The A-Holes

Did you know that there's a gay A-List in New York? Surely you must.  But did you also know that it's comprised mostly of nobodies who no one has ever heard of (or heard of briefly and then forgot) who basically do nothing, and talk about nothing? Well, if you have never known this, that gay bastion of cable, Logo, is seeking to set you straight. Or gay, as it were.

Now, I have been told by a few people in my time that I am a "nightlife" personality. I have also been called at least once (though by a drunken friend), "The King of the Twinks." I often deny these claims. I am not hunting for celebrity, nor am I interested in possessing any bit of it. NOR do I really think I am one (feel free to leave mean anonymous comments to cement me in this knowledge). I want friends, I want family, and I want money and thankfully I have those things... so I'm pretty set.

Anyway, in my occasional nightlife adventures, I do spend some time with actual personalities in the NYC gay scene - top tier drag queens that are bowed to on the street every day, promoters who have been throwing hugely successful parties for decades. These folks might be considered A-Listers. But even these people don't claim to be superstars (and the ones who do tend not to actually be one). They simply blush and/or blanch when you praise them.

This speaks to a basic fact: if you have to constantly announce that you are Big Shit, then chances are you're really not much of a somebody at all. Look at actual celebrities. They cover themselves in sheets to hide from papparazzi. They use fake names to check into hotels. They have to hide from the public for fear of being trailed all day by fans and admirers. Those are celebrities. 

Imagine my rage, then, when I stumbled upon this trailer for an upcoming reality show on Logo, titled "The A-List".



So what we have here seems to be a "Real Housewives-esque" reality show featuring gay men who are supposedly somebodies, though I had to spend minutes in Google figuring out who the hell any of them actually are. What they do is still left unknown. They seem to like swimming, sitting in restaurants, picking out ugly clothing, and mentioning the fact that they are on the A-List.

What defines being on the A-List, besides proudly stating "Am I on the A-List? Oh, definitely."? Apparently it includes eating at "the finest restaurants" (though no actual Gay-Lister should be caught consuming anything, if you ask me). It means weekending in the Hamptons in your skimpy bathing suit and it means getting "whatever you want, when you want it." That's their definition, not mine. So let's start there.

Newsflash: if the aforementioned is all it takes, then I passed about 40 A-Listers on my way to work this morning (and one of them might have been homeless). Fancy dining, expensive vacations, and facials (of both varieties) are staples of gay New York living, fellas. It's not like the rest of us are eating at McDonalds and vacationing at Lake George.

You're not on the A-List, you're just on camera. And even THAT isn't that special these days. Did you know all you really need to do is own a cake store or tanning salon in New Jersey to get a show? Yeah! That's it! Hell, you can just pop out a baker's dozen babies and TLC will be banging down your door for merchandising rights. You can even LOSE in another reality show, and STILL get your own show! This just in: I now am starring in a reality show, because I wrote about someone who lost a reality show and then got their own reality show. See you on the A-List!

If it's about access to parties, I have another news item for your consideration: in a recessed economy, anyone can get into just about any party. Just show you have some money and some friends. Or just give your email address to me or any other promoter in NYC. We'll SPAM the fuck out of you every week with FREE VIP access. You can be a superstar to all of your friends who delete my emails and have no idea that anybody who says "I'm on Justin Luke's List" gets in for free.

I think what gets me angriest about this show is how Logo seems to be positioning it. If this was a "check out these hot messes!" I would probably be all about it. Who doesn't like seeing liquored up disasters in super-tight jeans throwing up into their Vuitton murses? I know I would. But this is not what Logo is doing. This trailer makes the A-Listers' lives look oh-so-glamorous. From vacant boutiques to wood deck-wrapped swimming pools, all the while fabulously skipping up the ladder of celebrity, we are to idolize these Gay Listers and want to be them.

I give you Logo's description of the show: They're stacked, packin', fierce and ambitious! From the producers of The Real Housewives of Atlanta comes The A-List: New York--a new docu-reality show following members of New York's gay elite plus their families, best girlfriends, and pocket dogs as they navigate being fabulous in the city.

Stacked, packed, fierce and ambitious!? That sounds more like a teetering pile of lions, suitcases, and investment bankers. Which would probably make a better reality show, if you ask me. And how does one actually "navigate" being "fabulous"? Is it really that complicated? Because these boys just told us they get what they want, when they want it, and where they want it. That doesn't sound very difficult. So unless the show's producers plan on blindfolding them and forcing them to traverse a catwalk suspended 100 feet above a bad neighborhood in Spanish Harlem, I don't think there's much drama or intrigue to be found here.

 

But that's not all!

It seems like Logo can't even decide if we're meant to laugh and be embarrassed on behalf of these boys, or not. Because while the trailer yaks up gallons of glitz and glamour, on the show's description page they cheer: If you thought the housewives were desperate, wait 'til you meet the houseboys!

Wait, so they're all houseboys? No, they aren't. I think one is a photographer. Another one a model. Agador Spartacus they are not.



So are they desperate and pathetic? Or hot-to-trot and enviable? Logo, make up your mind, and fast. You can't have it both ways. The trailer says "be jealous" and the marketing says "take pity." I don't think humankind is capable of both simultaneously. And frankly, in the end, viewers will probably take pity on themselves and be jealous of people who spent the same half hour staring at a wall.

You may have noticed I haven't even MENTIONED the names of Logo's "A-List" in this post. That is because I don't know them, and don't care enough about them to re-Google to get those names. Feel free to do so if you please, but I've already wasted enough minutes on these guys. I know one is named Mike Ruiz, because he shares a last name with an ex-boyfriend of mine. I also know another cast member's name sounds like Rhyming Lemoncool. I think. Maybe.

Point is: you're not A-List if nobody knows you. For fuck sake, Kathy Griffith is on the D-List and I know her and her mother better than I know any of you. And if you define yourself by pricey food and fancy clothing, then get in line behind the other 400 guys just like you who are wrapped around the entrance to any gay bar in this fair city. (And say my name at the door, so they keep paying me).

The kicker is that, assuming this show isn't immediately canceled, you boys WILL be some sort of New York City A-Listers. And I'll have to stand idly by as we pay you to appear at our parties, and people flock to see you in the flesh.

Fuckin A'

- J.

Easy A.

*



First off, let me start this entry with a big ol'

siiiiiiiigh.

Okay. Now that that's over with, let me talk about The A-List.

Logo has a riveting new show about gay people eating, drinking, and talking. I think they swim and shop too, but my eyes glazed over during the promo, so I can't be sure. This is supposed to be exciting because it takes place in New York City (!!). Surely you've heard of it, it's the concrete jungle where dreams are made...(of?), and if you believe the hype, it's the most fabulous place on earth.

If you live here, though, it's a different story. Which is not to say that New York is not a wonderful place. But let's just say the editors of The A-List have probably left an awful lot of footage on the cutting room floor. Contrary to what Logo would like you to think, any New Yorker who is not contractually obligated to lie on camera will tell you flat out: there is no A-list in New York. Which is to say, there are about seventy A-lists in New York, and it's impossible be on them all. I fully believe all the guys on The A-List are, in fact, on a list. Maybe even a few of them. But one man's treasure is another man's trash, meaning that yes, even these handsome gents are personas non grata somewhere in this city. There are all kinds of scenes in New York, and they're all big enough to exclude somebody. For example, something tells me none of these boys made the cut for this month's Modesty BBQ, where guests are served a delicious heaping helping of humble pie. New York also has a lot of events for people who have devoted their time and attention to kindness, charitable acts, and improving the lives of their fellow man, instead of improving their abs at David Barton. So sorry, boys - you're not on that list either. You wouldn't even make Schindler's.

Logo would like you to believe that these men are somehow superior to your average, everyday New York City gay man. Why, because they let fly bitchy quips that probably originated on Will & Grace? Quick, find me a gay who doesn't think they're better than everyone else - and make a show about them. How about because so many of them are models? Please. Every meal I've ever had in this city has been served to me by a "model." And they all carry their headshots on their person at all times, probably waiting for the casting director of a show just like this. From the looks of things, it's possible that some of these guys have more money than your average gay New Yorker, because it's easy to be compatible with a wealthy older gentleman who just wants you for your body when you're not that interesting yourself.

What audience is The A-List aiming for, exactly? I don't think Logo could possibly have made The A-List with the intention of impressing gay Manhattanites, who already think they are - move over, Snapple! - the best stuff on earth. The most they can hope for is that New York gays will tune in and bitch about how the party they shot at two weeks ago is, like, sooo over. And no heterosexual, New Yorker or otherwise, would ever come within spitting distance of such programming - not because they're homophobic. They just know better.

So I guess it's geared toward gays in other cities, small towns in particular, for whom words like "Hamptons" and "Saks" ring bells of fabulousness because they heard them on Gossip Girl. Only those who have never been to New York could buy what this show is selling; perhaps a fifteen year old homosexual watching from his basement in rural Nebraska will see The A List and think, WOW! That's the life! But take it from me, Jailbait - it is not. I assure you.

The A-List doesn't depict an elite squadron of New York City men any more than Real Housewives reflects any given city's actual homemakers. There's nothing "real" about them. Sure, there are inherent truths to be found - gay men can be superficial and bitchy, go figure! But we get enough of that at clubs, thank you. I certainly don't need an extra dose of cuntiness from my TV set. Do you? These guys aren't particularly talented or particularly clever, and they aren't the sort of people I generally choose to socialize with in real life. Why would I spend an hour with them at home, when I could step out into the real real New York City, or anywhere, and find someone even slightly worthier of my attention?

I wouldn't. But before I go on, let me qualify my opinion by stating my disdain for reality television in general - this brand of envy-TV in particular. I have never seen an episode of The Real Housewives of (yawn). The only two I know by name are the ones I had the misfortune of seeing live in appearances at gay clubs, performing their awful, awful singles. (Please take the words "live" and "performing" with a big fucking grain of salt.) Nor do I keep up with Kardashians - I could not pick those girls out of a police lineup of gaudy skanks, unless of course they had their camera crew in tow (and we know they would). For the longest time, I thought "Speidi" was a superhero, and I sure as hell don't know which of those lazy Italian-Americans at the gym, pool, or laundromat is Snooki. Nor do I know with any certainty how to spell "Snooki." Nor will I bother to look it up, lest I soak up any knowledge of Jersey Shore accidentally. I could use that precious brain space for something far more useful. I am blisfully unaware of all of these people, and that's the way I like it. In the dark.

The reason for this isn't simply because I don't enjoy having luxuries I'm not privy to rubbed in my face, though that is partially true also. Really, it's because I don't see these "luxuries" as that luxurious. How can it be, when it's so artificial? "Reality TV" is the biggest misnomer of all time. These programs are as realistic as Battlestar Galactaca. Some even less so. They feature people essentially acting as versions of themselves, going to prearranged locations, where scripted things happen. The clubs they go to are sponsors, the products they use have been worked out in merchandise deals. I don't envy reality TV stars any more than I envy your Average Joe who walks into a theme park, because that's all it is. A ride. When the show ends and the cameras stop rolling, they'll return to whatever their real reality was, and I'd be willing to bet it isn't nearly as glitzy and cushy as it looked on TV.

So as for the Gay Housewives, the Kept boys, the A-listers, or whatever they'll be known as - I don't care. Truly. This is television at its most transparent, no better or worse than The Real Kardashians of Jersey Shore, Get Me Out of Here - I'm A Worthless Human Being!, or any other heterosexual equivalent. I've met Reichen and have nothing but nice things to say about him. The rest don't sound any more spoiled or obnoxious than people I encounter in New York every night of the week. Besides, who amongst us wouldn't sound like a horrible person if the cameras were rolling at all times?

But will I waste any of my time or self-esteem watching them navigate their way through New York's party scene, envying them every step of the way? Nah. I, too, have eaten in expensive restaurants and been to the Hamptons. I, too, have attended parties with movie stars and music idols. I, too, dated people who were on television shows not so unlike The A-List, and I didn't care then, either. (Which might be why it didn't work out.) To some, this might all seem pretty astounding, but for those who have chosen to live in New York and Los Angeles (and perhaps other places I can't attest to), it's just life. And once you've done all this, you've done it...no need to rehash it all in an unimaginative, uninspired TV program that is a clone of dozens of others just like it, starring people who are clones of dozens of other people just like them. Is reality TV scripted? You betcha. And all the dialogue reads blah, blah, blah...

And yet I do not judge the "stars" of The A-List for being opportunistic. Who wouldn't capitalize on 15 minutes of fame if someone's willing to cast them on a reality show? We all want to be the beautiful, wealthy, quasi-famous people everybody's talking about - if not for the notoriety, then simply because it'd be more convenient than planning and paying for recreational activities ourselves. Do I wish someone would follow me around with a camera while I did nothing but drink, swim, and gossip in glitzy locations? Sure! And if I set my mind to it, and devoted the next two years of my life to making it happen, I probably could. See, when I try, I can make myself much more attractive than I am by nature, but it's very time-consuming. Were I to make myself pretty enough for the A-list, I would literally do nothing else...which I suppose is the point.

For these A-listers, this is their career - and perhaps a wise choice at that. Once upon a time, I thought my days were better spent on creative endeavors than on tanning, grooming, and the gym. But whereas these fellows have landed a TV show, I have only landed this blog. Curses! Foiled again. This match goes to the pretty boys, whose job is to be as famous as they can for as long as they can (which probably isn't very long at all). If I had only thought to make a living out of being self-absorbed and shallow and really set my mind to it, who knows where I'd be by now? Well, probably on Logo. The main difference between A-list's New York City gays and the rest of us isn't any ethereal quality that makes them worthy of the spotlight, but the mere fact that they wanted it and went after it and got it. So here they are. That's all.

If I have any beef at all with The A-List, it's with the people who are going to watch it. The internet is already abuzz about the show, and most of the hype is negative - gripes about how these guys are stupid, shallow nobodies unworthy of being branded A-listers. And you know what? I bet these people are going to tune in to the show, too, so they can keep on bitching about how terrible it is. "What is this world coming to, when this makes it on TV?" you complain, with one finger on the "Record All" button. You're having a love-hate relationship with reality TV, but guess who ends up as the battered wife in this scenario? Hint: it's not Reichen.

These TV shows exist to make us feel bad about what we don't have, then urge us to judge their subjects so we can feel better about ourselves. We're meant to revel in the luxury and live vicariously through them, then mock these "A-listers" for being superficial. We're supposed to be attracted to the eye candy, and then make catty comments about how they're so caught up in their looks. We laugh at them for trying to be famous when we're the ones turning them into D-list stars. Reality TV knows this, and is laughing all the way to the bank about it.

Does making fun of reality TV stars make us smarter and superior to them? I don't think so. Sure, these guy might be vapid, useless narcissists, but at least they're getting paid for the time they put into this show.

What's your excuse?



So turned off,

X.

Oh Peacock, You're So Fine...

So, Katy Perry's new album, Teenage Dream dropped. It has a few songs I'm obsessed with, and a few I am sure I will be obsessed with once the DJs I work with jam it, club-style, straight into my brain via my buzzing ears.

One song that has installed itself in my frontal lobe and commenced snacking on my gray matter would be "Peacock." In the vein of "If U Seek Amy" by Britney Spears, this song doesn't even try to obscure its "hidden meaning." Clearly it is Katy's businessman-created, written, tested, and executed ode to Russel Brand's gigantic throbbing member. Katy isn't winking at us so much as holding up photos of penises as she sings the catchy beat.

I'm not saying there is anything wrong with this. I am saying, however, why bother? It's not like she'll be pulling a fast one on us. While it can be argued that Sara Bareilles successfully duped us into thinking an attack against a record executive was a vengeful anti-love tuner, there is no argument to be levied on behalf of the "hidden" meaning of Peacock.

At least If U Seek Amy expected us to spell (which Britney can't even do, so plaudits go to her for challenging herself). In this song, Katy goes ahead and says Peacock once before saying "cock" four hundred more times. And, unless we find out that Russell Brand has an aviary in the backyard of his mansion that houses extremely large birds, an aviary that he has yet to let Katy visit despite her pleas, I'm pretty sure we can close the book on this song.

Does anyone else catch themselves thinking of the song "Mickey" (as in "Oh Mickey you're so fine, you're so fine you blow my mind") when they hear this song? I know I am. Whether this is an officially sampled beat, or just something that's uncanny-valley close to what I'm associating with, I do not know.

It makes sense, then, when given how bluntly this song cockslaps you in the eye over and over again, that Gay Softcore Pornographer and Music Video Director Ryan James Yezak has tackled this video as a sequel to his sexy (and New York bashing) California Gays video.




He certainly doesn't disappoint. He has come a long way in 1 month's time. His number of on-camera, barely clothed twinks has near doubled. He's gotten his hands on a number of sets (versus a beach, boardwalk, and street). These sets include a bright white bedroom set (I feel really bad for whoever got stuck with THAT cleaning bill). He's also now lined up a sponsor in American Apparel and somehow gotten his hands on a live peacock-cock-cock.

His editing, as always, is stellar. I still take issue with some of Christian Beasley's choreography. Sometimes it doesn't fit in the frame, and sometimes it just looks silly (and not in a sexy way). Why are they back-flapping fake arm-wings? I don't know. Also, the black paint on white sheets, for some reason, makes me think Lady Gaga, whether it's actually a Gaga trope or not. And when the music pauses for a brief dialogue scene, the microphone makes Beasley's weakly delivered line, and this video sound a lot lower in quality than the rest of it looks. And finally, I think I may be growing tired of Yezak's use of the "three guys dancing, now I'll transition to them doing the same dance but in a different arrangement" editing trick. It was impressive in California Gays, and it's smoother and better executed here. But perhaps when he makes his next video, he can branch out to other camera trickery.

But don't think my criticism is saying that this video is subpar. It certainly is not. I have already watched it twice, gritting my teeth through the shitty resolution and choppiness of YouTube. That says a lot. This is a great, high-energy, scintillating, and visually explosive project. And I imagine they did it in a very short period of time. His use of typical "fantasies" including the football locker room and the doctor's office are executed with a nice mix of sexiness and cuteness, making you laugh and suppress your arousal at the same time. I also found myself a fan of his "white outfits on white background" portion, basically showing his dancers as a group of free-floating limbs. Bonus points for the "letter play" with the t-shirts - did American Apparel print those on demand?

Also, I think the people who are saying that this video is "terrible" over at PerezHilton.com can go get trampled by non-metaphorical peacocks. Get over it, boys. Whatever deep-seeded issues you have that drive you to pee all over this peacock, they have nothing to do with this fantastic homage to a hotter than hot pop goddess.

And now this leaves me to wonder: what will Yezak do next? I haven't listened to the Perry album enough to levy a guess. Maybe he'll step away from Katy and do another artist? Ke$ha perhaps? I'll tell you this much: I'm excited to find out. I'm also curious to see if Yezak can parlay this into something else - television, or a legit directorial gig. Eyes are certainly on him (even though they're probably mostly gay eyes.)

And of course, I have a hard time critiquing Yezak's work simply because I cannot do what he does at all. I am a jokester with a flipcam who occasionally video tapes go-go boys licking each other's sternums. As is evidenced by my most recent video project, a video highlights reel of BoiParty.com, Pepper Mint, and Dougie Meyer's booze cruise this past Sunday night, which is shamelessly included below. If I deserve any credit at all, it's for finding a good reason to re-use Andy Samberg and T-Pain's "I'm on a Boat."

Either way, I am critiquing Mr. Yezak because I am not-so-secretly rooting for him to make it big. To get more of these videos out. To let me see more and more of those ridiculous cuties, Joe Lauer and Spencer Titus. And if you boys end up reading this and come to NYC any time soon, I will happily talk Alan Picus into having you perform at our parties all week long. You'll find a healthy fan following here, I can assure you of that.







I wanna see your emu-moo-moo...
- J.

It Takes A Diva To Suck This Hard.

*


When actors play musicians in movies, the results are often spellbinding. Take Joaquin Pheonix as Johnny Cash in Walk the Line, Angela Basset as Tina Turner in What's Love Got To Do With It, and Jenna Maroney as Jackie Jormp-Jomp AKA Janis Joplin, which we can only assume would have been amazing if it weren't just a storyline on 30 Rock. And that's just the ones based on real people. Jeff Bridges just won an Oscar playing a country music star named Bad Blake. Terence Howard was awesome as a fictional rapper in Hustle & Flow. Gwyneth Paltrow's upcoming role in Country Strong could land her at the top of the charts and on the red carpet come Oscar season. Almost Famous...Amadeus...Ray...the list goes on and on.

You know what's not spellbinding? When Hollywood tries to reverse that winning formula and lets musicians pretend to be actors. I call to the stand Taylor Swift, Miley Cyrus, and now Christina Aguilera, along with every other musician who thought looking convincingly-pure-yet-secretly-horny in a music video meant they could carry a movie. I'm looking at you, Madonna in Swept Away! And now I'm looking away, because it hurts.

Are there exceptions? Sure. To the surprise of many, Justin Timberlake has proven worth his salt as an actor - witness him as the creator of Napster in David Fincher's upcoming "Facebook movie" The Social Network. Bjork powered through the notoriously difficult Lars von Trier's Dancer in the Dark, her first film role (and last, she has vowed). And Eminem made it all the way through the Academy Awards without committing a hate crime when he was nominated for 8 Mile's "Lose Yourself," a film in which he capably portrayed a young white rapper from Detroit. Hmm.

But for every Jennifer Hudson, there's a Kelly Clarkson and Justin Guarini, who weren't even convincing as characters named Justin and Kelly in From Justin to Kelly. (Lucky for them, they happened to find a script in which the characters had their same first names. What are the odds? Imagine how much worse it would have been had they not played themselves? World-endingly bad, I'd guess.) In fact, musicians fail at playing themselves surprisingly often. Mariah Carey was more convincing as a social worker with a mustache in Precious than she was as a pop diva in Glitter (never mind that both movies sound like her pre-Mimi album titles). And it's been awhile since I saw David Bowie as a drugged-out space oddity in Labyrinth (that counts as playing himself, right?), but all I remember is a giant codpiece, which probably isn't a good sign.

Despite these past horrors, young musicians are still neglecting to brush up on their Meisner technique, judging by the latest crop testing their acting chops by playing characters very similar to themselves - and still failing. Naturally, I avoided seeing Valentine's Day because I don't hate myself and did not wish for my penis to fall off, but a friend turned me on to the jaw-droppingly-atrocious acting by Taylor Swift in this "romantic" "comedy." This clip begs the question: is this improv? Did she know the camera was rolling? Was this honestly the best take? Or somehow, possibly the only take? Is Jennifer Garner supposed to act that uncomfortable, or is she as horrified by Taylor Swift's appearance in this movie as I am?

I present Exhibit A, to make of what you will:



How did this happen? I know Ms. Swift is considered very down-to-earth and relatable because she prefers sneakers to high heels and sits in bleachers, but this girl could not act her way out of a paper bag. If both she and a paper bag were up against each other for an Oscar, the paper bag would win, hands-down. If only Kanye would appear in this movie and drag Taylor out of it! I won't comment on whether or not she deserved that Video Music award, but she sure as hell didn't deserve to be cast in this movie. Not when there are plenty of other talented actresses, paper bags, and house flies out there who could have brought more depth and believability to the role of Completely Ordinary Girl. You can wear T-shirts all you want, Taylor, but you have blown your cover.

Faring only marginally better is Miley Cyrus in The Last Song, a role that was written for her by Nicholas Sparks. Reportedly she wished to stretch beyond the limitations of playing a musician on a Disney sitcom, so guess what! She plays a musician. But on a bigger screen. Oh, and this time, she stubbornly refuses to play the piano anymore because she's mad at her Dad, and is punishing him by declining her admission to Julliard. This means she spends the movie making out with an Australian, saving sea turtles, and trying to solve the mystery of who burned down the local church instead. (No, seriously.)

That's fine by me, I didn't want to hear her sing anyway - but guess whether or not she eventually does sing, and decides to give Julliard a shot after all? She does! And guess whether or not someone dies of cancer? They do! And guess if Miley at one point dons a blond wig and becomes a wacky country superstar? Well, no...but that didn't stop me from laughing at the movie as if it were a sitcom anyway. As Nicholas Sparks heroines go, Ms. Cyrus is no Rachel McAdams or Robin Wright, nor an Amanda Seyfried or Diane Lane. I can't say her acting was truly terrible because there was nothing good in the film to compare it to. The highest compliment I can give her is that she didn't make the movie suck any harder than it was already going to. Sparks has a true gift for making two specific demographics cry: 1) women, and 2) me. But for very different reasons.

Now this Thanksgiving comes the latest offender, and quite possibly the most delicious of them all: Christina Aguilera in Burlesque, which looks something like Chicago meets Showgirls - meets guilty pleasure heaven meets a great big smile on my face. We get not one but two divas-turned-actresses! We also get singing, dancing, and Alan Cumming, officially making this the gayest movie ever made. And yes, I am including gay porn. Sure, maybe it's unfair to judge the movie before it comes out, but something tells me Christina's acting debut will be more Beyonce in Obsessed than Beyonce in Dreamgirls. And that something is the trailer for the movie:



You'll note that "Academy Award-winner" Cher also appears, and probably recall that she, too, got her start as a singer. Does that mean there's hope for this movie? I don't think so. Yes, Cher won an Oscar, but that was a long time ago - way back when she could still move her face. Judging by her big, uncomfortably long moment in this trailer, the Academy will be stopping by Cher's fortress any day now to "repurpose" that Oscar, and I seriously doubt they'll be handing it over to Little Miss "Sex for Breakfast" any time soon, either.

Still, it's about time Aguilera made her acting debut. Fellow Mouseketeers Justin and Britney have been at it for years, and Mandy Moore has all but left her pop persona in the dust after snagging juicy roles in the likes of Saved!, American Dreamz, and Entourage (plus one Nicholas Sparks movie). Better late than never: Burlesque is poised to be Christina Aguilera's Crossroads. Remember that debacle? No? Oh, stop pretending.

Here, let me remind you:



To be fair, it's not Brit-Brit's performance that is so bad as it is the material she has to work with, which is true of so many of these poor divas. Ms. Spears is actually quite the thespian - you may recall her performance as Someone Who's Not Batshit Crazy during the first several years of her career. She had us all convinced then, didn't she? If we only knew.

Anyway. The plot of Burlesque places Christina as a small-town girl - but stop right there! It's already ridiculous. Which small town is she from? Obviously A Divaville, Nebraska? I've bought Ms. Aguilera in a variety of roles, including S&M kitten, Boogie Woogie Bugle Girl, genie in bottle, mud wrestler, third wheel in a ménage à trois with Britney and Madonna, and even the reflection of a cartoon Asian princess in drag. However, I steadfastly refuse to believe that the girl has ever milked a cow, or even looked at one. I have no doubt that Christina will give Burlesque her all, but I am afraid "her all" will not nearly be enough to save this sucker. When Stanley Tucci tells her, "Great enthusiasm, terrible timing" in the trailer, I have a feeling this is really just him giving the songstress a few acting pointers when they didn't know the cameras were rolling. Am I being too hard on Burlesque? Well, any movie with a character named Alice and a "Wonderland" punchline deserves all the mockery I can muster, if you ask me.

There's virtually no way Burlesque can be good. Thus one can only hope it lives up to its ludicrous trailer and is as much of a jumbled, awkward mess as Christina's album Bionic, which dropped earlier this year with a big, fat THUD. I sure hope the director found room for "Vanity" amongst the musical numbers! In fact, I'd forgive Christina all of Bionic if the album's worst tracks (and there are plenty) were written specifically to go along with campy musical numbers in this movie. Cher doing "Bobblehead"? Well, a boy can dream.

Regardless, I know exactly what I'll be thankful for this November - a big, fat turkey like Burlesque.



Gobble gobble,

X.

Baby We Were Born to ROTFLOL

I was not in front of a television last night to see the Emmys, as I was actually somewhere drunk along the Hudson River on a big gay boat cruise. But that doesn't matter. Thanks to the state of the Internet, I don't need to be anywhere in order to see anything any more. Case in point: I just watched the opening to last night's Emmy Awards featuring Jimmy Fallon, a bunch of Glee characters, and far too many amazing cameo celebs just this second.

And it's made me really want to write an award show opening number. Taking a tip from the Tony Awards (or so I'm guessing), it seems that every award show now needs to have live performances kicking off their often boring festivities. In a world where viewers have four thousand niche channels to which they can surf, you have to work, and work damn hard to keep their attention. Last night's opening number is a perfect example of an epic win.




Once upon a time, musical numbers were pretty much limited to the Tonys and the Grammys. Then, at some point, the Oscars got in on the game by featuring live performances from their nominated "best song" category (X, feel free to correct me here, I'm too lazy to look up whether this is true or not; however, if Jimmy Fallon and Jon Hamm were singing the information to me, I might be more likely to pursue the knowledge.)

But here comes The Emmys with a 6-minute piece that I will probably watch at least 4 more times while composing this post.

Seriously, check out the cast in this number! Do we remember the time when actors were too "above it all" to get involved with these petty entertainments? Their job was to show up, walk the red carpet in their borrowed finery, sit down and make interesting facial expressions when the camera turned on them. But now?

Well, just look at it! My personal heroine, Tina Fey is willing to show up, make jokes, and get splashed with fruit juice. Jon Hamm, who is quickly becoming basic cable's George Clooney, abandons the seriousness of his troubled advertising avatar to booty dance with Betty White, who is probably the second coolest octaganerian I know (the first being my Grandpa, who was asked to co-star in this video, but had to turn it down because the Yankees were playing a double header last night).

And then we have the tragic Kate of Kate plus twenty, or however many spawn she brought into this world via reality television. Good for her, though, allowing all of us to laugh at her. Sure, she's probably thinking: "hey look! screen time! om nom nom." But, still, the fact that she plays in the joke that is really just a joke about her is excellent for this.

Add to this video Randy Jackson of American Idol, Tim Gunn of Project Runway, that fat guy from Lost, Jane Lynch (who will probably just start BEING Sue Sylvester, since everyone seems to really prefer her as bitchy, dykey, and sardonic), and the painfully sexy Joel McHale of The Soup and Community and you have the equivalent of the most hilarious orgy I would ever ask to be a part of.

This points to a new brand of celebrity, i feel. The old guard is being left behind for the Feys and Hamms and Whites who are willing to take the extra time to show up at the award show location a day (or more) in advance to practice and film, all while making fun of themselves. Why? Because long gone is the day where movie stars and TV stars were figures so far out of our reach that we were only allowed to see them on the screen. Today, where the average attention span doesn't have time to watch a YouTube video on their phone while running to the store, you need to pull out all the stops and make sure you are everywhere.

Another example of extra effort being put in would be the equally funny "Modern Family" segment featuring both Stewie Griffin AND George Clooney.




(Look out, Jon Hamm, Clooney's onto your trickery, and he's willing to sleep with gay men to keep his place in the spotlight.)

Again, here the humor is perfect. Stewie's referencing Married with Children is something I know I think about every time I enjoy Modern Family. And who, gay or straight, hasn't considered the 3-D power of Gloria's breasts? 

This stuff is brilliant - it is right up my alley as far as humor goes. It is complex in that it references multiple shows, winks so many times at you that you might think it's having an epileptic fit, and doesn't bother dumbing down the jokes for you. And I want in on this.

How do I get a job writing award ceremony sketches and openings? I would LOVE to fight back the dry and useless late-show-esque monologues of yesteryear (yes, I know they still exist, but each year we beat them back further and further with the help of song, dance, and video montages... keep it up!)

I would love to have the full roster of television's stars at my disposal. I'd throw the Simpsons together with John Stewart and Hugh Laurie as Doctor House. I could do whatever I wanted with Kyra Sedgwick as The Closer and Conan O'Brien. The possibilities are endless, and potentially endlessly hilarious.

Apparently last night's Emmys was one of the best awards show broadcast in history. Quick. Funny. Some cried "overkill" (again, I didn't see it.) But allow me to come in on the side of overkill: I'd rather have a show with far too many jokes than one with not enough. Bravo Jimmy Fallon. Bravo writers. Bravo TV actors. I can't wait to see what you have inspired in the other award shows that broadcast in the coming months.

And to close out this post, I won't bother trying to be funny or succinct... I'll just show you Jimmy Fallon saying goodbye to "24", "Law & Order", and "Lost".




Presented without commercial interruption,
- J.

Pandora's Box Office.

*


In the crowded movie marketplace, you'd be forgiven for missing it: a little James Cameron movie about blue aliens amongst this weekend's crop of box office hopefuls.

The tally? At the top, The Last Exorcism makes $21.3 million. Avatar comes in 12th with a paltry $4 million.

Say it with me now: "Pooooor Avatar."

James Cameron's "Special Edition" of his 3D epic was bested even by Vampires Suck and Nanny McPhee Returns. I guess more people wanted Nanny McPhee to return than the Na'vi. You know what sucks even more than vampires this weekend? Avatar! (I've stopped myself before an expandable/Expendables joke. Oh wait - no I haven't!)

When Avatar was released just nine months ago, a live action 3D movie was still a pretty nifty concept. Was Avatar mind-blowing? It was. Were the special effects special? Yes! Visually, we'd never seen anything like it. (Thematically, well, some of us had seen Fern Gully: The Last Rainforest, but it had been awhile.) I think we all recognized that there were certain story flaws inherent in Avatar, but to the vast majority of moviegoers, it didn't matter. We were wowed. We were awed. We felt as if James Cameron had truly transported us to Pandora. Another world.

And yes, maybe we were there about 20 minutes longer than we needed to be. And maybe it cost us roughly $4 more than we should have paid. But it was worth it.

Now fast forward a few months. Three dimensions are sooo last Christmas. Everything and its mother is being released in three dimensions. None of this 3D is as good as Avatar's, because didn't James Cameron spend like 70 years making that movie? Also, none of these movies are as good as Avatar. The Last Airbender. Clash of the Titans. Piranha. Step Up. I would be a lot happier if the extra dimension was character depth, and for that you don't need to put on any silly glasses.

It doesn't surprise me that the rerelease of Avatar didn't fly. For one, it's too soon. We all just took out second mortgages on our homes so we could afford the upcharge on 3D movies to see it the first time. For another, Avatar is available on DVD. This "Special Edition" comes with 9 minutes of extra footage that I'm sure is really great, and hopefully contains the subtlety and nuance that was originally cut from the film. But are those extra 9 minutes that somehow weren't good enough to put in the film the first time, but are suddenly so good that you absolutely must shell out another $645 to see it on the big screen, in 3D, on IMAX? Then there's also the matter that, back in December, Avatar was pretty much it for 3D, and now thanks to that film's $750 million take, we have been inundated. I never thought I'd say it, but Hollywood: Less depth, please!

Personally, I'm not a fan. Aside from Avatar, I have never wanted to see a film in 3D. I enjoy films such as Toy Story 3 in 2D as much as I possibly could, no extra depth required. In most cases, I think 3D is just a distraction from the elements of films I like: story, characters, dialogue. None of these are enhanced with such technology. In fact, the whole reason Avatar was received so well is because the 3D distracted from story, characters, and dialogue. Because, watch Avatar without those glasses on, and you'll see those elements seem flatter than ever.

The real problem with the rerelease is this: a mere nine months after its release - and only six months since it was the top rival to the year's Best Picture winner The Hurt Locker - Avatar is cheesy. Those blue people running around look like cartoons, that military bad guy is so over the top he might as well have a cape and twirly mustache, and "I see you" is no "I'll never let go, Jack" and never will be. Back in January, I placed it in the #10 slot on my list of 2009 films. Did an alien creature take over my body and force me to do this? No. Back then, all those months ago, Avatar was spectacle. I, like many, was enamored of it. But on subsequent viewings on DVD, it doesn't quite hold up. Is our world really changing at such a rate that yesterday's Biggest Movie of All Time can already be such old news? Is Avatar already just a punchline?

I don't think Avatar is a bad movie; I think it's far better than it could have been. The story and characters are serviceable for what it is. There are certainly worse blockbusters out there. Did you know there's even a way to learn the language of the Na'vi people from home? (Yeah, because that'll be a marketable skill someday. If you're going to take the time to learna foreign language, good for you - but please choose one that exists.)

I can't help but feel this "Special Edition" smacks of money-grubbing greed on the studio's part, especially when this is already the highest-grossing film of all time. How much more money do you need, James Cameron? If this edition is so special, why didn't you just put it out the first time?

Personally, I'm pleased that Avatar didn't fare so well in its rerelease. That moviegoers stood up to the Man and said, "No more. Not this time." I'm well aware that 3D isn't going anywhere, but this gives me some hope that all is not yet lost. (However, I will shamelessly admit that it's been a good 13 years since I saw Titanic in theaters and I am definitely up for a 3D Special Edition of that one. Jack + Rose 4eva!)

Still, I can't help but feel at least a little bad for James Cameron. I mean, sure, he has directed the two highest-grossing films of all time, but he also watched his ex-wife beat him in multiple categories at the Oscars this year. For a guy like Jim, a $4 million weekend at the box office must really sting. James Cameron probably spent $4 million on breakfast this morning. (And then rereleased his breakfast with 9 extra minutes of footage right afterward. In IMAX.)

Poor king of the world. I bet he's feeling really blue.



I'll never let go,

X.

...You Gonna Eat That?

Every Friday is Improv Friday at Said Panties. On Facebook, X and J take a poll of their friends for a topic (any topic) to write on. The most popular, ridiculous, or random is selected, and both X. and J must write about it. This week's topic, The Newsworthiness of Eating Used Condoms, comes from Michael Steinwand.

In our 24-hour news cycle, urgency is a resting state. The second something isn't controversial, exclusive, or dire, the general cable news audience will switch to the next red-faced screaming pundit. Every bit of news is BREAKING, BREAKING, BREAKING with large graphics that "swoosh!" in and "kaboom!" out of frame. Crosshairs are focused over children's faces, tombstones transform into blood-dripping Islamic signs.

These days you aren't watching the news so much as it's coming out of your television and chewing on your eyeballs. It should come as no surprise to anyone, then, that all of this breaking news has effectively broken cable news. You don't tune in to Fox or MSNBC to learn about things, you tune in to get enraged, to get your marching orders and daily list of hate targets. They're too busy focusing on one non-story all day to bother actually delivering you a full serving of news. They'll happily show you the same five clips, over and over again, while interviewing people who don't actually know what's happening.

But I don't need to tell you all of this. That's what The Daily Show is for.

But when the story of a little boy snacking on a condom in an Atlanta hotel makes the news, you know it's a slow day, and I need to cry foul. This isn't news. This is filler. It's flavorless Oreo cream, or the air they fill bags of chips with to make them look more full than they actually are. It doesn't need to be reported, and I think they know this.

What's the matter, Fox? Did Obama lock himself in the oval office today? Did not one member of the administration make a gaffe ten years ago that you could blow out of proportion? Can't Glenn Beck just do another one of his blackboard drawings connecting anteaters to nazis to Joe Biden's next door neighbor? (THE CONNECTION IS THERE, I'M JUST INFORMING YOU!)

Well, whatever the reason, the result is here before us: the dumbest news story ever created (I know, I know, there's probably worse stories than this. Still.) Even the poor Fox writer assigned to this story knows that there's nothing really to report: a kid stuck a used condom in his mouth, he developed a fever, he is being STD tested, we do not know what happened after that. But I'll bet the writer was elated not to have to write another fantastic piece of ad hominem trash accusing Nancy Pelosi of being a back alley abortionist with the power to turn men gay with her gaze during her college years.

So instead, the writer turns to DYNAMIC language. The story isn't exciting or urgent, so his language must take care of that problem. The result, I think you'll agree, is like a treatment for a really great horror movie that tragically never follows through.

Observe some excerpts:

"The incident happened on Aug. 1 at the Wyndham Gardens hotel in downtown Atlanta, where she had taken the boy and his cousin for a weekend of family fun."

This would be where we cue the ominous music. The Grandma, grandkid, and cousin are driving along a mountain road. Perhaps The Shining's Overlook Hotel in the misty background. Perhaps a bat is flying above their car.

"Jones said at first glance room 329 looked perfectly clean, except that there was no soap and no towels."

Foreshadowing! Even the hostel in Hostel had soap and towels (and lots of bare-breasted travelers.)

"Then, she said, she noticed something more troubling."

Oh my God. WHAT IS IT? No mints!?

"I'm like, 'Girl, you know, these sheets don't smell clean,'" Jones said."

This is similar to the "I'm just going to go check out where that sound in the woods came from. I'LL BE RIGHT BACK, GUYS."

The next morning, Jones said, she awoke to a horrifying scene.

Of course, at this point, you're picturing a room full of dead bodies. Or an infestation of alien spiders with hungry eyes. Or that the child has transformed into a vampire.


But, no, our little victim was merely giving a tongue job to the worst eclair he's ever tasted.


Anticlimactic? You betcha. I mean, sure, it's horrifying. But not in the standard type of horror we're used to. We usually reserve horrifying for things like unknown beasts devouring people, or blood being let out of elevator doors. I'm sure the Grandma could have awoken to far more horrifying scenes like the cousin stabbing the grandson, or any scene from High School Musical 2.

This, Fox News, is a bit of overkill.

Also, am I the only person who sees a lot of inconsistencies in Grandma's story of terror? First of all, who the hell is going to go to sleep in a bed that smells "off"? And what, exactly, does "not clean" smell like? I know what clean smells like. Flowers and fields and bunnies. I'm going to assume that "not clean" smells like ass or jizz or slut sweat. If that's the case, wouldn't you give a quick ring to housekeeping?


And why didn't she call to complain about the absence of soap and towels? This to me is proof of neglect. Those children in Granny's care were left unwashed for an evening, or forced to bathe, soapless, and then air dry, which could certainly get them sick any way. At this rate, I'm wondering if the Grandma maybe traipsed this filthy rubber into the room, having picked it up earlier when she took her kids swimming in the local dump (it doesn't smell clean!)


And finally, I think it's quite convenient that Grandma awoke to find her grandson giving head to the condom. I ask you: how long was junior tongue-jabbing the jimmy wrapper? And there was still semen in it? He could have been slurping on that thing for hours. I also imagine that the intimate practice of used-condom-tasting is a silent one. Again, Granny's story falls short.


You know what I think? This is some sort of grand set up. Grandma trashed those sheets. She planted the condom and FORCED the kid to eat it. Now THAT is a horrifying scene. Like that lady who threw a cat in the garbage can this week. And shame on Fox for picking this story to be the first instance where they don't assume the worst of their subject, adding in vague yet accusatory statements like "some folks say the Grandma fed her grandson the condom because he had told her he supported Obamacare."


If you're going to make news of anything and everything, then let's be sure to treat it like news, Fox. Get that STD-infecting, not-clean-bed-sleeping, octogenarian geriatric monster on camera and force her to fess up. If we're going to decide, as you claim we have the choice to do, then get crackin' with the reporting.

Heeeeeeere's Herpes!
- J