",
by Richard C. Paddock and Mark Magnier

Tragic news, indeed. But the disaster's influence is also spreading throughout the realm of international news reporting. To wit, there's this example of borderline-tasteless syntax from the very same paper:

"28 Die in Wave of Insurgent Attacks in Iraq",
by Edmund Sanders

Do try to contain yourself.

Earlier: O.C. junk.

From COLIN GLAD TO DROP NEW YEAR'S BALL, The New York Post, Dec. 22, 2004:

"Secretary of State Colin Powell will return to the city of his birth and drop the famous Waterford Crystal ball in Times Square on New Year's Eve, Mayor Bloomberg announced yesterday.

"'Colin Powell is the American dream come true,' Bloomberg said of the Bronx-raised outgoing secretary of state.

"'He's done everything his country has ever asked.'..."

Yes, well, that's been his undoing.

Why is the Times so obsessed with autism? It's like they're in their own little world, not looking out, just focusing inward.

Battling Insurers Over Autism Treatment, December 21, 2004, by MILT FREUDENHEIM, appearing in the Business section

How About Not 'Curing' Us, Some Autistics Are Pleading, December 20, 2004, by AMY HARMON, appearing in the Health section

In Autism, New Goal Is Finding It Soon Enough to Fight It, December 14, 2004, by ANAHAD O'CONNOR, appearing in the Health section

For Siblings of the Autistic, a Burdened Youth, December 10, 2004, by JANE GROSS, appearing in the National Desk section

One subject matter. One human interest. Three different sections. Three different weeks. Four different dates. Four different writers.

More proof that wire-service photo editors have a top-notch sense of humor, at least when it comes to fetuses and acts of depravity: The above image was attached to the latest A.P. wire story about that whole "I killed a woman and cut her unborn baby from her mangled womb" news item from last week.

Seriously. That image right there. Of the suspect maternally holding a fucking chihuahua or some other hirsute little newborn.

Thankfully, they clarify the presence of the dog with their accompanying caption:

This is an undated photo showing Lisa M. Montgomery, a resident of Melvern, Kan. Montgomery was arrested late Friday, Dec. 17, 2004, and charged with kidnapping resulting in death in a case of a woman being murdered and her 8-month-old fetus cut out of her womb. The baby of Bobbie Jo Stinnett was recovered and was reported in good condition on Saturday. (AP Photo/Maryville Daily Forum)

See? Embedded somewhere within those clauses is a full and rational explanation for using this particular photo of the woman. You just have to be one of those university-trained "close readers", perhaps.

Me? I'm just a loving asshole who adores puppy portraits, and fuck if I don't get angry when such cute photos are tainted with the Anne Geddes-esque stigma of dead mothers and shortened pregnancies.

Wes Anderson (left) at "The Aviator" premiere and C. Montgomery Burns (right)

If it is not too unseemly for a man of my wealth and abundant religious and intellectual gifts to complain, I must say that the hardest part of being on the run in the mountains of Tora Bora is how often I miss my favorite infidel television program, The O.C.

Why are you laughing? Who says that a righteous man, a man who seeks to break the back of the American Satan, cannot enjoy a few laughs once in a while, a little eye candy? I work 24 hours a day to destroy America and the secularist lambs that follow it like, well, like lambs. Can I not take one hour a week to bask in the comforting Southern California glow of The O.C.? Can I not spend a little Osama time in the land of perpetual summer time?

Do you know what I go through just to see the show you infidels take for granted? It must be taped off a secure satellite feed by one of my operatives, and then smuggled inside his rectum as he traverses the unforgiving Afghan terrain to whatever cave or modest safe house I am inhabiting that day. All this, so that I may re-immerse myself in the travails of the Jew Seth Cohen and the Christian Ryan Atwood? (Don't even get me started on Chrismukkah: I love it, but I don't even know which part of that holiday I'd want to destroy first if I had the chance.)

While I enjoy the jihad thing, the best part of my week is watching The O.C. while eating some sugar free SnackWell Cookies which have also been smuggled to my lair in someone's rectum. (What? I do not judge your infidel food—and I saw Supersize Me!)

Now do you understand why I often appear cranky and irritable in the videos I send to Al Jazeera? I am usually mad because my holy soldiers are so often captured or killed by your army as they make their way to me with my tapes! I have missed whole plot arcs—and I would thank you not to tell them to me, I fully intend to see them eventually—and while reading infidel websites like Television Without Pity help, it is just not the same. I want my O.C., and without it, Osama becomes a grumpy Gus!

Let me be truthful with you: I am very ill and the only thing that is keeping me alive at this point is The O.C.. I have been going through the motions of hating America for over a year now (frankly, you can all fuck yourselves, I'm so over you), but what keeps me going is this show, this popular culture phenomenon that we share together.

It's actually quite nice to be a part of something, instead of always being on the outside looking in. I do not know you, but because of The O.C., I feel we could be friends. Maybe we can IM a bit after the show tonight, if you're not too busy? If not, I can come visit you soon at your home.

Actually, I can almost guarantee you that I will be visiting you at your home soon. I hope you have some sugar free SnackWell Cookies. I do love them so.

Actually, I've never seen The O.C.; I'm sure it's pretty good.

The O.C. airs Thursday nights at 8PM EST on FOX.

Earlier: Other thoughts on The O.C

In a complete miscarriage of justice, it's Eva, while anyone in their right mind knows Yaya was robbed.

(And that Adrianne Curry has been such a rousing success.)

As part of low culture’s ongoing commitment to taking the fun out of everything, we are proud to present our first (and possibly last (it’s very annoying typing this in)) New York Times crossword puzzle cheat sheet. Impress friends, lovers, or anyone who is actually impressed by this kind of crap.

Continue reading...

"You broke up Pantera."

You need to set your away message right now because it's almost 8 o'clock and you have to watch The O.C. because it's Thursday and it's on right now. Kelsey says she'll text you later, and next thing you know, you're down in the den, sprawled out alone on the couch, your eyes glued religiously to the sights of Seth Cohen and Marissa Cooper being introduced onscreen as you strain to hear the sounds of Phantom Planet singing plaintively about what is totally your favorite state, and you totally said that to Mr. Roberts last week when he was running through the geography prep quiz in fourth period, and he chuckled because he's so old and doesn't even watch TV, probably.

Whatever, because when they show Summer Roberts on the TV you always cringe! She looks just like your sister Justine, who graduated from law school at Berkeley two years ago, and it was called Boalt, and anyway she is so much older than you, and Mom always rubs that in, because Mom is 57, and Justine is 27, and you were Mom's "surprise" 12 years ago and so you're totally able to stay up later than both Mom and Dad because they go to bed so early. Like, they'll probably be asleep by the time The O.C.'s over. Justine's almost like your Mom anyway, because she always talks about how she was the one who changed your diapers and babysat you when you were a crying infant, and she totally wrote about that in her law school applications, about how that early responsibility had made her a strong leader, and you're so sick of hearing it, but you still love her because she's your sister.

Also Mom keeps saying to be nice to her, too, because Justine is sterile and her uterus doesn't work properly and she can't have children of her own, so raising you comes a close second in her book, that's what Mom says, and you also overheard Justine talking about it with her last year when she visited over Christmas. And that's why Justine has a job at this place called UNICEF where she says they help kids in other countries. Maybe even Mr. Roberts would know where they are? Whatever! You're all about Newport Beach.

Ryan is being such a jerk this week.

The Summer Roberts girl's sweet like your sister too, but Kelsey always tells you every single Friday before homeroom how much she likes Summer on the show, and you're tired of your sister, and also Summer, too. Maybe Summer can't have kids too? Anyway she's too young and she's not going to have babies yet anyway. You hope you can have kids someday, unlike Justine, and you're going to rub it in her face when you do, and she's an old lady. You get bored when they cut to the stories about Sandy and Kirsten, though they seem like a cool Mom and Dad. Marissa is totally your favorite one on The O.C., because she tries so hard, you know? That's really important, you think. And you forgot to put your away message on, and you're still signed on, because you can hear IM's coming in on the computer in the hallway. It's probably just Grant, and you don't even like him anymore anyway. You totally never did, and that was all a big mistake anyway, he doesn't even watch The O.C.

Actually, I've never seen The O.C.: I'm sure it's pretty good.

The O.C. airs at 8PM EST on FOX.

Earlier: Additional OC-centric material...

As reported in today's Daily Variety, the "online premiere" of Fahrenheit 9/11, rabble-rousing director Michael Moore's Pixar-animated comedy starring the voices of Tom Hanks and Christina Applegate, drew a meager 89 viewers, according to information released by the briefly-downloadable film's website host. More specifically, "a rep for CinemaNow said 'Fahrenheit 9/11' special, which brought in $885.55 in revenue, was a 'success,' noting that the three-hour window in which it was available was unusual for the Internet."

Damn you, Jack Valenti, for departing us so sadly, and so soon! With you gone, it seems as though the entire motion-picture industry's standards for "success" have waned considerably. Seriously, seriously waned. 800 fucking dollars?

Because it's certainly not as though this CinemaNow website (whatever the hell that may be...I can't even be bothered to link to the fucking thing) likely had a staff of well-paid site producers and designers working days beforehand on this "premiere extravaganza", right? Right?

Mr. Williams: Not Robin, but almost as Funny.

"There's definitely ways to try and capture that personality without taking away from what is a very serious newscast in very serious times... There are ways to find little moments of absurdity or humor in life and we're going to try and find ways to do that—but, we have to find the right way to do that," " NBC News chief Neal Shapiro
(From, Only When He Laughs, Don Kaplan, The New York Post, Dec. 6, 2004.)

Some suggestions:
-Accompany Iraqi death count reports with "Waw-waw-waaah" horn sound effect from Let's Make a Deal

-Refer to the president as "Cuddles"

-Five Words: Rip Taylor, White House Correspondent

-Swap out hurricane clips with footage from Land of the Lost

-Goodbye, bespoke suits. Hello, tuxedo T-shirt!

-When analyzing reports with Tim Russert, pretend to be all stoned like Cheech and Chong

-End each broadcast with an America's Funniest Home Video-type clip, possibly a "blooper" from the Iraq war or amusing footage of famine-torn nations.

-New theme song by "Weird Al" Yankovic

-Overdub foreign-language speakers with Peanuts-style adult "squawking" voices

-Knock knock jokes. Lots and lots of knock knock jokes

-Get Mo Rocca: Everybody finds that dude hilarious

The Jury Pool: Come on in, the justice is fine.

Jury Duty isn't just your civic duty: It can be your civic pleasure as well. With these simple tips, your time in the jury pool can be productive, enjoyable, and above all safe. Failure to follow these suggestions may result in jail time, so be forewarned: What you are about to read could save your life.

-Make sure you haven't eaten for at least twenty minutes before entering the jury pool so as to avoid uncomfortable cramps.

-Similarly, make sure you've drunk something—preferably a strong, alcoholic beverage—before the proceedings begin. It will lend a festive air to the entire affair, which is good, since you will probably want to kill yourself the moment you arrive 'till several weeks later when the details of the case will come back to you in nightmares. (But in your nightmare, the killer will be your dad: Don't ask us, we're not shrinks.)

-Don't bring a book or a magazine unless you want your fellow jurors to think of you as some sort of snob. Furthermore, displaying the ability to read will lead directly to the court officers not selecting you for trial. Best to show up with a lot of photos of your cats or your grandchildren, the better to facilitate conversations with those around you. If you must bring a book, bring a Bible: Everyone loves talking about the Bible with strangers.

-It's easy to get laughs in the jury room. Everyone there is stressed out and wants to be somewhere else: It's a perfect recipe for comedy. When the court officer calls out your name and asks if you are able to serve, be sure to say something funny like, "Ready? I was born fucking ready!" Also, classics play well: If you can get a Whoopee Cushion through security, it's worth putting on the judge's seat. Your fellow jurors will thank you.

-Many people try to get out of jury duty by claiming to be racists. While this is a good strategy, we recommend using it to get out of other things, like childcare payments and doctor's appointments. You shouldn't limit your mock pronouncements of racist ideology just to the courts. Speak them freely (on the subway, at the supermarket) and you'll start to see that you're not the only one who thinks that way. You may even be invited to join some cool secret societies.

-Do not watch the clock. Everyone who's ever gone through high school knows that watching the clock during a boring activity does not make time move faster. (Only meth can do that.) Instead, stare dead into the eyes of the person closest to you. Make a game out of it: How long can you stare at them before they turn away? Now, can you double it?

-This is so simple, it's the easiest to forget: Case out the room for single people of the opposite sex. (If you are gay, you should confine this search to the restrooms, which, as we all know, are hotbeds of municipal butt-sex. If you are a lesbian, you should've already gotten a jury exemption and be seeking a partner at your job at the organic food co-op.) The jury pool is a great pickup scene, mostly because you already have so much in common. You're potentially spending the next two weeks seeing this person every day: that's a perfectly acceptable length of time for a relationship. In fact, it's probably a little too long.

-Finally, if you are selected to be on the jury, you should not pump your fist and gloat. Be respectful to your fellow jury pool members who were not selected since they'll be deprived of all the fun you're about to have. Not everyone gets into this party, but you will set yourself apart by being gracious and serving with all the dignity your buzzed, staring, Whoopee Cushion-having ass can muster. Jury duty is an honor. Don't make us regret living in a Democracy.

There's an old joke, often attributed to Woody Allen, that goes:
"Q. What would you like to be reincarnated as?" "A. Warren Beatty's finger."

Somehow, I'm guessing whoever said that wouldn't have said it about last night, when Beatty was honored by the Kennedy Center. (Check out Kennedy Center Salutes Six Artists, by John Files in The New York Times for a teeny-tiny photo of those fingers wrapped around Bush's.) Poor, poor Beatty finger.

It's a long, slow slide from Capucine to Julie Christie to Madonna to Annette Bening to... Colin Powell.

A sad one, too. Can a man's finger kill itself?

You're looking good lately. Really nice, even. Those pecs...you're packed tight, man. Nicely chiseled. You're working out, aren't you? Yeah. You are.

It's reassuring to know you can watch The O.C. every Thursday night while you're on the stairmaster at Bally's 24-Hour-Fitness, plugged in to little more than a set of earbuds and, don't you know it, an entire world of opulent gorgeousness. This is the sort of drama you dream about mindlessly as you polish the sweat from your glistening calves. Of course, the television sets lined up next to the one blaring FOX's hottest second-season property may try and distract you with their depictions of a smirking Bill O'Reilly or some aging Matt LeBlanc character study, but you won't be swayed. You understand guys like Tate Donovan, you really do.

He looks a lot like that guy who comes in on Tuesdays. That guy. He lingers around the benches for about thirty minutes. Eyes you as he pulls up his socks around his shins. You're sure he's the most beautiful man you've laid eyes upon...at least at this gym, right? Ha. You know what I'm saying. You're a total pro.

And Catherine keeps calling you from the car. You just know she'll be home before you, destined to get off early from her freelance gig at Leo Burnett. Why don't you tell her about this guy? This perfect specimen of O.C.-esque beauty laying out in front of you, his arms pushing and pulling on the bars of a free-weight machine, such that you're just positive what he's doing with those lifts could "plug-n-play" nicely with your own frame.

You're glistening, again. Sweating. Excited. And Catherine keeps on fucking calling you, and you just let it go to voicemail. What the fuck, right? Let her bring something back from Koo-Koo-Roo or California Pizza Kitchen for the two of you to eat later that night. The fuck if you care, right? You're all over this guy. All over him. And he's reading you just right.

Time to towel off, then. You nod at each other. It's not even like some obscure code anymore. You know the drill. And he doesn't even bother wrapping himself in a towel as the two of you leave the gym's shower and head to the back lockers. Again, you know the drill. And, fuck, it's a good thing Catherine doesn't, right? God, would your life be over, or what?

And speaking of, you better finish up in here. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. Right there. Sharp, so sharp. This may or may not be the world's longest commercial break, but you don't want to miss seeing the end result of Marissa's hooking up with the pool boy. Pool boys. So perfect. So very, very right.

Actually, I've never seen The O.C.: I'm sure it's pretty good.

The O.C. airs at 8PM EST on FOX.

Earlier: Obligatory Pop Culture Entry to Prove We Haven't Become Humorless Prigs; O.C.D.; The O.C.: Your One and Only Friend; The O.C.: Your 'Not Guilty' Pleasure.

The Heartbreak's Ours: The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, Dec. 1, 2004.

Earlier: Entertainment Alert: Orange, Nov. 30, 2004.

Snooze: Bush in Canada on Nov. 30, 2004, blah, blah, blah.

It would've been so much easier to make a 'Royal Mounted Police' joke if we still had Bill. Sad.

"Nobel Peace Prize laureate Wangari Maathai of Kenya will be feted at a Dec. 11 concert to be hosted by Tom Cruise and Oprah Winfrey that will air on E!

"Festivities will be held in Oslo the day after the award ceremony, where Maathai will become Africa's first Nobel laureate for her contributions to the environment and women's rights.

"E! has secured exclusive rights to the telecast and will show the two-hour concert Thursday, Dec. 23."

(From, E! to broadcast starry concert for Nobel winner, Variety, Nov. 28, 2004.)

Double hack score for implying that E! will be broadcasting the actual Nobel ceremony. Triple hack score for working in a Scientology joke, an Oprah "You get a Nobel! You get a Nobel!" joke, or a dig at Polyphonic Spree for being not unlike a cult. (Joss Stone joke, optional.)

[via TVTattle]

Don't Say a Word: Douglas let's his breath do the talking, Nov. 30, 2004.

Congratulations to Michael Douglas on his "Walk of Fame" star! You've earned it, big guy.

Now, who's up for pizzas at Spago?

Christmas Time in Ames, Iowa: Leslie Hall and a friend.

Yes, Christmas begins before Thanksgiving. Yes, it's a marketed, commodified celebration of consumption. Yes, the true meaning of the holiday has been forgotten. (Some Jewish kid was born in a barn, or something...) Yes, it's just totally cheesy.

But it's kind of awesome, too. Like, when hardcore heads get into the Christmas spirit and release holiday raps. Remember Run-DMC's "Christmas in Hollis," or Doug E. Fresh, The Treacherous Three, and The Magnificent Force's "X-Mas Rap" in Beat Street, or P. Diddy's "Bad Boy for Life (Santa Gave Me a Lump of Coal, Yo)"? Classics, all.

Add to the hip hop Christmas canon the latest from the Canadian rap 'n' racism bible-approved Iowa-reared MC supergroup, Leslie and The LY's. Watch "Christmas Rap" and prepare to have your planet rocked.

If the Missy Elliott-inflected lyrics don't make you smile, the Flash-meets-Rodney Alan Greenblat video will. And if that doesn't put you in the Christmas spirit, your soul is dead and you embody everything that is wrong with this country, and shame on you.

Today's 'let's git' high concept pitch comes courtesy of Done Deal:

Title: Jersey Dukes
Log Line: A New Jersey mob boss sends a crew over to England to check on his daughter's impending wedding to a royal. The mobsters discover that England is perfect for mob expansion, especially once they are offered help by some dukes and duchesses in need of money to hang on to their country estate.
Writer: Fred Wolf
Agent: UTA
Buyer: Paramount Pictures
Price: High six against low seven figures
Genre: Romantic Comedy
Logged: 11/30/04
More: Pitch. Lorne Michaels will produce.

So, we're looking at James Caan, Jim Broadbent, Kiera Knightley, Vanessa Redgrave, jokes about bad English food, a scene where a New Jersey chef is flown in to make 'gravy' in an old Manor House kitchen, an uptight British dude handling a gun with ease (since he dueled back in Oxford), and a set piece inside Big Ben? Works for me.

One's a Trend: Gwen Stefani on i-D's Dec./Jan. cover...Val Kilmer as Philip in Alexander.

Related: Sammy Davis, Jr.; Murray Wilson.

The Life Aquatic poster... Milton Glaser's Bob Dylan poster.

Gothamist is running a contest to promote Wes Anderson's cruelly under-hyped film The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou this week.

What caught my eye immediately was the excellent poster for the film (above left), an obvious homage to Milton Glaser's iconic Bob Dylan poster from 1966 (above, right). Since the Zissou image didn't link, I don't know its provenance, but I was surprised that there was no mention of Dylan or Glaser, since just last week, Gothamist was singing Glaser's praises in a piece about the new New York Magazine logo.

I guess Glaser's just one of those artists whose work is so ubiquitous, it's become wallpaper for the culture. It's like "Happy Birthday to You": Everyone knows that song, but can anyone name its composer? It's a shame, too, since Glaser created so many excellent, memorable designs, like the beloved logo for Grand Union.

Related: "When I went upstairs, my bedroom felt like an overwarm sickroom. The clearest remaining vestige of Tom was the 'Don’t Look Back' poster that he’d taped to a flank of his dresser where Bob Dylan’s psychedelic hair style wouldn’t always be catching my mother’s censorious eye." The Comfort Zone, by Jonathan Franzen, The New Yorker, Nov. 29, 2004.

High Court to Hear Medical Marijuana Issue.

"Session" to begin promptly at 4:20.

Aerosmith's Tyler Visits Women's Rehab Center

Related: Aerosmith: You Gotta Move DVD, released Nov. 23, 2004.

Actress Julia Roberts has twins

From The Most Private of Makeovers (Nov. 28, 2004):

As millions of women inject Botox, reshape noses, augment breasts, lift buttocks and suck away unwanted fat, a growing number are now exploring a new frontier, genital plastic surgery. They are tightening vaginal muscles, plumping up or shortening labia, liposuctioning the pubic area and even restoring the hymen, sometimes despite their doctors' skepticism about the need for such cosmetic measures.

From Trying to Avoid 2nd Caesarean, Many Find Choice Isn't Theirs (Nov. 29, 2004):

Women around the country are finding that more and more hospitals that once allowed vaginal birth after Caesarean, or VBAC (commonly pronounced VEE-back), are now banning it and insisting on repeat Caesareans. About 300,000 women a year have repeat Caesareans. The rate of vaginal births in women who have had Caesareans has fallen by more than half, from 28.3 percent in 1996 to 10.6 percent in 2003.

From Wes Anderson's Faithful Diving Team (Nov. 28, 2004):

It is a question that Mr. Anderson, 35, has been fretting about of late. "The only thing I worry about is that I'm going to have my same exact audience that I've had, which I'm lucky to have in the first place," he said, while dissecting a plate of branzino at the same table at Bar Pitti restaurant in New York where he and Mr. Baumbach invented their cranky underwater patriarch.

Tool Time: TIME, Dec. 6, 2004... Esquire, March 1997.

... And the dirty old men who love them.

Hucka-Hucka Burning Love: Hu-ka-poo: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps...

New York Magazine helps Daniel Radosh live out his Huckapoo fantasy. I'd read the story, but the D.A.'s office would require me to register myself on some sort of list.

Related: The Four Stages of Huckapoo: Curiosity, love, fixation, protection. Pardon me while I go scrub my soul.

Culture critics across the spectrum agree: Mike Nichols returns to his roots with his latest film, Closer.

But which roots? No one seems closer to agreement:

Mike Nichol's latest movie, 'Closer,' adapted from a play by the British dramatist Patrick Marber, is about four people, arranged in crisscrossing couples, who spend most of two hours slicing one another to bits with witty and vengeful repartee. In this respect it is a lot like his first movie, 'Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?,' which in 1966 was adapted from Edward Albee's celebrated play, which to this day remains unequalled in its portrayal of heterosexuality as a form of ritualized verbal blood sport.
(Who's Returning to Virginia Woolf?, by A.O. Scott, The New York Times, Nov. 28, 2004.)

Or:

Thirty-three years ago, director Mike Nichols tackled love, sex, betrayal and relationships in a frank and unflinching fashion with 'Carnal Knowledge.' That film, which starred Jack Nicholson, Art Garfunkel, Candice Bergen and Ann-Margret, became a classic for its refusal to sugar-coat emotional tangles and for its utter lack of a sun-drenched, music-swelling happy ending.

With 'Closer,' he returns to this familiar battlefield and finds, well, things haven't gotten rosier over the years.
('Closer' to the Truth, by Andy Cocker, The New York Post, Nov. 28, 2004.)

Personally, I thought it was a return to The Day of the Dolphin.

As anyone who's been disowned by his family and rejected by even his mail-order bride knows, the only thing to do on Thanksgiving when you're painfully alone is to see a lot of movies. It's so much easier to cry in a dark movie theater, but it's even better to laugh!

Here are my blurbs for this holiday weekend's releases. Messrs. Ebert and Roeper, eat your hearts out:

National Treasure: A national disaster!

Kinsey: Hideous Kinsey!

The Incredibles: Incredibly bad!

Bad Education: You said it, not me!

Alexander: Alexander the So-So!

Finding Neverland: Lose it!

Ray: Gay!

After the Sunset: Ratner scores again! A roller-coaster ride of thrills and laughs: a witty tropical romp that's as cool as a Daiquiri and twice as intoxicating!

The Macy's Thanksgiving Parade, co-sponsored by The Department of Homeland Security

Can't make this up: Go here to learn about the DHS's real parade on November 26.

God, it's so weird being home for Thanksgiving: sleeping in that narrow little bed, feeling like you have to ask permission to go for a drive like you're a teenager even though you're twenty-nine.

It's even weirder now that you're divorced. Everyone's being all cool and polite about it, which makes it a little easier to be here alone for the first time since high school. Your "funny" uncle hasn't made a single joke about wanting the money for that fondue set he got you and your ex from Crate & Barrel, and even your usually snide little sister hugged you a little longer and asked, "How are you, sis?"

Sure, your mom cut out an article from The Times 'Style' section on "starter marriages" (never mind that the article was printed before your wedding hit the skids last winter in Aspen—has mom been saving it all this time?), and she keeps offering you herbal tea and wanting to talk. You can tolerate it, especially since she paid for your ticket home.

But there's one hour Thursday night when they all better steer clear of you: 8 PM EST, when The O.C. airs.

If any of those fuckers even tries to talk to you during The O.C., you're going to explode in a screaming fit, thrashing about and destroying your father's fancy new stereo and reducing your mother's precious Hummels to dust. For real: no jury in the land would convict a 29 year-old divorcée for killing her entire family on Thanksgiving night if they knew that all she wanted to do was watch The O.C.

Shit. Now you'll need a good lawyer. Not one of those awful public defenders with dandruff and a baggy, hand-me-down Brooks Brothers suit. (Can't you get it tailored—it only costs like forty bucks?) You'll need one of those slick ones who do pro bono work, especially for still pretty women accused of crimes of passion. Maybe he'll even be sexy like Peter Gallagher on The O.C.

After a long, public trial, dutifully covered in People and on CNN ("Whoa, is that Dominick Dunne in the audience of my murder trial?"), you'd be acquitted when your motive is fully explained: Not guilty by reason of O.C.

It'll be hard to put the trial behind you (and, you know, the death of your whole family, including your "funny" uncle), but you've always been remarkably strong. You pride yourself on having only cried at work once—that goddamn toner got all over your skirt, it wasn't your fault—and even when your ex was playing all those sadistic mind games, you never once threw it in his face that you knew it would be a bad idea to marry a Jew. (Situational anti-Semitism: so weak.)

Yes, you are a strong, independent woman, and now that your murder trial is behind you, you will fulfill your destiny by finding a nice man and bearing his children. But there's something you need to do first: you need to go to the video store and buy the DVDs of the last two seasons of The O.C., since you sort of lost track of the show while you were in jail. Today is the first day of the rest of your life, and The O.C. is there for you, unlike those dead jerks in your family. Now, who does a woman have to kill around here to get some service at this fucking Blockbuster?

Actually, I've never seen The O.C.: I'm sure it's pretty good.

The O.C. airs at 8PM EST on FOX

Earlier: Obligatory Pop Culture Entry to Prove We Haven't Become Humorless Prigs; O.C.D.; The O.C.: Your One and Only Friend.

This press release article alerted us to an insultingly cynical incredible, fortuitous confluence of cross-promotional marketing events:

Donald Trump's fiancee, Melania Knauss, says her appearance on last week's episode of "The Apprentice" has landed her a job modeling Levi's jeans.

"I was on 'The Apprentice' and they saw me and they asked me if I would do the advertising for them and I said, of course," Knauss said on yesterday's episode of "The View."

During last week's "Apprentice," the teams were instructed to create a Levi's catalogue.

-DREAM OF JEANIE, by Michael Starr, The New York Post, Nov. 24, 2004.

So, all it took was a product placement segment on a top-rated show hosted by her "billionaire" fiancé to get the gig? This overnight success story is sure to go down in legend like Lana Turner getting discovered at the Schwab's Soda Counter. It makes us all sick proud.

Related: Post "copy" "editors": It's You've Got Mail, not You Have...

Michelle "Three Cheers for Internment" Malkin, who never fails to make me smile (mostly at the thought that I too can have a syndicated column if I work hard enough at being bigoted and mediocre), has a sweet little Thanksgiving-themed column today called Grace, gratitude and God. (It's my sincere hope that this becomes a perennial holiday column, something along the lines of "Yes, Virginia, there was an Iraq-al Qaida link.")

After an endearing little homily about her four year-old daughter learning to say "grace" before meals, she tells us:

In typical toddler fashion, my daughter is now absolutely fanatical about her new routine. Not only must we say grace before every meal, but also before each snack. And anytime we have a drink. And anytime her baby brother gobbles Cheerios in his car seat. Failure to give thanks to God is met with swift retribution. Our daughter has no qualms about chastising us in public—at restaurants, airports or Starbucks:

"Hey, stop eating! You forgot to say grace!"

Despite the embarrassment it sometimes causes, I love her unrepentant zeal. It reminds us not to take for granted our too-infrequent gestures of daily thanksgiving. It reminds us to be humble. Following her lead, we must all bow our heads and fold our hands and shut our eyes and shout a full-throated "Amen!"

Absolutely adorable! (And, Hmmmm... for some reason I'm craving Starbucks.)

I won't make fun of Malkin's red state, red meat, red-baitin' (red shirt wearin') religion, since the rest of the column is all about the evils of Bible-bashing ("[S]nobs of secularism will no doubt disparage such simple-minded expressions of piety..."), but I would like to point out that Malkin is seriously remiss in the way she's raising her child. In fact, she's putting her precious life at risk every single day.

Not once—once!—does Malkin mention teaching her god-thanking offspring to wash her hands before eating. Talk about a breakdown of traditional values: This is tantamount to child abuse!

How can we expect to raise the next generation of good little Christian soldiers if they're brought low by bacterial infections? How can America remain the most powerful, compassionate, and ass-kickingly awesome country in the world if we don't teach the wee little ones to wash their hands before eating? (I happen to know for a fact that in the employee washrooms of sweatshops all over Asia and Guatemala there are "Employees Must Wash Hands" signs: Those are well-trained four year-olds.)

So, Michelle, please tell the little one to lather up those hands before clasping them together in prayer. And don't forget to remind her that immigrants are especially dirty, and that even god cannot protect her if she should accidentally brush against one of those beasts.

Amen

Earlier Mal-Content: Why... Is Michelle Malkin the New Jadakiss?

Como se wha?: Well, a few anyway.

Hi, loyal readers who couldn't get the full week off for Thanksgiving. (Or "Thanks-taking," as my friend Sam likes to call it.) We apologize to the three of you who emailed us to say you can't post comments, and the other three of you who noticed, but couldn't be bothered to send us a complaint. (Thanks for that, actually.) Once again, it's something beyond our control, and we're looking into the issue right now. We'd invite you to use our comments area to offer your suggestions, but (ha!) comments don't work.

So, this Thanks-taking, when you sit down to enjoy the cascading bounty of the American horn-of-plenty, say an extra little thanks for all the terrible, hackneyed, totally worthless blogs that never seem to crash or have software problems. God bless them, for we know not why their sites function so well.

Now, excuse us while we throw another small pox blanket over our server.

I'll admit right upfront that I have not read all of Chris Bachelder's Lessons in Virtual Tour Photography (since it's 161 pages long and my brain has atrophied to the point where I can only ingest 150-word blog entries, soundbites on VH1 clip shows, and charts in Entertainment Weekly), but from what I've seen, it's some weird, funny shit.

Download the .pdf version from McSweeneys.net and you'll get some great advice like this (from Lesson 5 "How to Have Sex With The Estranged Girlfriend"):

1. Do not, under any circumstances, expect or hope to have sex with The Estranged Girlfriend. You can’t just roll into town without warning in the middle of a weeknight and expect to entwine as in the days of yore. You’re unbelievable. You’re just so fucking unbelievable.

2. Go to the bathroom. Wash your face. Stare at yourself in the mirror. Immediately, and without intent, start thinking about the act of staring at yourself in the mirror. A self-consciousness about staring at yourself. Get so weary.

3. Open the mirror cabinet and look for her pills. Assuage your guilt by imagining the very tight camera shot. There’s no music here, just the soft sounds you make as you explore the contents of the cabinet. You’re not alone and this is not a real transgression. It just looks real. Your job, as an actor, is to make it look convincingly real...

Related: Bear v. Shark: The Novel, also by Chris Bachelder.

Parties don't get more glamorous than this:
Henry Kissinger
Brian "Kato" Kaelin
Geraldo Rivera
Tina Louise
Don King
Donald Trump (Senior and Junior)
Mickey Sherman
and,
"a variety of celebrities of all ilk and importance including Stephen Baldwin, Jaid Barrymore, astronaut Buzz Aldrin and singer Michael Bolton."

And, of course, Roger Friedman.

What, Sylvia Miles had something else that night?

Is Beyoncé technically even allowed to appear off-center in photos? Suddenly, nothing makes sense to me anymore.

The Wilco Book, October 2004... Brief Interviews with Hideous Men, April 2000

Okay, so I should've written about this when the book came out a month ago. I would've, but we were busy trying to avert an electoral disaster. (Lotta good that did. I'm filing that experience along with college and my last two jobs under 'H' for 'Heartbreaking Failures.')

So, let's chalk this up to the science of Amazon recommendations: If you listen to Yankee Hotel Foxtrot on your iPod, you might like carrying around Infinite Jest. (And, yes, you might be the coolest fucking person ever. At least in your own mind, man.)

"NBC's Saturday morning block is getting a new series that plays like a kiddie version of the ABC primetime hit Lost. Discovery Kids on NBC has given the go-ahead to 13 episodes of 29 Down, which chronicles the adventures of a group of kids whose airplane crashes on a deserted island. Shooting in Hawaii, Down will join NBC's Saturday morning lineup—programmed by Discovery Networks—next year."
-Hotline: Latest Hollywood creative coincidence, Boston Herald, Nov. 18, 2004.

[via TVTattle]

But why are they calling it a satire?

The New York Post, Nov. 21, 2004... Paul Rodriguez, 1994