Fast Hugs

Love, PSA-Style: Part II

I begin Part II in the How Can I Tell If I'm Really In Love series with a pre-cursor, basically a formal introduction by those who will be guiding you, the confused and vulnerable teenager in 1986, through the tricky, sticky (ew, pun?) world of romance and sex.  [Excuse the inky black spots that appear in the first few seconds of the video - my Internet accidentally soiled itself during the uploading process.]

Aside from the teenagers who make you wonder if being a high school student in LA in 1986 was, indeed, the worst possible time to be in high school, those here to lead you through the intellectual landscape that is Sex and Romance include Justine Bateman, her little brother, and a guy who would soon go on to give it to Mary Steenburgen (*shudder*).

And, oh yeah, did I forget about Sol?

Besides being batshit crazy,

the original stunt double for The Joker,

and quite possibly a child molester (although wouldn't that be ironic?),

Sol also goes by Dr. Sol Gordon, the author of How Can You Tell If You're Really In Love, the book on which this PSA was based.

Again, I make the case that, although I wasn't there, the concept of irony couldn't possibly have existed before the mid-to-late nineties if a man who looks like this...

...was selected to be regarded by an auditorium full of high school kids as "the 'cool' doctor/approachable professional."  The D.A.R.E. program, I admit, felt quite ineffective (if not wholly retrogressive) when I was a kid, but How Can I Tell makes D.A.R.E. look like an intellectual boot camp.

Okay, so who's here to educate us on sexual politics?  Sitcom stars, a witch doctor, and my homegirl, Alysa.

Keep up the good work, sugartits!

The first official segment I've clipped is about boys and why they will say or do whatever they must in order to insert their penis into a vagina.  "Boys' Lines" is meant to both educate and empower the female viewer, to make her aware that there is, as Sol so nicely puts it, "no connection" between sex and love.  (Nice.  Kick 'em while they're down Sol...)

If the jump cuts weren't enough to already confuse you, the editor makes sure to take advantage of Ted's on-the-spot diddy, which is repeated many, many times.  Perhaps it's when Ted strives for those bass notes that you really understand where he's coming from:  he's been there, man!  He had to fend off pussy like wild cougar!  He knows these lines, ladies.  And he's looking out for you!  What's not to trust from this face?

Justine (who, it appears, added a layer while filming this scene in the waiting room of her gynecologist's office in Boca Raton) pulls out "The Little Black Book" in time to alert us as to what one might expect from a guy insistent on getting some vertical smiles before the night is over. 

Apparently, Ted has one, too, although he appears to have written most of them himself, resulting in a much more sly, dirty read.  Justine isn't having it, either.

Now...how did this mess happen?

"Okay, Laurence, we're going to do a low angle close up."
"K."
"Now, can you tilt your head down so we can get the overhead fluorescents to bounce off your greasy adolescent skin?"
"K."
"Excellent.  One more thing:  just mix up the gel in your greasy mullet and then fluff it out.  Yeah, like that.  Good job.  Just let it kind of poke through from behind...right, like a tall collar.  Nice."
"K."
"Okay, and now what's going to happen is I'm going to give you a signal.  At that point, you're going to look directly into the camera and say, 'Baby, you're driving me wild.'"
"K."
"Can you do that for me, Laurence?"
"K."
...
"I mean now, Laurence.  Can we practice that once?"
"K."
...
"Laurence?"
"K."
"Is he retarded?  Does anyone know if he's retarded?"
"Baby, you're driving me wild!"
"Oh!  Oh my God, he said it!  Laurence, just do that one more time when I point at you, okay?"
"K."
"And bring out the speech impediment."
"K."
"Aaaaand...go!"

And magic was made.

Of all the characters in How Can I Tell, Sol remains a total mystery to me from beginning to end.  As someone with a doctorate degree - furthermore, as a medical professional in the area of sex, romance, and adolescence - might Sol have missed the mark by citing as an example of one way in which a guy might attempt to bed a girl, "Say, honey, I reeeeally love you...but do you have a condom?" Is there a context for such a question?  And aren't we supposed to applaud a guy who plans to use protection?  Although it's not anything I'd like to visualize, perhaps that's the motus operandi in the Gordon household: mildly-worded seduction.

More over, the mocking tone he uses when playfully posing as a desperately horny man begging his girlfriend to let him "stay in for a minute" is enough to make me lower my head between my legs until everything settles.  But following that up with a punchline as stale as "What am I, a microwave oven?" makes Dr. Sol Gordon a true pioneer in his field. 

Seriously, who else could persuade an entire audience of teenagers to embrace abstinence simply by forcing into their heads the image of Sol Gordon's pasty genitals?

Sadly, I don't have that image handy, so instead I'll leave you with an image that should cheer you up, as you can congratulate yourself on not being in this picture (extra points if you're a girl who never had a bowl cut):

Hobo Italiano!

Weeks ago, the annual San Gennaro took over Little Italy and, naturally, locals made sure to avoid the area at all costs.  I, on the other hand, fully embraced the horribly claustrophobic side streets downtown with my friend Adam.  We lunked across town with borrowed equipment from the Soho film/TV production house at which we work, eager to reach our destination.  Pushing through the slow-moving crowds of guidos and princesses from the outer boroughs and suburbs, we were repeatedly bumped into by the loud and obese (who unapologetically continued to chow down on pepperoni rolls and zeppoles).

Finally, we arrived at Puglia's, a charming eatery that blends in perfectly against the backdrop of Hester Street.  Long tables line the walls, prepared to be occupied by the kind of families that appear in commercials for The Olive Garden ("When you're here, you're an Italian stereotype!  Ayyyy!").  The pizzaman works in the back left corner of the restaurant, twirling dough in front of a brick oven. The staff of raven-haired boys attentively wait on customers, running back and forth from the kitchen with hot dishes and cocktails.

We were there to shoot a segment about the restaurant's resident "entertainer," Jorge Buccio.  In doing so, we gathered enough footage to edit into a video segment to be broadcast in the near future.  However, during Jorge's performance outside the restaurant, the party became quite wild.  Patrons young and old, trashy and trashier, really enjoyed Jorge's standards and originals, as well as the Frank Sinatra lookalike who, to Jorge's clear disapproval, performed on the same bill.

In the true nature of the San Gennaro festival, there lies an invisible line between the public and private.  When restaurants lining the blocks add tented outdoor tables, the streets become so narrow and overpopulated that it's difficult to tell if one is dining in or just loitering (and most likely speaking very loudly with friends, as the roar from nearby radio DJ booths, carnival games, and ubiquitous Italian ballads seem to come from everywhere).

However, it didn't take long to realize during Jorge's outdoor performance that one man in particular was not dining in:

I realize that it may, indeed, be a bit much to focus on kooky New York hobos just weeks apart, but sometimes the homeless are just too wacky to ignore.  This hobo is one of those people.

Let's cut the dude some slack:  he's obviously proud of either his Italian heritage or his Italian tee shirt, and - really - that's all that matters here.  He just kind of...showed up...to have a good time, and what's wrong with that?  Nothing.  Except that he smelled like ketchup a little.  The management at Puglia's didn't seem to mind, though, as he provided some solid entertainment.

One group of adults, all of whom exclusively wore shades of navy, black, and gray, looked as though they'd cabbed it downtown from their pharmaceutical sales office in Midtown, prepared to "let loose at San Gennaro, baby!"  One of the women, whose name I would guess to be Pamela, Denise, or Tami, really got into the act, shimmying up to the hobo and sharing in the awkward, Caucasian dance moves!  He, however, may have not even realized it, as the group of co-workers proceeded to buy him cocktails.  Notice his facial expression after taking a swig, one that says, "Lady Luck has got my back tonight, yo!"

As if he knew he was about to be escorted away by management, the hobo provided some dance moves for a finale that would make Baryshnikov cream his tights:

Air bongos?  The Running Man?  Someone get this guy a TV show!  (Or a bedpan.  A bedpan will suffice.  Or maybe some Triscuits?)

Law And Order: Litterbug Watch

This past weekend, my two roommates were returning to our apartment in Park Slope from a Friday evening barhopping in Williamsburg.  It was about 3:00am, and after waiting twenty minutes for monstrously big slices of pizzas, conversing uncomfortably with an old friend from college whom they'd run into on the platform, and being given free nail polish samplings, the L train finally arrived to return them eastward.

After transferring to the G train, they sat, exhausted and still half-drunk, my female roommate painting her nails with her found freebie.  It was one of those early morning trains filled with hipsters and hobos, achingly quiet yet still bright enough to keep them from falling asleep.

Three stops in, with about a half dozen more to go before reaching the 4th Avenue stop, a policeman approached them.

"Sir," he said, "I'm going to need you to step of the train."

Seth, whose small frame and boyish face wouldn't normally attract him police suspicion, confusedly replied, "But I'm with her."

"She can come too," he answered.

Nikki followed, and after nervously watching the G ride off into the night as they stood on the platform at Myrtle Avenue at 3:30 in the morning with a cop who pointed his finger at Seth and began making accusations.

Seth, quietly freaking out, stood astounded completely clueless as to why he was being questioned by an officer.  In a minor stupor, Seth figured he was in trouble for being slightly drunk, before quickly realizing that being summoned for consuming alcohol hadn't posed a threat for nearly a century.

The officer mentioned something about "leaving the bag" on the ground.  What with the constant warning heard every day on the subway, Seth realized that he'd left his backpack at Nikki's feet for a moment, and that perhaps he'd been reprimanded on suspicion of terrorism (which, of course, is often how any other local 22-year-old wraps up a Friday night of drinks at the Brooklyn Brewery:  bomb threat, y'all!).

Before long, however, Seth discovered that the officer hadn't pulled him aside after suspecting that he'd planted a bomb.  Instead, three stops in Williamsburg, Seth had gotten up to throw out the paper plate holding the remains of his Meat Lovers slice.  Upon doing so, the officer's eyes caught Seth disposing of the plate into the garbage.  However, he also saw a paper bag on the ground that, although not having seen Seth do so, quickly assumed him to have carelessly tossed it onto the otherwise sparkling clean Lorimer St. platform.

Seth, bewildered, tired, and annoyed, retraced his steps in painstaking detail for the cop, who then realized that, indeed, he'd made a mistake.  In fact, connecting a random object with an individual nearby doesn't make sense after all!  Believe it or not, it's entirely illogical!  Officer Broadshoulders had, after all, no reason to haggle an innocent, law-abiding Jewboy and his Shiksa companion for committing a crime for which the homeless, who both sleep and urinate on the same concrete, are rarely bothered.

Luckily for the cop, he'd made sure to fill out the necessary paperwork to avoid being reported for needlessly pulling Seth and Nikki off the train on (wait for it...) Suspicion of Littering.

At the very least, Seth figured, the cop could provide a ride home.

"Sorry," the officer replied, "I have to ride the train, too."

To New York City Cops, Our Unnecessarily Intrusive, Unequivocally Accusatory, and Selectively Discriminatory Racist Heroes!

This one's for you!

Love, PSA-Style: Part I

Today begins a multi-part series of entries about How Can I Tell If I'm Really In Love, a Public Service Announcement that dates back to 1986.  After finding this gem hidden deep within the $3 bin at the  hole-in-the-wall video store at which I worked throughout high school, life began to look different, smell different, feel different.  At first I thought it was Lupus, but it totally wasn't.  How Can I Tell taught me to be grateful for attending high school in a time when, unlike in the video, adults had more or less given up on the concept that reaching kids meant putting a spin on the stale, black and white verbiage of yesteryear and preaching in a "funky, cool" way that included graphics! and TV stars! and other kids talkin' about kids!

How Can I Tell If I'm Really In Love hearkens to a time when, as far as I can tell (I was but three years old at the time), irony was entirely absent.  Otherwise, how would one explain the cast members introduced in this opening clip?

Justine and Jason Bateman, both undeniably adorable, are seated in the first of many "laid back" positions in what appears to be the waiting room of their family orthodontist.  If you find their proximity to one another while prepared to discuss sex slightly skeevy, you won't believe the pregnant pauses and momentarily elongated eye contact to come.  To be honest, it almost steers off road into Arrested Development territory.

Some of my favorite cast members include:

Elizabeth:  Foreign exchange student?  Substitute teacher?  Retarded?

Dina:  Man-hating closet case, ready to stain the first vulnerable vagina with her fire engine red lipstick.  Also, Vice President of Drama Club (she was the breakout in Pippin).

Alysa:  Dear, sweet Alysa.  I'm not sure if you had recently moved to LA from Staten Island or if you merely suffer from a severe speech impediment.  Maybe a quarter of your brain is made of blueberry jam and styrofoam, I really don't know.  But that of which I'm sure is that you, Alysa, are a gem.  In a clip that repeats over and over and over throughout How Can I Tell (repetition, you will learn through this video, is a great tool of proselytizing), Alyse's come-ons never get old.  With hair and make-up that says "$150 for two hours or the butt," Alyse might be my favorite part of the video.

Whoops, I spoke too soon.

Ted Danson is the resident "Cool Adult" here, illustrated by his unusual sitting position, legs dangled  over the side of an armchair.  Wanna talk sex?  Start with Sam Malone.

Karen and Cassandra:  Who split Loretta Devine in two and sent her back in time??

Don't bet on seeing Marshall again.  He's one of a few Black guys who show up in the opening credits, never to be seen again.  Whether or not The Disappearing Black Male Students actually attended University High School (or "Uni High," as spray-painted on screen) remains a mystery.  Even if they did, they were probably too busy stealing or rapping for the shoot, another reason we're thankful to have Alyse in their place ("'Scuse me, could I have your num-buh?").

John and Steve:  These fellas are How Can I Tell's resident douchebags, guys who equate love to "fun sex" and "ecstacy" when it's clear that the closest they've come to either involved stained tube socks and reruns of Logan's Run.

I understand that it's completely inappropriate to say so, but is it just me or does Sharon somehow encapsulate every mediated representation of an Asian girl in high school between 1970 and 1990, be it in a textbook, TV show, or film?  Yes, I'm admittedly crazy and, indeed, my psyche is comprised almost exclusively of barnyard imagery and Talbots catalogs, but I really can't back down from this one.  Perhaps it's the haircut or the vaguely resentful sneer, but, to me, it looks like Sharon knows she swaps her "L's" with her "R's" and doesn't need you to tell her!

Vu:  Now that Williamsburg is riding the Ironic Mustache bandwagon into the ground, Vu could quite possibly be crowned King of MisShapes.  Seriously, Vu would get so much hipster ass, it's ridic.

One of How Can I Tell's more perfect moments comes in this lightning-quick introduction of Christina, who not only can't hear the clear question of what love means to her (why would they include that?), but upon understanding, shoots back with, "Oh, happiness" like there's no possible alternative.  The gal's a pistol.

Donovan:  The producers had to correct him after his first answer to what love means was "Going to a Thompson Twins concert with my boy-toy, Henrik (he totally pays, of course) before scoring some sweetass blow and getting reamed in the back of my dad's pick-up.  Then shaving Henrik's neck so that no one at his office gets 'offended.'  And then doing some more sweet blow.  That's love."

Barely five minutes in, and we've already covered Staten Island whores, Ted Danson, and incest.  By the time you're done seeing the whole video, I'll have written a fucking encyclopedia.

And it will have been completely appropriate.

Red: Good, AIDS: Bad

This past month, The Gap introduced a limited collection of clothing and accessories for men and women designed to "help eliminate AIDS in Africa."  Half the profit from PRODUCT RED will go to The Global Fund to finance programs that help women and children affected by HIV/AIDS in Africa.  And that's fantastic.  However, the ad campaign of portraits by Annie Leibovitz, might raise awareness less about the African AIDS crisis and more about...other stuff...

Shall we?

"No more pain, no more fear, no more drama, NO MORE AIDS!  I'm wearing red, my eyes are shut, and one of my necklaces is a peace sign!  But guess what, AIDS?  I'm not gon' cry!  AIDS is whack!  Some think my being titled 'The Queen of Hip Hop Soul' is whack, as well, because my strained, throaty singing isn't necessarily pleasant to everyone, but guess what?  I'm NOT GON' CRY!  ...But AIDS will.  Cry, AIDS, cry."

With all due respect, Don Cheadle might want to save the strip show for a different photo shoot.  Seriously, AIDS has not gone away, and as much as we like to think it has, we'd be lying to ourselves if...Oh my God, look at those GUNS!  His bicep looks like a goiter, and I mean that in the most complimentary way possible!  Honestly, what do you think he benches?  If I were to guess 200 pounds, would you think I were crazy?  I don't even think it would sound crazy.  ...Man, who knew, right?  Who knew?  *Sigh* ... What were we talking about?  What's up?

After a little research, I learned that this fella was Olympics star Apolo Ohno.  And, yes, he's skating against AIDS, the li'l dreamboat.

As someone who never found Chris Rock to be especially witty, despite the critical praise in which he bathes, I must say that he's really surprised me here.  Not only is Rock making a statement by wearing apparel from PRODUCT RED, but he's also being comical by mocking the mentally ill!  The old strait jacket gag never gets old ("I'm CRAAAAZY!")  Oh, and fight AIDS!

Hey, Africa!  Guess what?  Jennifer Garner has a message for you, and that message is:  "Stop having unprotected sex!   That's why you got AIDS in the first place, silly nation!  Instead of hooking up with the diseased, masturbate to photos like this one, where my privates are shadowed beneath my healthy Caucasian glow!  Even if you're not into girls whose faces look like those of disabled adolescent boys, I guarantee you'll feel better!  Keep it real, homies!"

Supermodel Christy Turlington strikes the "spiritual pose."  Here, she's photographed in a sexy off-the-shoulder, red one-piece meant to remind us that sexy, off-the-shoulder, red one-pieces may serve as why AIDS spreads in the first place.  And the nipples?  Those are meant to imply that she's cold.

I'm pretty sure it's a safe assessment to say that Dakota Fanning is unanimously considered disgusting.  I realize that she's a kid (although I can't figure out it she's seven, twelve, or thirty five), but that air of Not-Yet-Damaged Child Star rings strong here, as the "casual" pose she strikes here seems to say, "Sup, y'all?  ...Oh, not much.  Just hangin' out, fighting AIDS...just hangin' out.  Watchin' Degrassi."  It's annoying.

The Awesomest Hobo There Ever Was

Public transportation is no simple matter to me.  Whether traveling by train, plane, bus, or car, there is always a certain neuroses in check.

On both the Long Island Rail Road and the New York City subway, I constantly try to monitor which car will make my ride least uncomfortable.  What do I look for as the train arrives?  Considering that the subway never leaves much time, I make snap decisions based on whether anyone is fanning themselves (broken air conditioning?), a cluster of seats is empty on a busy train (smelly drunk passed out in adjacent seat?), or if a panhandler is performing tunes on his fiddle (a panhandler is performing "tunes" on his fiddle). The Long Island Rail Road isn't much different, except that the main targets of which to beware tend to be JAPs on cell phones, Carmine Gotti lookalikes, and chatty Moms going to or coming from a Menopause! The Musical matinee.

Personally, I'm a big fan of the 'bos.  In New York (and elsewhere, I'd imagine), hobos tend to be less threatening and more entertaining (for proof, skim the pages of Overheard in New York).  I've always enjoyed their existence, both before and after I, myself, attempted the lifestyle (but exclusively through wardrobe, which, before long caught on with the Hollywood starlet crowd - yup, that was me).  They might otherwise be referred to as "crazies," "beggars," or "panhandlers," but utilizing the term "hobo," which was originally a term for the young, Depression-era nomads who traveled illegally by trains, works best for me, for no other reason than that it sounds funny.

Luckily, I've come across some of the same hobos several times over the past few years.  There's the dude who puts out cigarettes on his arm.  There's the guy who told me, on more than one occasion, that he wants "[my] feet and [my] sandals!"  There's the saxophonist who can barely hit a note, yet knowingly threatens to continue playing until he gets "some motherfucking money."  There's the dude who dresses like the carnival of my nightmares, the lady who frequents the subway and LIRR (how will she and her notably absent "son" get home without $3 from my wallet?), and the guy who shot explosive, yolk-like diarrhea (unfortunately the most accurate term, believe me) into a park in broad daylight to which I, alone, was the single witness.

Out of all the hobos I've encountered, male and female, threatening and harmless, annoying and grating, there is just one who has continued to make me laugh at the sight of him.  Yes, it's terrible that I'd look at a helpless, dirt-poor homeless person and laugh, but this guy...  This.  Guy!

At about seven feet tall and four hundred pounds, this dinosaur of a man looks like the dirty lovechild of ?uestlove (of The Roots) and Pigpen (of Peanuts, if Pigpen were black and obese), with a hint of Mo'Nique thrown in for the extra hundred pounds.  I simply call him "Black Pigpen." 

What makes him so special, however, is not what he says, but what he wears.  Instead of the usual tattered clothing, this fella actually dons what appears to be a makeshift barrel over his body, held up only by a string around his shoulders.  It's total throwback to the days when hobos...wore...barrels?  Dude's giving props to the schizophrenics from back in the day, to the schizoids of yesteryear direct from the figments of my cartoon-laden psyche!

His enormous presence lingers over the whole subway car, where I've never witnessed him actually beg for money.  Everyone remains eerily silent, except for Black Pigpen, who stands like a giant at one of the double doors, where his unhealthily frizzed, dirty afro reached the ceiling.  Last time I saw him, e stood still, his Redwood-like calves planted into the squishy remains of what may have once been a pair of sandals.  His dirty hands, reaching out from the filthy rags and wooden plank covering his body, stretched to the ceiling, where he held on by flattening his hands to ninety degree angles, not quite getting a solid grip (as if it matters to the man whose feet could double as anchors).

It took me several minutes before I noticed him, only after realizing that it was he who had been whistling music that brought to mind the theme song of every fifties-era sitcom.  As a matter of fact, his whistling was pleasant, and helped break up the surprisingly awkward silence of the C at rush hour.  I was glad to see him.

And then, one stop before departing the train at Nassau Street, Black Pigpen finished his song abruptly, interrupting himself which a deep, resounding belch.  In real time, it probably lasted four seconds, but in my mind, it went on forever.  Forever and ever...

As soon as it happened, as with most strangely entertaining events that take place underground in New York, I immediately got a reading on who here was with me.  A girl sitting next to him, whom until this point had done her best to be tolerant, immediately got up and moved seats in a huff.  I caught a few smiles, but there was one guy with whom I made eye contact and, without a word, we were able to communicate the same exact sentiment:

Black Pigpen?  Total genius.

Recent Raves

After attending a pre-screening of John Cameron Mitchell's Shortbus recently, my friends and I emerged from the theater cinematically enlightened.  The film, which has already garnered mega buzz at film festivals, has also landed in the lap of controversy, as should be expected for a film whose subject matter - sex and romance - is confronted using non-simulated sex scenes. 

Nonetheless, the film was nothing less than moving.  Mitchell's fearlessness as a director results in a refreshing and honest story where the characters encounter sex in a realistic, if not healthily unromanticized fashion.  Shortbus is equally hilarious in its positioning of sex as an often funny activity, intentionally excluding the otherwise laughable practice employed in more mainstream cinema where sex scenes tend to appear cartoonishly silly and choreographed.

Having arrived late, I didn't get a chance to scope out my fellow moviegoers.  However, having attended enough free screenings in Manhattan, it was safe to say that the subculture of Freebie Cinephiles (most often middle aged eccentrics who somehow get their hands on free tickets, whether or not they find the subject matter of the pending film relevant, engaging, or demographically "appropriate") had arrived in style. 

[The fact that following the film, my friends and I were approached for a cigarette by a tiny, seventy-something woman dressed in faded black tights, a tee shirt that read "High Maintenance," and a baseball cap drowning in rhinestone-covered elephant stenciling only made the night better.  After explaining that her friend had found the movie offensive and left early, but that she'd stayed because she considers sex "very healthy," she continued to rant relentlessly about Bush, Hitler, the Holocaust, generation gaps, DVD's, and her favorite political blog, angrygirl.org (to which I've not included a link because, as you might have guessed, the site is not a political blog, but, rather, a screen printing company in California).  She also emphasized the word "internalize" about a dozen times and, I later learned, stood on line beforehand eating a meatball parmigiana sandwich even after dropping it onto the sidewalk.]

A friend of mine burned me a copy of Corinne Bailey Rae songs months ago before she made her debut stateside.  I didn't think much of it.  I enjoyed a couple of the singles, and added it to my playlist of lullaby-like songs, ideal for sleepytimes.  "Like A Star" was a lovely standout but, again, it wasn't anything brilliant.  The record was, at its worst, an enjoyably soundtrack for slumber.

And then, after having TiVO'd Saturday Night Live, I witnessed a live performance of "Put Your Records On," and realized that I'd mistakenly had the acoustic version of the song.  Little did I know that the original cut of the song is likely the catalyst to Rae's critical [and, in her native UK] commercial success.  Sure, posters are plastered all over New York touting her debut album, but despite her gentle, inviting look, all one needs to see is a live performance to be seducted by her undeniably charming smile.

"Put Your Records On," a nostalgic ode to innocence, might not work if it weren't delivered by someone as adorable as Rae.  Her slinky vocal stylings never enter boastful territory where other female pop singers so often tread nowadays, choosing not to sing, but to "saaang."  You can't help think that when Rae instructs the subject of her song to "let her hair down," she's preaching to a younger version of herself.  Light, airy, breezy stuff has never sounded so strong.  Norah Jones's management should take note.

When one thinks of "female comics," the unfortunate terms "comedienne" and "funny lady" often come to mind, word choices that flatter women as much as shoulderpads, Uggs, or being mistaken for Star Jones.

But it doesn't have to be that way.

Enter Variety Shac, a quartet of ladies who perform separately onstage but together in shorts premiered both on their site and at their shows.  Made up of Heather Lawless, Andrea Rosen, Chelsea Peretti, and Shonali Bhowmik, Variety Shac's members each exude her own warped, exaggerated self-caricature that never fails to result in the beautifully absurd.  I especially appreciate Lawless's ability to project herself as a wildly creepy, soft-spoken caretaker (check out "Bake Sale" and try not to laugh as she pesters Chelsea to don "black tooth").

Each on their own is a marvel, but together, their shorts recall Stella in its prime:  absurdly sophisticated humor that allows the ladies to mock themselves as much as they do everybody else.  Plus, with live guests that have included A.D. Miles, Fred Armisen, and Eugene Mirman, it's hard to deny that Variety Shac has solidified a strong presence among so many male counterparts in the alt-comedy scene.

Also noteworthy, subversively funny people with vaginas who aren't Sarah Silverman:  Jackie Novak, Julie Klausner, Jackie Clarke, and Amelie Gillette

I have TiVO set up to constantly stockpile five episodes of the short-lived game show Greed.  Hosted by Chuck Woolery (who, throughout the short span of the show, sported an impossibly dark tan, a bad dye job, and suits that look as if they were stolen right off Steve Harvey's back), Greed was Fox's answer to the unexpected blockbuster ABC found in Who Wants To Be A Millionaire (although it's now fair to say that, as America's Got Talent proved this past summer, Regis holds no saturation point -- morning or night, his shrill, patriarchal bark garners an audience like bees to honey).

The "game" aspect of Greed wasn't necessarily intriguing:  a group of contestants answered questions by process of elimination, all under the guidance of a captain who could choose to walk away at any moment and split the cash earned.  But it was the uniquely campy nature of the show that made Millionaire look like C-SPAN.  The set alone looked like it was built by the designers of Epcot, had they taken a time machine from 1980 to the Fox Studios lot. 

Every time Woolery activated "The Terminator" (which gave $10,000 to a random contestant who would challenge a contestant and, hopefully, oust him from the game thusly increasing his share of the final payoff), he banged on a large button atop a podium that would immediately teeter back and forth.  Whether the set was as cheap as it appeared or Woolery's hands really are that strong still remains a mystery.

Additionally, the heavy orchestral riffs combined with robot-inspired sound effects worked perfectly for a show whose entire set was back lit by bright neon shades of purple and blue (although, again, Millionaire had already figured that shit out).  Filling the contestant chairs, however, were often individuals who appeared as if they'd been flown in from another universe.  Greed was one of those shows that seemed to exist in a time vacuum somewhere between 1987 and 1993, and the players - so often women who resembled Twink Caplan and men who resembled ...Twink Caplan with a mustache (there were probably more mustaches on Greed than any other show in television history besides 227) - left little to the imagination.

The tag line, alone, should let you know what you're in for.  What else is there to say about a show that begins with Chuck Woolery asking a line up of strangers if they feel "the need for Greed"?

Lastly, Paul Rudd's not bad-looking.  So that's fun.

'Heel' The World

I don't know who this lady is, but she might turn me straight!

[Defamer]

Bros Before 'Mos

1. Gay
2. Twins
3. Practicing Jehovah's Witnesses
4. Aspiring pop stars
5. Each has a distinctive haircut

Kids, it looks like we've got ourselves a TV show!

Logo, MTV's sister network which focuses on the gays, looks like they may finally have struck gold in their original programming department with Jacob and Joshua: Nemesis Rising.  As this sneak peak shows, the drama is about to unfold in a major way. 

Despite recording what sounds to be bad Europop under the unfortunate band name Nemesis, Jacob and Joshua show plenty of promise as annoying reality show "stars."  There's the self-victimization of being raised as "country boys" (now were you guys always forced to ride horses shirtless?) while secretly remaining aware of their respective homosexuality within a religious family.  Of course, with the show revolving around aspiring pop stars, there is the inevitable bad dancing at the microphone, as well as the mop-topped producer (whose name, Garry, somehow seems deadly appropriate) who dangles the concept of bad press over his artists.  Hell, this is Logo!  These guys are butt munching, pillow biting ass pirates!  That being said, it wouldn't be a gay show if there weren't gratuitous shots of shirtless men in bed and, on the opposite end of the spectrum of gross generalizations, the character who describes engaging in anonymous sex via the internet as "being like a kid in a candy store."  Now that's how you spread awareness!  (Or AIDS, whatever your pleasure.)

The awkward beats of the "fight scene" on the beach already give away, as far as I'm concerned, the heavy handedness that will most likely accompany all of Jacob and Joshua.  It's for that reason alone - seriously, I'm not even letting black, cropped "emo" hair versus faggy, blond highlights faze me - that I've marked this as yet another show in which I'm completely uninterested. 

That and the fact that one of the brothers claims that "being gay doesn't define you."  Uh, newsflash:  you're on a gay network on a gay show about gay brothers aspiring to be publicly gay pop stars.  It may not be the case for others, but your life is all about dick, butt, and dicks in butts. 

Soul Singers From Outer Space!

At age eight, I spent my summer having panic attacks attributed solely to a paranoid fear of aliens I’d developed watching an episode of Special Edition.  As the dramatization graphically depicted, a group of friends who went camping in the woods for a weekend were found and raped by big green extraterrestrials (although, even creepier, my enigmatic - and, at the time, extremely disturbing - concept of sexual intercourse involved tight, awkwardly fast hugs [!]).  Incidentally, this was the same summer I’d attended a "liberal arts" camp built in the middle of the woods of Long Island's North Fork. Not even starring in Annie Get Your Gun with a then unknown (yet already hot) Natalie Portman could keep me from being picked up early more days than not, walked to the car of a grandparent, unable to shake the fear that between ceramics class and piano practice, my being abducted by big green monsters was inevitable.

Years later, I can only laugh at such childish antics.  Big green monsters?  P'shaw!

It doesn't take a genius to know where the real aliens are:  occupying the bodies of classic soul singers Aaron Neville and Smokey Robinson, of course!

Don't dare attempt to dissuade my belief that inside the signature wart above Neville's eyebrow lives a species of billions.  Or perhaps it's a mirror of our world, and Earth actually exists in a Time/Space Continuum all within a skin defect on Aaron Neville's face.  This, of course, begs the question:  Is Aaron Neville of another world?  Is he, indeed, an alien?

The facial tattoo, the jewelry, and the lone dangly earring combined with tight jeans and a gay disco/pirate-themed hybrid of a shirt sum to something other than an ordinary guy who happens to be a singer.  Aaron Neville is harboring a secret, and all the bizare dulcetones he can squeak out from the depths of his giant torsoe only further illustrate that something is awry.  His body and voice seem impossibly disjointed.  Furthermore, the following video of Aaron Neville performing on a televised benefit for his native New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina proves that, if not an alien, there is no possible way Neville is a fully-functioning human being.

The constipated wincing, the heavy leaning, and the eerie disconnect between mouth and voice that create the illusion of a poorly dubbed kung fu film, all displayed during his performance of a Randy Newman ditty, quite honestly creep me out to the max.  Neville's eccentric pairing of style and sound has always captured my interest, even in high school when cotton quickly became the fabric of everyone else's lives but mine.  Several years later, while interning at Saturday Night Live, I was lucky enough to witness the birth of a bizarrely beautiful character sketch in which Horatio Sanz played a soft spoken, cocoa butter-obsessed, talk-singing manchild Aaron Neville (who, naturally, presided as a TV Judge).  Whether or not Sanz found himself funny enough to break character on camera made no difference to me, as little else in this world can provide me with as much enjoyment as Aaron Neville being recognized for who he really is:  a leopard print-wearing, denim vest-happy, refrigerator-bodied alien.  In the words of the man himself, "that may be all I need to know."

If this blog hasn't already made you aware, I was quite the nervous wreck as a child.  I harbored many eccentric fears and frights, some of which included Dom DeLuise, movie previews (they were "too loud"), and board games.  Even Sesame Street, a program to which I was loyal from a very young age, managed to scare me senseless when this man decided it appropriate to entertain children:

Smokey Robinson of The Miracles starred in a musical number in which he covered his group's hit, "You've Really Got A Hold On Me."  Where the producers of Sesame Street delivered a clever twist was in their literary interpretation of the letter "U," a puppet that grabbed onto Smokey's waist without letting go.  Before I even knew I had genitals, I witnessed an oversized orange object attach itself directly onto Mr. Robinson's nether regions and squeeze.  Hard.  To this day, I can still visualize the especially odd, mildly dirty nature of the segment, including Robinson's face, one which depicted fear, discomfort, and despair.

A child should never have to bear witness to a man whose eyes can clearly see souls.  Those green peepers might charm some, but I believe them to be the work of some greater force, electronically engineered to burn into the heart of anyone with whom he makes eye contact.  Smokey Robinson, like Aaron Neville, exists in an existential vacuum where he is regarded as a combatant of evil. 

Or maybe he's just a robot, I don't know.

Whatever the case, notice in the video below how, as he staggers like a zombie, Smokey Robinson pulls a fast one on Lucy Lawless during a recent episode of Celebrity Duets.  Xena may have been an ass-kicking lesbian princess warrior, but Lawless is no match for the invisible lasers shooting directly out of Smokey's eyes into her very essence of being.

If you, like I, believe Aaron Neville and Smokey Robinson to be vessels of villainy, then beware...

When's the last time you heard from one Mr. Peabo Bryson?

I rest my case.