EVERYONE'S A COMEDIAN

MSNBC totally ripped off the scene from Old School where Will Ferrell works the ribbons.
Well, I suppose it's the fancier, network television version—Matt and Al are "rhythmic gymnasts."

NYMAG, SEX THERAPIST



I have a love-hate relationship with Nymag's Sex Diaries.

On the one hand, it's kind of a cool premise: live inside the horny heads of everyone from the 24-year-old hipster musician living in Williamsburg to the 51-year-old Wall Street guy.
Read and learn that in the end we all want our genitals licked. Repeatedly. By multiple sources—regardless of marriage or commitment.

I get it.

But sometimes the admissions make me slightly uncomfortable. Like the aforementioned Wall Street guy who insists on referring to masturbating as "stretching the little guy." Or the middle-aged boss who has very detailed blow job fantasies about most of the 20-something assistants in his office.

Editorials like this ruin it for the good-natured, married manager and father of three who really just wants me to know the third button on my blouse popped open.

You know, to help me avoid any future embarrassment.

He's a good guy.

Anyway, Nymag describes this as a "peek at what your friends and neighbors are doing behind doors left slightly ajar." And this is perhaps why I've never been the type to live behind binoculars, read text messages that don't belong to me, or flip through personal journals.

I'd be more likely to quietly shut that door "left slightly ajar."

But I got to hand it to the good samaritans reading the column who slip on their Dr. Phil and Dr. Joyce Brothers hats and leave long-winded comments that range from sweet and sentimental, to downright surly. A few choice excerpts below:

"the character of men is most like that of a dog: loyal, will suffer any abuse, and still love you unconditionally. Women resemble cats: manipulative, capable of simulating love whenever it is opportune, and will sit perched on a chair while an intruder cuts your throat and steals your belongings. Then, when he's about to leave, rub up against his leg in hopes of getting a treat."

"Here's the thing, you are definitely not over your ex. You need to allow yourself to move on, when you say things like The Hold Steady are ruined for you because she mentioned the lead singer, you still have a whole lot of sentimental attachments, which are hindrances to moving on."

"This guy is like my compulsive masturbating, unmotivated, stoner twin."

It's really kind of sweet. Lord knows if I'd take the advice of someone hell bent on commenting on an anonymous, probably partially fictional, blog post, though.

NOBODY, AND I MEAN NOBODY, WANTS TO THINK ABOUT UNCLE JOEY IN THAT WAY



File Under: Waaaaaaaaaaaaay too much information to feel comfortable.

(This isn't helping my queasy case of the Mondays.)

So, it turns out that little, under-the-radar 1995 indie hit (heh) Alanis Morrisette's You Oughta Know (you oughta heard of it) was about none other than Dave Coulier aka Full House's annoying Uncle Joey.

Damn me and my visuals! I just got a grainy, snap shot of Alanis going down on Uncle Joey in a theatre. Damn me!

I mean, why not Stamos? Uncle Joey?!?! I didn't even think the man had genitals.

Come to think of it, the cast of Full House is pretty gangsta.

Oh to be a fly on the Tanner wall of nature and nurture. How could one show rear such a colorful clan of soon-to-be crystal meth drenched, eating disordered, crack smoking, oral sexed, fun-filled adults!

Michelle, entered rehab in 2004 for an eating disorder or coke addiction. Tomato, tomahto.
Only to be warding off New York City investigators and asking for immunity when grilled about the whole Heath Ledger overdose. Fishy.

Stephanie had a very public crystal meth addiction. How rude!

Uncle Jesse was packed up and sent home after a little, er, jet lagged (aka drug-induced) Australian outburst.

Danny, the celebrated patriarch, made us all lose our lunch when he declared that he "sucked dick for coke."


Screw that Saved by the Bell memoir. Where's the Full House tell-all?

HEARD IN THE LUNCHROOM



THEIR KIDS WILL BE TOE-HEADED, COMEDIANS!

Ellen DeGenerous and Portia De Rossi are making it legal this weekend.
My only complaint will be the predictable fashion. I wish they'd mix it up and have Portia outfitted in something from Men's Wearhouse and Ellen slip into a slinky Vera Wang number.

(For shits and giggles, read the "opinions" of all the super urban and open-minded usmagazine.com readers. You may want to pour a glass of French Burgandy, light an American Spirit and really enjoy the top-notch writing.)

The Ronson strap on must be getting musty. I mean, we all knew LiLo was a lesbian imposter, but some Miami spies have reason to believe she's a closet heterosexual. In the Delano's Florida Room on August 5th, Lohan was "laughing and giggling" with a bunch of over-tanned lotharios and it's got the gossip rags drooling. Shoot, if all it takes is giggling with the guys to indicate forplay of some type, I better rush to get the morning after pill.

He seems like the type who would look at himself in the mirror on the brink of orgasm.

So does he.

WE'VE BEEN READING ABOUT RIELLE HUNTER FOR A VERY LONG TIME



At times New York City—regardless of it's 8 million inhabitants— can seem weirdly incestuous.

Like the time you begrudgingly get drinks with a co-worker you barely know, and find out the two of you have shared saliva and bodily fluids with the same guy. Or when you spill some of your beer on a random person at a concert and discover you used to sit in the same cube only a few months apart.

You know, any weird coincidence you'd expect in Anacoco, Louisiana but not Manhattan.

Anyway, I got the same chilled out New-York-isn't-far-enough-away-I-should-move-to-Prague, feeling when I found out media whipping girl Rielle Hunter made her slutbag presence in two of my favorite novels, Bret Easton Ellis's American Psycho and Glamorama.

Yes, that's right. John Edwards maybe baby mama was the inspiration for Ellis's Alison Poole— who in both novels is a drugged out, sort of hot depending on the light, party girl.

Her ex-boyfriend Jay McInerney told "Page Six" her behavior when they dated "intrigued and appalled" him so much that he based his novel Story of My Life on her.

Thankfully, Bret Easton Ellis is gayer than a pink poodle so chances of any failed romance between he and Hunter is slim, but that didn't stop her from becoming a triple threat.

She's got books, newspapers, movies (she played some bimbo girlfriend in 1987's Overboard), writers and politicians under her ho belt. I'm on the edge of my seat to see what she's got planned next.

JOHN MCCAIN: WAR HERO, SOCIAL CONSERVATIVE, DANCING QUEEN



I've always thought Blender was an underestimated publication.

Granted, as part of Dennis Publishing's (now Alpha Media Group) low brow, lad mag extravaganza, the magazine never shyed from The Formula—often dressing D-list recording artists in nothing but bras and pantyhose.

I know, I know.

Regardless, I enjoy it's hilarious little nuggets like this: A round-up of Bama and McCain's top 10 songs.

This could've been the most vanilla of vanilla, but leave it to John McCain (who I'm beginning to think has more of a sense of humor than any of us sneering Democrats are giving him credit for) to put the gayest song of all time as his number one pick.

Abba's Dancing Queen!

God, it's just so brilliant. He should guest write his own skit for Saturday Night Live.

Bama on the other hand tried for "street cred" with Kanye West, and nauseatingly put The Fugees "Ready or Not" in the top seat. Ugh.
Predictable.
Why didn't he just put Fleetwood Mac's "Don't Stop"?

HEARD IN THE LUNCHROOM*



The world needs another TV show about spoiled 20-somethings who jet set like the world needs another Brody Jenner .
(On second thought, I'd vote for a cloned army of Brody's any day of the week)

Mogulettes (young, female moguls in the making. Get it?!!?!) is the latest trash written by none other than Plum Sykes (Bergdorf Blondes, various Vogue articles) about gorgeous women in their 20s who are business leaders.

Hm. Well it is a believable storyline for most twenty-somethings. Hell, half of my friends are mogulettes, aren't yours?

Patrick McMullen plans to release an i-phone magazine.
Of what you ask?
Photos centered around (three guesses and the first two don't count!) he and his expensive friends doing expensive things.
It is a novel and unique idea. I mean, when do we ever look at paparazzi shots of shi shi socialites and celebrities?

Elvis Costello is hosting a talk show on Sundance "Spectacle: Elvis Costello With . . .," lots of cool people, I would presume. He told Condé Nast's yearly Fashion Rocks publication that he wants to focus on "people's interest in music or art, the things that have stirred their curiosity." Does Paris Hilton and her line of hair extensions count?

*James Franco cuts the Pineapple Express stoner do and opts for the GQ-ified look. I'd say it's an improvement. But they're calling him the next James Dean. I don't know about all that...

GEORGIA: NOT JUST HOTLANTA*

*Sexytime picture of Vladmir Putin, just because.


"The Russian tiger has finally swatted the Georgian mouse."---Simon Sebag Montefiore, the author of Young Stalin

The first time I realized there was a Georgia outside the dirty south was at one of my many New York City waitressing jobs. I made the embarrasing guffaw of asking "the server from Georgia" if Hotlanta was really as hot as it's name.

I got a blank stare, and then a broken English geography lesson.

Amidst my booty shaking, tan peeling, shot-imbibing mental vacation in Miami, my blood-shot eyes scanned a headline "Russia invades Georgia" and my mind sifted past the latest Lil' Wayne song, a recent analysis of wedge shoes vs. slingbacks, and the pros and cons of spray tans, and finally grasped on the little nugget of trivia I'd learned years back.

Georgia: a transcontinental country partially in Eastern Europe and partially in Southwest Asia in the Caucasus region.

Really, this seems like a conflict of he said, she said. As Slate.com put it "Russian sources said that Georgia had launched an invasion of South Ossetia, aiming to pacify the breakaway region. Georgia, meanwhile, said that its troops entered the South Ossetian "capital" in response to escalating South Ossetian attacks."

By far the best analysis of this event is Simon Sebag Montefiore's essay "Another battle in the 1,000 year Russia-Georgia grudge match" where he describes the country's desire to be part of NATO and the "swaggering arrival" of Vladmir Putin, "macho in his tight jeans and white leather jacket."

WHAT'S YOUR SIGN?



As the plot thickens on this ready for Maury affair, good ol' boy John Edwards can rest easy that while he never made it to the Presidency, he did manage to carve a nice little nook for himself in history.

Sandwiched between Gov. Spitzer, Larry Craig, and Jim McGreevey, no doubt. (Poor Larry Craig. His backdrop was a dingy, airport bathroom for Godsakes. At least the rest curled up in 500 thread, Egyptian cotton sheets in swanky hotels after getting their rocks off.)

Anyway, my FAVORITE part (by far) of any sleazy political scandal is when the media-hungry scavengers swoop in from stage left to tell us waaaay more than we ever wanted to know.

We know Jim McGreevey and his wife scarfed down chili cheese fries before double teaming the driver. We know Larry Craig was probably involved in a hotel tryst with some burly guy, Gov. Spitzer wanted to bang that fake-tittied whore without a condom, and Bill Clinton stuck a cigar up Monica Lewinsky's hoo-ha (that one STILL gives me the heebie jeebies).

Don't think the vultures were out sick the day the spotlight flashed on John Edwards with his pants down (or should we call him Love Lips?).
Our stomachs were spared this time and nothing about lube, positions, porn, outfits, or props were exposed (Thank You GOD!).
But it turns out Rielle Hunter is a bit of a looney toone.
Nymag reported this morning that she's a former actress and New York City party girl, a "seeker" obsessed with New Age astrology and spirituality. She told a Newsweek reporter that Edwards gave off "special energy" (ha. I'm going to use that term next time a married man hits on me at a bar), and that she and her ex, Bright Lights, Big City Jay McInerny (that somehow makes sense) are working on a TV show about "women who help men get out of failing marriages by having affairs with them."

YES! I would so TiVO the hell out of that. So was this all "research" for the first episode? Does she need empirical evidence before she pitches the idea to the networks?

Anyway, this passage by Los Angeles Times, writer Sarah Miller is probably the most telling.

"Rielle came bounding up to me. Her eyes weren't just glowing. They were kind of spinning in her face. I am almost sure that she was not drunk: This was how she always looked."

YIKES! Men will go to bed with anything, I swear. So Rielle is kind of like the floozy at the bar who yammers on about rising signs and auras, orders one too many Pinot Grigios, and snags the millionaire in the corner. Damn her!

Miami is like New York City's trashier, tanned, gold encrusted little sister.


And I mean that in the NICEST way possible.

But, really.

If Manhattan were to plop palm trees in the Meatpacking District, give all the patrons a few extra sessions on their Hollywood Tan accounts, insert something vagualy Latino at any forseeable opportunity, and eliminate anyone who doesn't think Machiavelli is spelled Makaveli, then VIOLA!

It's South Beach! Just add water!

I actually think a little more of the third would be an improvement. I haven't had my fill of Pablos, Carloses or Juans. Really, I haven't. And I think I will continue to surround myself with something vaguely (or outright) Latino for some time to come. If you know what I mean.

At some point when I was itching off skin flakes from my "tan", milking (and I do mean milking) a $16 cocktail, I eyed a crowd of hair-slicked-back-first-second-third (!) button-undone men sitting with a group of push up bras, and thought:
"Where the hell am I?"
If it weren't for the slightly better coke, I'd say Level V!

Rock on Miami.

(I'll call you Pablo)

I think I've mentioned before in this blog my teenage affinity for embarrassingly wide leg pants, scissor-kick dance moves, and happy hardcore house music.

I'm almost certain I have.

It was an awkward, yet loving, time of my life.

I looked completely insane and it took a few months of clean living to get my neurochemistry back to the normal range—but, hell, never have I told so many complete strangers that they have a "beautiful soul, man."

Anyway, last night I stumbled upon, and yes, I mean literally stumbled upon (reeking of Montezuma tequila—CLASSY!), a rather frantic DJ Dara set at Southpaw.

The show, with Ed Rush and Optical, was originally slated to take place at Studio B, but surprisingly (or shockingly) Studio B doesn't have a cabaret license.

How very Footloose of them—NO DANCING ALLOWED!

Anyway, DJ Dara was one of the resident DJ's in my college dorm room. He was the background din, to one-upping-each-other stories of snorting too much K at that party were "Dieselboy played the most amazing set," and you know "Technics are the best tables. You should trash those dingy Geminis." And etc. etc. etc.

Whatever.

So, it totally felt like 2001 watching the scrubby little bass heads having seizures on the floor.

That, and I still can't dance to jungle worth a shit.

There's a WHOLE lot of music going on. Let's take a look at the top live shows from guitars, to beats, to free, to steep.



Check it:

8/1---BROTHER ALI WITH THE RUB DJ CREW AT THE SOUTHSTREET SEAPORT
WHY THIS ROCKS: IT'S FREE!!! It's a nice night, and Minneoapolis-based Brother Ali is known for "sharp, insight filled lyrics find sweet harmony with his soul sampled, head nodding beats." Tasty!

WOLF PARADE: AT TERMINAL 5

WHY THIS ROCKS: They recorded an album in a Quebec church owned by that sort of famous band, Arcade Fire. They're known for being kind of gritty and unorganized. This is refreshing. Nothing's worse than a lilly white band with funny haircuts that have no, like, creative chaos, man.

8/2---P.S.1 WARM UP: BLACK ROCK COALITION AND FIVE SIX MEDIA HOST: Chuck Treece's McRad, Apollo Heights, CX KiDTRONiK, guest D.J.'s

WHY THIS ROCKS: Chuck Treece has played drums with Bad Brains, bass with Billy Joel and Urge Overkill, guitar with The Roots, and managed to maintain the 25-year-old skate punk band McRad. Word. May bring you back to your rave days, only this time in the daylight. Note to self: pop that second E pill when the sun sets. Nobody wants to see your rolly face in the harsh daylight.

8/3---THE BLACK LIPS AT MCCARREN PARK
WHY THIS ROCKS: IT'S FREE! Deerhunter will also be there. It's in Billyburg (ughhhhhh) BUT these energetic Atlantans are known to put on an amusing live show.

ROCK THE BELLS: NIKON AT JONES BEACH THEATRE
WHY THIS ROCKS: Oh my god. How does it NOT rock? The godfather of hip hop shows, Sunday's line up starts at noon and includes Nas, Mos Def, Ghostface, Raekwon, Redman, Method Man, De La Soul, The Pharcyde and A Tribe Called Quest. Sounds like 20% of my i-pod. Absolutely orgasmic.

BARAK OBAMA NEEDS TO PUT SOME JIGGLE IN HIS WIGGLE



According to the Wall Street Journal, if Bama loses the election come November it might, might be because he's not doughy enough.

The article,"Too Fit To Be President," tries very hard to make a logical case that Obama's ectomorph physique makes him a less attractive future president.

The writer then proceeds to cull quotes from a bunch of beer and brisket eating hillbilles like Diana Koenig of Corpus Christi, Texas, and other toothless, yee-has on Yahoo! message boards who say really eloquent things like:

"I won't vote for any beanpole guy."

Niiiiice.
Just another reason to fall in love with America.

As the article grasps for relavence, the requisite quote from the professor who revels in such left-field fluff is called to order. In defense of a presumptive candidate who's pleasantly plump?

"It says: 'He's just like one of us,"' says Arthur English, a political-science professor at the University of Arkansas at Little Rock who used to see Mr. Clinton stop in for fries and a Big Mac after his three-mile jog."


Hurry Bama! Run--quickly!---to the nearest Wendy's, and get a photo-op dipping your french fries in a Frosty. Do it! But don't run. Stroll. Slowly.

HEARD IN THE LUNCHROOM!



Ivanka, Ivanka, Ivanka. The large-breasted, robotic daughter of The Donald wants to be a writer. She'd like a prompt 2 million advance on a book she has no idea what she wants it to be about. Awesome. I guess me and Vank do have something in common.

NO! Ed Westwick and Chace Crawford were the cutest twink couple this side of Hell's Kitchen. No, no, no! Supposedly, Westwick got cold feet, snatched a beard, made out with her and left Lit Bar holding hands with the fag hag on Wednesday. But not before winking at a "hot brunette." He probably just liked her shoes and bag.

I will camp out at my computer and hit "refresh" over and over again on People.com this Sunday at 7 p.m. My measly unsubstantial life will not be complete until I see the shriveled faces of Brangelina's twins. It's the little things in life. Well, $15 million dollar little things.

Mr. Mayer goes to Washington. Well, Los Angeles City Council to be exact, but he still whipped out the three syllable, money words when proposing the paparazzi have more restrictions. "I'm asking you to regulate it, officialize it, tax it, legitimize it," Mayer said, even pitching an idea that paparazzi paste a "big white P on a yellow license plate [that] says the driver works for an accredited photo agency."
It's tough banging Jessica Simpson and Jennifer Aniston. Can't a man date up in order to boost his record sales in peace?

Not surprisingly, the L.A.'s police chief thinks Mayer's plan is a bit much, and has noticed a shift in tides since Britney put her panties on and Lindsay started rubbing coochie cats with Samantha Ronson: "If you notice, since Britney started wearing clothes and behaving; Paris is out of town not bothering anybody anymore, thank God; and evidently, Lindsay Lohan has gone gay, we don't seem to have much of an issue," Chief William Bratton told KNBC-TV. Touche.