Feh.

The Museum Of Girls Going 'Whoo!'

 

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Rug It Out, Bitch

Revisiting Our Feh Heritage Presents: The Encyclopedia Of Hollywood Lesbian Hairdos

The Carolyn

After a long day of dealing with multi-zillion dollar budget overages on Rome, do you really need to worry about what the hell is going on above your headache? I didn’t think so. So do as Carolyn did: keep it so butchingly short it makes your male lead look like your girlfriend!

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The Cherry

More than the sum of its utilitarian mullet parts, this shoulder-tickler screams legitimate theater cred.

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The Ellen

The classic Hollywood Power Lesbian cut, this dirty blonde wash n’ go classic suits a wide range of square jawed Sapphies just fine, thank you! Even formerly brunette kd lang armcandy and L Word player Leisha Hailey is getting in on the act!

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The Laurel Canyon

“That’s me with Bruce Springsteen. That’s me with Keith Richards. And that’s me with a fabulous sunkissed laissez-faire bohemian ‘do, mussed to perfection by hours of rolling around in a Chateau Marmont suite with my son’s fiancée.”

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The Michelle

Slightly harder to maintain than the others, it’s the hot new cut among aspiring Next Top bisexual wrestler/model/whatevers—sort of Bride of Frankenstein eating a Foster's Freeze Twisty Cone on the African Savannah.

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The Nina

What is the Touchstone of a sensible Hollywood powerdo? If you said Labradoodle helmet hair, you're not far off. Take note, aspiring Lesecutives: you never forget who's got the biggest balls on the Disney lot when Nina strolls by, proudly sporting her short n' curlies!

The Portia

Whispy, curly, bouncy, flouncy: The Portia is the last word in Sunset Strip Lipstick Lezploits.

The Carolyn

After a long day of dealing with multi-zillion dollar budget overages on Rome, do you really need to worry about what the hell is going on above your headache? I didn’t think so. So do as Carolyn did: keep it so butchingly short it makes your male lead look like your girlfriend!

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The Cherry

More than the sum of its utilitarian mullet parts, this shoulder-tickler screams legitimate theater cred.

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The Ellen

The classic Hollywood Power Lesbian cut, this dirty blonde wash n’ go classic suits a wide range of square jawed Sapphies just fine, thank you! Even formerly brunette kd lang armcandy and L Word player Leisha Hailey is getting in on the act!

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The Laurel Canyon

“That’s me with Bruce Springsteen. That’s me with Keith Richards. And that’s me with a fabulous sunkissed laissez-faire bohemian ‘do, mussed to perfection by hours of rolling around in a Chateau Marmont suite with my son’s fiancée.”

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The Michelle

Slightly harder to maintain than the others, it’s the hot new cut among aspiring Next Top bisexual wrestler/model/whatevers—sort of Bride of Frankenstein eating a Foster's Freeze Twisty Cone on the African Savannah.

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The Nina

What is the Touchstone of a sensible Hollywood powerdo? If you said Labradoodle helmet hair, you're not far off. Take note, aspiring Lesecutives: you never forget who's got the biggest balls on the Disney lot when Nina strolls by, proudly sporting her short n' curlies!

The Portia

Whispy, curly, bouncy, flouncy: The Portia is the last word in Sunset Strip Lipstick Lezploits.

From Our Archives: Seder Plates of the Stars: An Interactive Passover Game

See if you can guess who these seder plates might belong to!

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Here's the first:

 

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Here's number two:

 

Okay, okay those were easy. This next one is a little trickier:

   

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Stumped?

It's Mary-Kate Olsen's!

All right, you have done pretty well so far. Here is your final one. Think carefully now....

Well?

Give up?

It's Madonna's! Esther is SERIOUS about her Jewish holidays!

From Our Archives: The Five People You Meet In Coachella

 

This weekend is the Coachella Valley Music Festival, the equivalent of heaven on earth for cutting-edge music lovers. The following is an uplifting tale about the five people you meet when you get there. Feel free to forward it to everyone in your address book so they can print it out and put it on their refrigerators for daily inspiration.

THE FIVE PEOPLE YOU MEET IN COACHELLA

1. A Member of Polyphonic Spree

…Or so they claim. All you know is that a sweaty, bearded man is waving a tambourine in your face, prancing about in a white tunic with precious else underneath. You ask him where the falafel stand is. He stares at you, blissfully blank-faced, then responds in song, screaming “Sun, sun, sun! Up, up, up! It’s a big, big, big sun and it’s rising up, up, up!” You walk away, confused, annoyed, and still hungry.

2. Andy Dick

Stumbling away from a Chemical Brothers performance in the 120-degree Sahara tent, you seek refuge in the zen-like oasis of the VIP section. That is when you meet Andy Dick…Or so they claim. All you know is that a sweaty, bearded man is waving a tambourine in your face, prancing about in a white tunic with precious else underneath. He then stumbles off to hotbox a Port-o-Potty, licking Seth Greens face on the way. A drunken, barbituated Mischa Barton stops screaming at her boyfriend long enough to say, “God, how embarrassing.”

3. Your Ex

And goddamnit they look fucking hot and who the fuck is that bitch they are with and why of the 30,000 people walking around this gigantic polo field did you have to run into--“Oh! Hey! Yeah! Great shows… Better than last year? Oh, ha. No, I doubt that. Well…uh… Maybe I’ll see you at Bloc Party later? Right. Ha ha. Well, see ya…” They walk away. You decide to skip the Fiery Furnaces, they bug the shit out of you anyway, and you make a beeline for the beer tent.

4. The Most Beautiful Human Being You Have Ever Seen In Your Life

A short time after the sun has descended to just above the mountain range surrounding you, and the sky has turned twenty shades of rose and violet, and a warm wind blows against your skin, and the little yellow pill with a picture of the Tide logo on it has been swallowed and digested, and the first strains of your favorite band come sailing through the towering speakers, you see them: The Most Beautiful Human Being You Have Ever Seen In Your Life. And you wonder if they know it. And you wonder what it would be like, to be with that person, forever. And even if you never speak one word to them, you realize something: you have never been happier in your life.

5. That Dude In The Parking Field You Recognize From The Beginning of the Day Who You Think Parked Near You

Towards the second hour in the search for your car, you move past the denial and anger stages and enter a third, more accepting stage where you realize you will be spending the evening sleeping in a field full of screaming drunk people and cars. It is at that moment that you see him: That Dude In The Parking Field You Recognize From The Beginning of the Day Who You Think Parked Near You, who at this moment also happens to be The Most Beautiful Human Being You Have Ever Seen In Your Life. You call out to him. He remembers you. It is him. You ask him if he knows where you parked. He does. Minutes later, you find your car. You apologize to your car for having earlier called it “A Motherfucking Black Honda Civic, the World’s Most Non-Descript Piece of Invisible Shit,” and you caress the dashboard as its dependable engine fires its pistons, carrying you safely back from where you came.

February 2006

Forever Feh

You might remember me from television's Long Road to Angel Creek, where I played Joe McGinty, that twinkly-eyed stumblebum who imparted wisdom and spiritual uplift wherever he went. Angel Creek sat high atop the ratings heap for a good while. Of course, back then, there were only three networks, and a "Lifetime" was something you tried to fill with friends and good deeds, not a female-skewed specialty channel!

Eventually, we fell out of favor with audiences, whose tastes would run towards shows featuring sibling rivalries and crime solving of the Simon & Simon variety, and Seth here was left to his own devices, showless.

I pulled away from Hollywood's intoxicating clutches, and decided the path to happiness would be the same path Joe McGinty took. I was wrong in thinking this. Joe McGinty, it turns out, was a conceit, the product of a roomful of Hollywood TV writers who cynically knew that Joe's adventures, wrapped up tidily week after week in their happy ending bows, would act as catnip to the millions of you out there looking for a deeper message of hope, preferably from the comfort of your couches.

Sadly, by the time I came to this realization, I had been robbed  of all my money and clothing by a wilding band of crack cocaine addicts, and dumped, bruised and naked, by a semi-sympathetic Sudanese cab driver at the door of a Detroit flophouse.

While I would definitely call that my lowest moment, I have been informed that there have been arguably lower for which I was not conscious. No matter. I was determined to scale back to my previous heights, and, fifteen years and countless nights working the hard LA streets with mi familia adoptiva, the Shakey's Tranny Bunch, later, I realized that what the world was missing was another hilarious blog about celebrities!

Which brings us to Feh. Feh was many things to many people, but for me, it always had one function, and that was to send heavily encoded messages to the race of nanoaliens living inside my teeth. But as I fed the Molarians their steady stream of covert intelligence, an interesting thing happened. I was offered a job! At Defamer! Nice knowin' ya, Tranny Bunch! Let me know when the titjob carwash fundraiser is!

Admittedly, when I realized I still had Feh,  I panicked and decided the best course of action was to feed my blog baby a healthy dose of under-the-sink cocktail, hoping it would just, I don't know, disappear. Mommy doesn't live here anymore! Hit the road, ya lil' Food Stamp black hole!

No go. The stubborn brat just keeps on going, racking up page hits, and emails demanding, at the very least, an explanation of what the hell happened to me.

Which brings us to this post. What have you learned?  I'm a baby poisoning sellout with teensy aliens in my teeth.

And what have I learned?

Make no mistake. You can't kill Feh.

PS Bonus points to anyone who figured out I'm drunk and high right now!

Celine Dion Chest-Thumps Another Couple Hours Out of Her Biological Clock

With 90 minutes of performance time per New Day, and allowing for another 90 for wardrobe, hair and makeup, Celine Dion has 21 hours left to stare uneasily, Princess Padmé-style, at the vast Nevada desert through the wall-sized windows of her 179,000 square-foot Caesars suite. Sadly, it's plenty of time to ponder what might be missing from one's life. It would seem the long arm of the 'no child left behind' policy ends at the tray of dirty room service dishes lying outside her door—that is, until now. From E!Online:

""I'm approaching 40 years old, and I have to tend to that," the Grammy-winning singer told Tele 7 Jours. "This frozen embryo that is in New York is my child waiting to be brought to life."  

The 37-year-old and her manager husband of nearly 11 years, Rene Angelil, welcomed their first child in 2001. Son Rene-Charles was born after a difficult year in which the singer's struggles to conceive made tabloid headlines.  

At the time, Dion revealed that she had another embryo in storage at a New York clinic.  

"So, I have a twin," she said, "a laboratory twin." While the two embryos are technically called twins, because they were "conceived at the same time," Dion said the children would not be identical.

"I do not know if it is good forever, but I think it lasts for a very long time," Dion explained at the time. "I will go get it, that's for sure.""

I'm not entirely sure if there is cause for concern when Dion addresses the subject of her already conceived child in terms that sooner evoke, say, condensed milk, but anyone who has seen her post-Katrina Larry King appearance knows that she tends to get a little slipshod in the word-choice department when the subject is particularly close to her heart ("LET DEM TOUCH DOSE TINGS!!!") Our every prayer and hope is with Celine, Rene and their little Dionsicle. May s/he thaw in time for Christmas.

Sarah Silverman Has Stubbed Her Vagina

Comedian Sarah Silverman, to whom every dweeby straight aspiring male stand-up has rubbed one out at least once, has made a career out of jokes involving testicle licking, incest and racial slurs...and you should hear her when she works blue (*rimshot*)! The current New Yorker devotes their minimum 19,000 words to the subject of all things Silverman, and, amazingly, almost no insights are offered, beyond the fact that Sarah is a cute Jewish chick with a mischievous potty mouth. As for accusations that some of her material is racist, the source of its humor is, beyond its shock value, her own imperceived racism. The result is that she is the butt of the joke, not the minority in question. I suppose the same argument could have been made for Dice Clay back in the day, but let's face it, who ever rubbed one out to that not funny asshole?

So with nothing controversial or interesting to really say about her, why, you may ask, am I writing this post?

Because we get to snoop around her apartment!

Silverman rents a small apartment near Miracle Mile in Los Angeles. The living-room walls are striated with yellow paint, and decorated idiosyncratically: an antiqued photograph of her grandmother, her nana, who died five years ago at the age of eighty-eight; a sombrero; some abstract studies painted by her sister Laura and rescued from the trash. There is a cobalt-blue velvet couch and a silvery-pink armchair; the coffee table is mint-green, glass-topped, chipped. She has a little oil painting of her boyfriend, Jimmy Kimmel, made by a security guard for the late-night talk show he hosts on ABC, and a painting of a male nude by Anna Nicole Smith. In her office, formerly a dining room, with a faux-Tiffany stained-glass light fixture, are stacks of papers covered in notes: “Sarah Silverman’s Tushy Party,” “stubbed my vagina.” Pictures of her cleaning lady’s baby granddaughter, and of herself running a red light, as documented by a traffic-surveillance camera, are tacked to a bulletin board.

My mom once asked me to send her a photo of myself in LA, and I sent her one of me running a red light in a rented convertible Mustang. I don't know if that puts my sensibilities on some kind of even comic plane with Ms. Silverman, but I will say that I too love Chinks.

Also of note, somewhat selfishly I should add, the article quotes this bit, which she delivered on Weekend Update during her brief SNL stint in the mid 90s (bolding, italics and underlining mine):

Well, Kevin, I guess the most important event of this past week was, of course, the wedding of my sister, Susan Silverman, to Yosef Abramowitz. It was a really neat wedding, too, you know, ’cause they took each other’s last names and hyphenated it. So now my sister’s name is Susan Silverman-Abramowitz. But they’re thinking of shortening it to just “Jews.”

Wait a second! That's fucking racist!

Crazy-Eyed Gypsy Fortune Teller Terrorizes College Classroom

I've had some crappy T.A.'s in my time -- McGill U. Intro to Philosophy, Frito breath, graded everything B-, you know who you are -- but this is ridiculous. Madonna (or, after hearing her new single, should I say MadABBA?) gatecrashed a cinema class at Hunter College, who minutes before had viewed a screening of her new tour documentary, I'm Going to Tell You A Secret (I still think Tampax on the Dancefloor pops better.) In a completely unrelated turn of events, mtvU cameras were there to capture the entire thing for their series, Stand In, which you will never, ever see, because you are old and flabby and will die pretty soon  you aren't in the network's target demo:

"Asked by a student what drove her to succeed, the 47-year-old pop star said, "It's one of those things you can't really answer. You're either hungry and determined to make it, or you're not. I know a lot of people who, when they got rejected, they accepted what people said about them. I never did that."

Madonna, who was raised a Roman Catholic, said she was led toward Jewish mysticism following a spiritual quest that began when she had children.

"Being a celebrity, you can get very caught up and seduced into believing and thinking that what you do is the most important thing in the world and get very attached to material things," she said. "I'm guilty of that and I'm still guilty of that, but hopefully I'm becoming less attached." "

Funny, Queen Esther, but being a nobody, I get very caught up and seduced by you putting on your silly little costumes, prancing around like a slut onstage and terrorizing fey backup dancers with threats of sticking poles up their asses. If that makes me guilty, then stick me on a burning cross and fuck me, guilty I do be!

Good Question, Variety! Why ARE These People Laughing?

Desperate NBC Gets Sketchy

NBC has purchased two pilots about the backstage shenanigans at a Saturday Night Live-type sketch comedy show, because God knows just one could never adequately relay how boring a green room full of not-funny people in celebrity lookalike makeup could be. First was a half-hour still-untitled comedy from Tina Fey, from the point of view of the show's female head writer (where does she come up with her cuh-razy ideas?!), the other, a bidding war and $21 million later, an hour-long drama from Aaron Sorkin called Studio 7 on the Sunset Strip
(gee, I wonder if there will be long tracking shots of people with accute verbal diarrhea speed-walking down hallways?) The New York Post smells a Clash of the Titans, with Lorne Michaels in the Harry Hamlin Perseus role, holding Tina Fey's severed snakehaired head in the face of Sorkin's monstrous, sea-dwelling Kraken (phew, that was one geeky-assed run-on metaphor):

There is a legitimate question about who had the idea first.

Sorkin mentioned a behind-the-scenes-at-"SNL" show during a 2003 interview on the "Charlie Rose" show.

"I hope it's going to be what 'Larry Sanders' did with . . . talk shows," he said then. "I would like to do that with late-night sketch comedy — with 'Saturday Night Live' in other words."

Also two years ago, Fey signed a new deal with "SNL" that included specifics about starring in a prime-time series for NBC.

Last week, Lorne Michaels, the head honcho at "SNL" and producer of the new Fey series, declined a request from The Post to talk about the Sorkin series — an indication that he was already upset about the competing series.

Meanwhile, Fey and her husband had their first baby last month — an arrival that may have played a role in the network's decision.

In an e-mail yesterday, an NBC spokesman said: "We're proceeding with the Tina Fey comedy and are excited about it." But he could not answer questions about whether the network intended to air two series based on "SNL."

Being the snoopy little shit I am, I hopped right onto Studio System to see what I could find out about the two series. The Sorkin show had some interesting development notes:

DEVELOPMENT: Originally in development for 2004-2005, project rolled over to 2006-2007 once NBC became attached after a bidding war.
NBC made a 13-episode commitment, including the pilot.
Deal terms between NBC and Warner Bros. TV include guaranteed production of the pilot; a spot on the 2006-2007 schedule between 9 pm and 11 pm Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday; and a four and a half-year commitment between network and studio instead of the usual seven.
Should NBC decide not to order the project to series, it would pay Warner Bros. TV a mid-seven figure penalty.

From the sounds of that deal, I think Michaels can once again kiss his primetime pet project goodbye, and bury the frisky little fighter in the backyard alongside The Tracy Morgan Show.

'Jarhead' Promotional Campaign Deemed Effective After Spontaneously Making Me Come My Pants

Of Course We're Smarter! We Made 'Tomb Raider 2'!

Gawker provides a sneak peek at New York magazine's next cover, which features a goy's eye view of Larry David's shiny, white yarmulke-stand. And in bold black letters, the head upon his head reads 'THE JEWISH BRAIN.'

There are exactly three ways to get me to pay newsstand prices for a magazine:

• stick Justin Theroux and/or Clive Owen, or any combinaton thereof, on the cover in a wet linen shirt,
• promise me 50 great local eats for under 10 bucks,
• appeal to my intellectual vanity through the citing of controversial eugenics studies while simultaneously fetishizing the awesome expanse of permanently exposed Jewflesh that is Larry David's shiny, white yarmulke-stand.

As for the "controversial new study" referred to in the deck, I can't comment as I have yet to lay eyes on it despite an exhaustive (read: Googled "smart+jew" once) investigation. But it doesn't take a Jewnius to notice a recurring pattern throughout history:

1. Hot weekly newsmag (Romeweek, The National Inquisitioner, New York) features cover story on smartypants Jews.
2. Resentment swells.
3. Jews run for their lives, hide in attics, read a lot, make more Jewish babies.
4. Hot weekly newsmags notice trend of smart Jews.
5. Go to step 1.

Take from that what you will. I got a full tank of gas in my sinmobile and a year til the next atonement fill up. See ya, suckas!

Boy George Flees to Safety of England, Travels in Asshole Pants

Towleroad offers a brilliantly grim morality play about the combined destructive qualities of powdered donuts and birthdays in this side-by-side of Boy George arriving at Heathrow, with 16 years elapsing between the two photos. Two days before the picture on the right was snapped, he was arraigned on drug charges after NYPD cops answered a call he placed to report a burglary and found 13 separate 8-ball bags of blow by his computer.
Question: I know the Leigh Bowery Broadway musical thing was a bust, but is that Divine biopic still kicking around? I have some casting ideas.

You're Not the Only One With Mixed Emotions

It's early, I'm half asleep, this could totally just be the tail end of that recurring dream where I seduce the little Mexican fry cook at Pollo a la Brassa, but I THOUGHT what I just read on abcnew.com is that

"The soap opera "Days of Our Lives" will celebrate its 40th anniversary by airing the world premiere of the Rolling Stones video "Streets of Love."

"I can't imagine a more exciting way to celebrate the 40th landmark year of 'Days of Our Lives' than with the Rolling Stones," Sheraton Kalouria, senior vice president, NBC Daytime Programs, said in a statement.

The "Streets of Love" video will air Tuesday. "Days of Our Lives" will use the song as a soundtrack to some scenes for the next four weeks.

"Days of Our Lives" premiered on Nov. 8, 1965.

"With 'Days of Our Lives' also celebrating its 40th anniversary … the show was the perfect vehicle for promoting the Rolling Stones and their latest single," said Randy Miller, Virgin Records' executive vice president, marketing."

Yes! How utterly logical! Like animal rights and Martha Stewart, it's one of those fits so natural, effortless and beschert you wonder why it took forty years to happen. And I understand batshit-crazy Days show runner James E. Reilly has plans to weave the moss-gathering foursome into his current plotline: Mick plays a woman masquerading as a man who also happens to be a serial killer, but just when you think all your favorite Stones members are dead, WHOOP! They're not! They were just living on a supernatural island where dolls come alive.

Except Keith. He's actually dead. But you knew that aready.

IPOD GOES VIDEO, MAKES DEAL WITH THE DISNEY DEVIL

Apple just whipped it out, and it may look small, but trust me on this one. It's a grower:

"Apple Computer Inc. on Wednesday introduced a version of its market-leading iPod that also plays videos and unveiled a deal with Walt Disney Co. to sell television shows like "Desperate Housewives" after their first broadcast.

Steve Jobs said the ABC deal was a turning point in bringing television to the Web.

"I think this is really pretty big and I think it's just the beginning," Jobs said in an interview.[...]

The entire first season of "Desperate Housewives" and "Lost" will be available immediately. The television shows are only available in the United States and cost $1.99 per episode, without commercials."

Kevin Reilly reacted to the news by sitting under his desk in a fetal position, rocking back and forth and crying. He then looked up "Apple" in the White Pages and gave them a call. After 15 minutes begging them to syndicate Fear Factor on iTunes, the voice on the other end calmly explained they were in fact Apple One temp agency. Reilly paused, wiped the snot from his nose, and asked if he could perhaps come in for a typing test.

Hillary's Coming! Hillary's Coming!

It's Hillarymania all over again!(Assuming there ever was anything approaching a 'mania' related to Hillary Clinton in the past.)

• ABC's Geena Davis-as-President series Commander-in-Chief is being attacked from the right as being a thinly veiled season-long primetime Hillary-in-the-Oval Office campaign commercial wearing the sheep's clothing of a totally-behind-the-eight-ball, showrunner-swapping, but still seemingly-connecting-with-audiences, kinda-sorta Fall 2006 hit!
• Variety leads today with the headline The Hillary Tour,reawakening  pulse-quickening Hillary for Prez talk (assuming that kind of talk ever quickened anyone's pulse in the past):

For someone who's not running for the White House, Hillary Clinton will certainly look like a presidential contender Thursday as she embarks on a swing through Hollywood.

Democrats in the entertainment industry, who started the year fatigued and frustrated following their unsuccessful effort to elect John Kerry, have been emboldened by recent political setbacks for President George W. Bush and other Republicans, and they're planning no fewer than three fund-raisers during the New York senator's West Coast trip.

Events include a $500-per-person reception at the home of Rob Reiner and a $1,000-per-person brunch hosted by film producers Bruce Cohen and Dan Jinks. Television producer Marta Kauffman will also welcome Clinton to her home for a fund-raiser.

Coin raised on this trip will go to Clinton's 2006 re-election campaign in New York. But speculation on a presidential bid is picking up momentum.

The invitation to the Reiner event made its way to my desk, so I thought I'd share (click to enlarge):

$500 bucks gets you a "Late Night dessert reception," which could be the priciest Jell-O® Pudding in a Cloud™ you ever enjoyed. I'm also confused about "Late Night." Seeing as it starts at nine, it doesn't seem really so late at night that it would require referring to it as such. The capitalization further confuses things: is it perhaps sanctioned by David Letterman's show? I'll leave you scratching your head to those Hillarimponderables, as I also point out the very, very fine print at the very, very bottom:

"Contributions to Friends of Hillary are not tax deductible for federal income tax Purposes."

Got that? And beneath, in even finer print:

"Anyone who refers to Mr. Reiner, either directly or indirectly, as 'Meathead' will be immediately asked to leave."

Feh Trendwatch™: Anesthesia Awareness

Did you happen to catch Nip/Tuck last night? My Zankou Chicken shawarma plate-inhaling routine was rudely interrupted by another one of their beyond-gross Daisy: Story of a Facelift hommages, only this time the cringe-o-factor was increased exponentially as the patient was awake and completely immobile for her procedure (the repairing of two massive self-induced facial gashes). Her inner monologue ran along the lines of: "STOP IT! STOP THAT! I'M AWAKE! THAT BURNS! STOP CUTTING INTO MY FACE! OWWW!!"

Beyond disturbing. And, unsurprisingly, based on a hot new malpractice movement! The phenomenon's becoming a phenomenon, and it's called Anesthesia Awareness. Web sites begging people to share their experiences are popping up, such as www.anesthesiaawareness.com. From their FAQ:

I'VE NEVER HEARD OF ANESTHESIA AWARENESS. WHY NOT? Anesthesia Awareness has been one of the best-kept secrets in anesthesia, and was, at one time, one of the least-known phenomena in the medical or legal fields in general. As a result of the work of this Campaign, much media attention has been given to this problem, and slowly, the public is learning to be "aware of awareness." Yet recent studies indicate awareness is reported 100 times per working day, and we know that under-reportage may be as much as a third. Pediatric cases may occur 4-6 times as often. Those figures work out to a minimum 28,000 - 46,000 times per year in the US alone! From my own experience and the feedback of over 2500 phone contacts with awareness victims, it seems the anesthesia community is in deep denial of the number of times awareness occurs, frequently denies patient reports of the problem, many times fails to make the incidents known to the surgeon or other hospital caretakers, and certainly grossly underestimates the depth and the duration of the devastating psychological aftereffects of anesthesia awareness -- most often Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).

It's a massive cover-up! In fact, I think it happened to me once! I was at the dentist and the hygienist was scraping plaque off my teeth and I was aware of every single second of it. Horrifying.

Never missing a disturbing fad it can't co-opt into a thriller starring Mark Wahlberg, Hollywood has already more than taken notice of AA, with Nip/Tuck beating everyone to the unanesthetised punch. A feature titled Awake, with AA as its primary plot, is in production, starring Hayden Christiensen (the new Mark Wahlberg? Let's see: stiff acting, white, ripped, had sex with Calvin Klein to jumpstart career...yup) and Jessica "Bet My Last Five Bucks There's A Spongebath Scene" Alba.

Headline News

George Clooney Decides to Provide Me With A Lifetime Supply of J.O. Material

Last night's Entertainment Tonight had a first-look at George Clooney's new feature, Syriana. I have no fucking clue what it's about and I could care less; much, much, much, much, MUCH much more importantly, LeCloons packed on what looks like a good fifty pounds and grew a full beard.  It was like Anthony Michael Hall and Robert Downey Jr. first laying eyes on their Kelly LeBrockian creation. It's as if my id, libido and subconscious had a guys' weekend in Vegas, scored big at the tables and decided to treat themselves to a meal at Craftsteak and the hooker of their dreams. And are you ready for the clincher? His character's name is *drumroll*

Robert Baer.

Okay, now you're just fucking with me, right?

A Message From Feh

Hello, my adorable shmendricks! Every one!

Enough with the taunting e-mails. For the last time, NO I do not have writer's block/constipation/ menopause/ etc. Nor has my mind become 'a once fertile, now dessicated womb filled with twigs and worm-eaten crabapples.' My mind, and for that matter Nicole Kidman's biological clock, are both deeply offended.

The fact is that I have been on holiday, visiting friends and family in Montreal (a city that, as they French say, is 'da shit.' Seriously! Check it out.). Furthermore, I'm as prolific and creative as ever! Just because I'm not weighing in on the the latest Lohan Paparraccident or waxing horrific at the thought of a platoon of Tom Cruise-headed tadpoles flying out of a turkey baster to storm Katie Holmes' Guadalcanal does not mean I've 'lost my touch' or had a 'spontaneous lobotomy' or I 'applied to law school' or any other such doom n' gloomy scenario.

That said, God I've missed you. I really have.  Katie Holmes is pregnant with Tom Cruise's baby? Jesus Christ. Literally! I'm seeing modified manger scenes, maybe some active volcanoes in the background (note to self: baking soda and red food coloring!). Sunday school teachers chuckling knowingly and saying: "Now, now children. You can't ALL be Emperor Xenu in the holiday pageant." Heartwarming stuff. Really.

Death Becomes Her

Is it just me or does it look like Nicole Richie put her head on backwards?

"Release The Films."

Photo thanks to Defamer via Variety.

American Idol, International Male

Paula Abdul, the Karen Silkwood of California manicure hygiene reform, has proven herself to be a tough little cockroach. She emerged from scandalous accusations of a sexual tryst with a suspiciously cornrowed American Idol contestant largely unscathed. Her show is the undisputable top of the TV crapheap, asking, and getting, unprecendented numbers for a 30-second spot. And now, the sometimes-perky, sometimes-K-holed 43-year old differently-abled-clapper has something to really cheer about: 6'2" of marble-carved mancake!

Paula Abdul has a new man in her life: model Dante Spencer.

Spencer is 6'2", chiseled and at home on the dance floor – no wonder that from the second he met Abdul three months ago, his chances with the American Idol judge looked promising.

"We were salsa dancing in L.A. at a club called Mood on Hollywood Boulevard," says the 30-year-old model. "I saw her and went right up to her. Before I said one word, she turned around and said, 'Who are you?' And it's been great ever since."

...except for one small bump in the road three weeks into the affair, when she again turned to him and said, "Who are you?" But that was quickly cleared up with a few minutes of explanation and a call-in refill from Rite Aid.

But now that rumors have emerged that the couple might even be engaged (last item), we must ask the question: Who is this Dante? And will he be good to our 'so-much-love-to-give' Paula?

For answers, we need only turn to his 'model profile' in the International Male Catalog (aka "Beat-Off-Material-for-Closeted-Gay-Teens-If-You-Can-Get-Passed-the- Nausea-Inducing-Clothes-and-Who-Am-I-Kidding-of-Course-I-Can") website:

"AMBITIONS

The acting bug strikes again! Dante minored in Theater at the University of California at San Diego and is currently taking an acting class in LA, where he resides.

FAVORITE SPORTS
Basketball and baseball, sports he’s favored since his days on the UCSD team.

PETS
Not since Dante’s childhood experience with two pet water turtles. They died the same day he got them. “My mom said I didn’t give them enough love.”

GUILTY PLEASURES
Peanut butter and chocolate. Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups? “Yeah, they’re great.”"

RED FLAG RED FLAG.

Quote. AND I QUOTE:

“My mom said I didn’t give them enough love.”

We can only pray that once Dante is done getting his chocolate in Paula's peanut butter, she won't too suffer a double tortoisecide at his intimacy-shunning hands.

Tampax on the Dancefloor

Madonna's latest album cover for her upcoming Confessions on a Dancefloor has been leaked -- less an album cover, actually, more of a Get Smart-esque K.A.O.S. plan to instantly turn anyone who looks at it into a gigantic neon Vegas billboard flashing "GAY! GAY! GAY!" (We're also reminded that the touring production of Annie hits the Pantages October 7th. ) But who needs my two cents on the subject! Let's hit the gay boards at Towleroad (yes that's two links in one day; Andy we love you) and see what the homo hordes think of it!

Confession: "I'm 47 years old."

Posted by: jaykayess | Sep 17, 2005 9:22:25 PM

I can't get over that tawdry Kabbalah bracelet. The crucifix was way sexier!

Posted by: borut | Sep 18, 2005 8:05:12 AM

Now we really know how she hurt her collarbone.

Posted by: Jason | Sep 18, 2005 11:02:19 AM

Her arm is saying, "stop...don't stop." Which is how I feel about her career.

Posted by: Scoop | Sep 18, 2005 11:57:53 AM

I'm sorry but the "f" in confessions looks like a Tampon string hanging out of her panties...

Posted by: MervynLeroy | Sep 18, 2005 7:50:51 PM

O Lucky Man

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Proving her thigh-spreading lust for B-minus level talent to be a bottomless cup-a-joe, Rebecca Romijn and Jerry O'Connell have decided to double their talent through the fuzzy math of a wedding engagement:

"Rebecca Romijn, whose screen credits include the “X-Men” films and “Rollerball,” is engaged to Jerry O’Connell.

The couple became engaged over the weekend in New York after dating for a year, Us Weekly magazine reported Tuesday. O’Connell’s publicist, Joy Fehily, confirmed those details to The Associated Press.

“We couldn’t be happier and are looking forward to the next chapter of our lives,” the couple said in a joint statement."

It remains unclear which chapter they were referring to:  X-Men 3 or Kangaroo Jack 2: G'Day U.S.A.!.

A Lesson in Lesbian Penetration: Attack of the Martina Navratinobodies

You know the drill: Connecticut suburbs, husband (lawyer), three kids (soccer, soccer, theater camp), satisfying part-time catering career, and totally miserable. You meet her in a Tastes of Morocco intensive cooking class. Her couscous is impossibly fluffy and moist. Tastes lead to compliments. Compliments to drinks. Drinks to kisses. Kisses to divorce and the start of a 14-year lesbiadventuromance. How do you keep the flame alive? How about gatecrashing the Emmy Awards Governor's Ball and charming some expertly curated-- and heart-cockle-warmingly good-natured-- television stars into posing for pictures? Something about this shot, featuring and taken by Entourage's Adrian Grenier, makes me love everyone involved, especially the one grinning like an insane woodchuck directly to Adrian's right. You go, girls!:

   

Via Towleroad. Click for more cuteness.

When Television Ruled the Earth, and Walls Smelled of Glue and Truffles

In post-morteming Emmy night and the ensuing whoop-de-dos, the LA Times examines the application of Nietzsche 101 to the very practical arena of basic cable career advancement; namely, willing yourself to A-list power. Can it be done? Anything is possible in Dreamtown, kids, where sound-bites sparkle like princess-cut diamonds anchored in settings of 18-karat self-delusion:

"Finally, television is king. At least, that's what Patricia Richardson of "The West Wing" was saying. She was standing on the red carpet outside the "Entertainment Tonight"/People magazine post-Emmy soiree and explaining matter-of-factly that "TV is better than movies. Look at shows like 'Six Feet Under' and 'West Wing,' and then look at all the dreck Hollywood is putting out."

That was the consensus at Emmy parties around town Sunday night, where celebrities sick of their status as show biz's second-class citizens (a theme even Emmy host Ellen DeGeneres riffed on during the broadcast) celebrated a blockbuster year for the small screen — and a lackluster year for the big one.

"More and more people get their information and entertainment from TV," said television icon Don Johnson, who has a new show, "Just Legal," on the WB. "Film has become a boutique business. The time has come when we're going to get all our entertainment in our home.""

While you suck on the bitter lozenge that is our inevitable communal fate of a nation of Pink Dot-dependent shut-ins mindmelding with 24-hr Nash Bridges reruns as our flesh literally melts into our couches, take heart-- there are those who refuse to resign themselves to a single destiny:

Not everyone was optimistic that TV will become the dominant form, however. "Everything's cyclical, it comes and goes," said Kelsey Grammer, looking tired.

Jesus!  I mean I've heard of not interfering in the name of journalistic objectivism, but this is ridiculous! Can someone give the Kelser a bump already! Frasier's flatlining over here.

Ooh! Chocolate walls!

Inside at the Mondrian Hotel, the dark, musky scent of chocolate all but wiped out perfumes and colognes, leading revelers by their noses to the Godiva room. Truffles were everywhere, hundreds of them, glued to the walls in circles and swirls like something out of "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory."

Can I say something? That sounds fucking disgusting.

Ooh! India!

There wasn't a chocolate room at the HBO party at the Pacific Design Center, but the Bollywood-themed celebration was by far the night's most elaborately designed. Veteran event designer Billy Butchkavitz flew to India to do research and returned with miniature temples, which he meticulously reproduced as life-size hangout areas spread throughout a palatial blue tent and outside. Waiters strode about dressed in white cotton Indian-style tunics, refreshing plates of samosas and vats of delicious mango and pistachio rice pudding.

I'm sure Billy Butchkavits didn't do all the work himself; he had a hand from his dependable assistants Sam Nelliestein and Doron Queenberg.

Human Rights Groups Decry Ugly Stereotype of Jews and Gays Running Media; In Other News, David Geffen to Buy Los Angeles Times

What to get the multimedia mogul who has everything? How about something quaint, old-fashioned, arguably obsolete?; I'm thinking Family Circus, I'm thinking fun, folded hats... I'm thinking the Los Angeles Times! The story, ironically enough, appeared in the Times' own weekend business section:

"Three well-known civic figures in Los Angeles said they had heard Geffen in recent weeks talking about how he would like to take control of The Times, owned by Tribune Co.

Geffen met with Tribune Chief Executive Dennis J. FitzSimons this summer to say he was interested in buying the paper.

"We had a meeting at his request, with no disclosed reason in advance," FitzSimons confirmed in a telephone interview. "At that point, he indicated his interest in the paper. And I told him it was not for sale.""

Way to hold the fort, FitzSimons! Never understimate the tenacity of someone who capitalizes a letter in the middle of their last name. The article then gets into the awkwardly murky territory of reporting the paper's own financial performance. It's akin to listening to your doctor talk to you about his own fight with cancer:

The national economy's slow recovery from recession has dragged down advertising sales at The Times, the biggest property in the Tribune empire. Total revenue at the Los Angeles paper peaked at $1.14 billion in 1999 at the height of the technology boom, but has since remained relatively flat, coming in at $1.07 billion last year, according to internal company documents...So why would Geffen, whose net worth is estimated by Forbes magazine at $4.4 billion, want to plunge into an industry that is struggling to maintain its footing as many readers shift to cable television and the Internet?

They offer several plausible theories -- expanding his empire, improving coverage through local ownership instead of the current Chicago-based Tribune ownership -- but one ballsy theory, provided by an anonymous 'businessman', tends to linger:

The businessman who spoke to Geffen said the music and movie mogul also talked of another motivation: correcting what he sees as the unfairness that the newspaper's news and editorial pages have demonstrated toward him and others.

Among Times articles that might have annoyed the entertainment mogul were a July editorial that called DreamWorks a failure and columns by California section columnist Steve Lopez that chastised Geffen for failing to open a public access way next to his home on Carbon Beach in Malibu. (The path opened this spring after a protracted fight with the California Coastal Commission.)

The entire venture could come down to very basic economics: $3 billion to kill Doonesbury.

 

Moss: "I Did Use Cocaine. I'm Also Super-Fine, I'm Round-the-Clock Horny, and I'm Rocking One Leg. Jealous?"

Kate Moss has admitted to her employer, clothing giant H&M, that the Daily Mirror's scandalous reports and images of her using cocaine were accurate:

Moss, who is to model one of H&M's upcoming clothing lines, apologized for her drug use and promised in writing to abide by a company policy that models be "healthy, wholesome and sound," spokeswoman Liv Asarnoj said.

H&M decided to keep Moss on, Asarnoj told The Associated Press in a phone interview from the company's headquarters in Stockholm, Sweden.

"We strongly disapprove of her action," Asarnoj said Saturday. "We feel that this is very unfortunate."

Asarnoj said Moss had acknowledged the allegations of drug use were true. "That's why she was so regretful," Asarnoj said. "We are giving her a second chance."

She initially accepted the high profile gig at the enthusiastic promptings of boyfriend/ex-Libertines leadman/Grim Reaper-cocktease Peter Doherty, who mistakenly interpreted the company's name as shorthand for 'Heroine & Methampetamine,' his favorite sandwich fillings.

From Our Archives: April, 2005 - Fucky. The Blog About Shopping

For Your Consideration in All Categories

Attention screenwriters, movie development executives, studio heads, A-list actors and actresses, their agents and their ilk:

Seek no further.

The story you have been looking for has been found.

Action. Love. Death. Sorrow.

And a twist ending so ingenious and shocking, no one will ever see it coming.

What's more, the entire thing has been storyboarded out for you (until the twist ending, which will require you to read the comments after 'The End' and probably one of those quickly edited back-tracking montages a la A Beautiful Mind and Identity where you realize in 15 seconds everything you have just sat through is a lie.)

Ladies and Gentlemen, for your consideration:

Grief - Barn Swallows [via b3ta]

Ellen DeGeneres Returns to Emmy Stage to Help Us Find Humor In National Tragedy She Caused

It's a tightrope walk, to be sure, feting the accomplishments of Hollywood's TV industry arrivistes as hundreds of thousands of Americans ponder the hugeness of their recent losses. There are few who can successfully come through this daring acrobatic feat, but Ellen DeGeneres most definitely is one, what with her likable and self-deprecating dry wit, not to mention a vivid insider knowledge of the massive-life-claiming tragedies her Emmy-hosting has directly caused. From today's LA Times:

"The first time she was asked to host the annual Emmy Awards show, it was just before 9/11. This year, it was before Hurricane Katrina.

"I'm going to think twice before I agree to host something again, I can tell you that," she said wryly in a recent interview."

In reminiscing about her triumphant hosting of the 2001 Emmys, the announcement of which earlier that year was the trigger signal for Al Qaeda cells across the country, the article quotes some of the comedian's best lines inspired by the terrorist attacks that were solely her fault:

"In her monologue, she told the audience that the terrorists "can't take away our creativity, our striving for excellence, our joy. Only network executives can do that." She went on to say that she was an ideal host "because, think about it: What would bug the Taliban more than seeing a gay woman in a suit surrounded by Jews?""

We won't know until Sunday night what kind of industry rib-poking Katrina jokes DeGeneres has in store -- something about NBC showing no noticeable ratings dips in the affected regions, no doubt --  but however she chooses to tackle the sensitive subject of the natural disaster she independently brought on, one thing is for certain: it will have that trademark DeGeneres class.

'Til Fraud Did They Part

We weren't even going to touch this one, but it's getting interesting:

"Bridget Jones is untying the knot. Renee Zellweger, who played the lovelorn Brit in "Bridget Jones's Diary," and country music star Kenny Chesney will have their four-month-old marriage annulled, Chesney's publicist, Holly Gleason, and Zellweger's Los Angeles-based publicist Nanci Ryder, confirmed to The Associated Press on Thursday.

In court papers filed Wednesday, Zellweger listed "fraud" as the reason for the breakup but did not elaborate.

A phone call to her attorney was not immediately returned, nor was a call to Gleason later in the day regarding the fraud claim."

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Being neither a fan of Top 40 country music nor the School of Squintypouty Jeux de Theatre, I would hazard nary a guess as to what sort of "fraud" Renee is referring to. There are so many ways Kenny may have misrepresented himself in the sanctity of their blessed union of one man and one woman. Now let's just take a moment to mourn the ending of that union by staring at the accompanying photograph and wondering what the fraud may have been.

The Oracle at Prospect & Talmadge