A smoking-hot Shia LaBeouf playing rednecks is getting me through this pandemic

UPDATE: Shia crush officially over with reports of abuse from FKA twigs.

I’ve never given Shia LaBeouf more than a fleeting thought. I am out of the demographic who would’ve grown up with him on Disney’s “Even Stevens,” and the first time I watched anything he was in it was “Holes” due to a friend’s movie pick.

“That kid is gonna be a big star,” he said.

I liked the movie enough, and said, “Uh, OK.”

This was also the same friend who saw Obama speak in 2004 and said, “That guy is going to be the next President of the United States!” I was like, “No way, he just got elected to the U.S. Senate. He’s way too inexperienced.”

The point is: What do I know?

Now, 15 years later, in a hellish pandemic that is sparing no one’s mental health, I have discovered a magic antidote to cope. It’s not getting enough sleep. Or meditating. Or baking fucking sourdough bread.

It’s Shia LaBeouf playing rednecks.

Let me start this by saying I’ve never seen a “Transformers” movie. I know that made him a huge star and bank all those paychecks, but big budget Hollywood action flicks are not my shit at all.

But watching a tatted-up Shia LaBeouf play a white-trash dude looking mangy with a redneck accent? Sign me up.

If you’ve been digging around the dregs of your Netflix, Prime, Hulu, HBO, etc., queues, it’s time to get some serious LaBeouf into your life. These all have the added benefits of actually being good movies, too, with “serious acting” so you can feel like you’re being educated while indulging in your soft-core filth. I’m not going to make you watch any “Transformers” trash, though I might just go back for those, too.

Let’s take a walk through a few of my favorite LaBeouf movies and redneck moments from my quarantine.

1. “Honey Boy” – The gateway drug to modern-day LaBeouf.

I was sick and isolating, waiting for my test results (Covid negative) and scrolling through my newly engaged Prime account when I saw this movie, an account of LaBeouf’s childhood and subsequent adult efforts toward recovery and sobriety. I was more interested in the story than him for sure.

I’ll warn you, this entry point to discovering LaBeouf is not a sexy look for him. BUT you should be intrigued enough by the skills LaBeouf pulls off in this film to want to see more of his work.

LaBeouf wrote the script and plays his own father, a war vet struggling with sobriety overseeing his kid’s career. After getting arrested, the fake young Shia LaBeouf gets sent to court-ordered rehab, where he starts digging into why he is diagnosed with PTSD.

With what you see in the movie — the shitty L.A. motel, junk-food diet, verbal and emotional abuse and more — it’s amazing that the real LaBeouf could put on the bad wig and glasses and play his pops every day, but he does. Apparently, writing that screenplay in rehab just wasn’t cathartic enough.

It’s a good movie that firmly cements the notion that LaBeouf can tell a story (despite his earlier dabbles with lifting other people’s work), and gives a lot of background to his bad-boy behavior and why he was acting out so much.

2. “The Peanut Butter Falcon” – Better than spoonfuls of crunchy, organic peanut butter when you’re high.

From there, my friendly computer algorithm (kidding, they’re not friendly and AI will soon crush us like little ants, according to Elon Musk, but for now here are some other film choices you might like, stupid human!) suggested I might enjoy another fine flick I would’ve passed over: “The Peanut Butter Falcon.”

Holy shit, sad little quarantining dwellers of Planet Earth, see this uplifting, heartwarming little slice of cinematic feel-good heaven right fucking now. It will warm your soul better than a three-day weekend of ultimate hygge buried in Chip and Joanna reruns with Ina Gartner as your own personal chef.

LaBeouf plays a troubled fisherman (nailing his coastal redneck North Carolina accent according to my North Carolina friend) who crosses paths with a young man with Down Syndrome, played by Zack Gottsagen, who has just escaped his group retirement home to pursue his dream of going to a professional wrestling school.

This unlikely buddy movie is absurd as it sounds, but it’s also wonderful. They billed this as a modern-day Mark Twain-type adventure, and it’s filled with pure laugh-out-loud and heart-strings-a-pullin’ moments, which is tough to do.

A redneck LaBeouf is smoking hot despite never changing his dingy white t-shirt the entire time. And the rapport between him and Gottsagen reaches teary-eye levels, especially when they’re shooting the shit around the campfire at night.

This is honestly my favorite thing I’ve seen all pandemic. I watched it twice.

3. “American Honey” – NY Mag‘s Vulture told me I should watch it. You should too.

This is not an easy-to-watch film, filled with hard knocks and depressing scenes with tiny moments of flickering joy and beauty scattered throughout. Like life, no?

LaBeouf plays Jake, the charming co-leader of a merry band of lost white-trash souls selling magazines door-to-door. He’s second-in-command only to his partner, the group’s show-me-the-money leader Krystal. LaBeouf picks up newcomer Star, played by Sasha Lane (her first role ever), in a Kmart parking lot and offers her a gig.

With no other options and a miserable existence, Star joins the kids in their packed cargo van to go tour the Midwest. From Kansas City to the oil fields of North Dakota, the cinematography captures both the best and the most depressing parts of this region, from rolling hills and lush green trees, to bland highways dotted with fast-food joints and truck-stop parking lots. They stay in filthy roadside motels by night, and rove upper- and middle-class neighborhoods by day, seeing what life is like on the other side. It’s the perfect backdrop for kids who are seemingly free to party and live it up, but also trapped in a hand-to-mouth cycle on a road to nowhere, no matter how many fake magazine subscriptions they sell or miles they burn up.

LaBeouf delivers as the door-to-door salesman clearly aspiring to something more in this world filled with despair, as does Star, his new hire and obsession. All he wants is to save enough money for a cabin in the woods some day. Don’t we all, Jake, don’t we all.

Oh, and despite his braided rat tail, the sex scenes are smoking hot.

4. Bonus material on the internets.

Needless to say, after watching a few awesome movies, I started searching for more Shia LaBeouf and quickly got sucked into a pandemic rabbit hole much better than any doomsday scroll. I mean, Shia even adopted a pandemic puppy — how fucking cute is that?

I’ll leave you with this gem that just made me like him even more because a) he can tell a good story, and b) he clearly has a sense of humor about being a jackass. LaBeouf’s retelling of how he got arrested in New York City at “Cabaret” is pure gold.

A Prince Moment

If you are like me, your social feeds and your mind blew up on April 21. It was the unbelievable, no-fucking-way day that Prince died.

Everyone over the age of 30–hell, everyone period–should have a Prince story. A moment in time that transcended from good to EPIC simply because someone, somewhere had the wisdom to throw on some Prince jams.

Perhaps the best tribute came from fellow Twin Cities native son, Paul Westerberg of that scruffy bunch of nerf herders called the Replacements. Westerberg simply wrote, “I Can’t Think of Anyone Better.”

My first recollection of seeing him was a dress rehearsal for one of his early tours. I was next to another musician, a couple other guys that were up-and-comers and that thought they were hot shit, and we were watching Prince. The guy turned to me and said, “I’m fucking embarrassed to be alive.” And that’s how I felt. He was so good. It was like, “What are we doing? This guy is, like, on a different planet than we are.”

After reading this essay, I sat and tried to think of one modern-era musician who was/is better than Prince. I can think of no one. Not Dylan. Not Lennon/McCartney, not Jagger/Richards. Not even David Bowie. Prince was all those guys plus James Brown, Little Richard, and Jimi Hendrix turned up way over 11.

There is no one who had/has Prince’s level of musicianship, composition skills, creativity, style and just the right amount of cray-cray to push a person’s boundaries and buttons. He was transcendent. And every moment Prince touched? It suddenly and magically became transcendent, too.

I was lucky enough to see Prince twice. One was a “secret” late-night show in Vegas at the MGM Grand. I had heard from other musicians in Minneapolis that Prince would often “just show up” late at night at random bars throughout the Twin Cities and start jamming. He also did this everywhere he would travel. And Prince jams. And jams. And jams. He played for like three hours that night. I was astounded by his energy level. But also…

Image via Wikipedia

His guitar playing. I don’t think many people realize what an incredible guitarist he was. I’ve never seen anyone play the way Prince did, and still move around the stage and dance like it was nothing.

“You people want hits? I’ll tear this place down,” Prince yelled during his show at the Rio in Las Vegas during his 3121 residency. “I got too many hits!”

Every musician I’ve ever interviewed? They are completely in awe of his mad skills not only on the guitar but on every instrument. I have never talked to any professional rock star not completely humbled by Prince. No one. They do not exist. He is so universally awesome that it must be agreed upon by everyone. Saying you don’t like Prince is like saying you don’t like the Sky, or the Ocean, or Oxygen. Or being Alive.

Ever have a moment that seemed to transcend all space and time and awesomeness because of Prince? That is a Prince moment. Here are a few of mine:

My trifecta of ’80s top albums goes back to the Big Three, brought to our small, rural farmhouse thanks to the Columbia Record and Tape Club. Michael Jackson’s “Thriller,” Madonna’s “Like a Virgin,” and Prince’s “Purple Rain” fueled many impromptu living room dance parties, but no record felt as fun and delightfully bad as Prince. We didn’t know exactly what it all meant–we were in grade school–and when Little Nikki started to grind it pissed off our mother like nothing else. But, and this is a big BUT, kudos to her for never taking it away. Even Cathy knew we had to kick out the jams.

Image via imdb.com

When I still lived in Iowa, a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, we were out for the night and ended up at this fan-fucking-tastic gay dive bar. It was karaoke night, and we got on stage and did a bring-the-house-down version of “I Would Die 4 U.” Apparently, we also made enough tip money to go out for breakfast at Denny’s. I can’t remember what we had, but ideally, I would like to say it was pancakes. Prince would’ve wanted it that way.

Speaking of karaoke, the Best Karaoke Performance I ever saw goes to an unknown transgender woman at Carol’s in Uptown, another stellar dive bar on the North Side of Chicago. This performer gave it her all on “Purple Rain,” belting out the long ending with the “Woo, woo, woo woos,” right on time and on key and killed it, which is saying something with Carol’s motley crew of old-timers, cowboys, rednecks, bluesmen, hookers, politicians, hipsters, you name it. Best karaoke drop-the-mic performance I ever saw.

I can’t even count how many rocket-queen party nights in Brooklyn were powered by Prince. One particular evening, I was smoking on my stoop and watching a little kid, maybe 6 or 7 years old, doing sweet moves on this little electric motorbike … to Prince! Back and forth he would zip on his bike, standing on the seat, standing on the handlebars, doing gymnastics, to his little radio that was blasting Prince. I was like, “Damn, that has got to be the coolest kid who ever lived.” The coolest kid since Prince was young anyway.

So, there you have it. Transcendent moments in life brought to you by Prince. I’m sure there will hopefully be dozens, hundreds, thousands more. Sure, he would’ve been the guy who recorded 30, 40, 100 more albums, and toured until they were rolling him on and off the stage. But sadly, we have what we have. And what we have is really so very damn much.

Dear Daniel Day-Lewis

Dear Daniel Day-Lewis,

I happened to catch your latest flick, “Lincoln,” via the old Pirate Bay the other weekend, and after the two and a half hour pomp and circumstance of enough 19th-century minutiae that would make any Civil War buff cream his or her pants, I am here to make an impassioned plea: Please fucking stop making movies.

That’s right. You heard me. Seriously, are you really this serious all the time? Doesn’t it get to be a drag, literally, to stomp around in a stovepipe hat, or loincloth, or irritating fake mustache and act like A) an incredible asshole, B) an incredibly important figure in history or C) both? Aren’t you tired yet?

I get it. Yes, you are a brilliant actor. Maybe the best of all time! But, to paraphrase as Joan Rivers so brilliantly put it during ‘Fashion Police,’ last week, ‘Lincoln’ was ‘flawless, I couldn’t find anything wrong with it, but I was bored out of my mind.’

It’s not just ‘Lincoln,’ pal. In fact, if you can’t sniff Oscar butt gold when a script hits your coffee table, you don’t even take a look. “Gangs of New York,” “There Will be Blood,” “Last of the Mohicans.” Every single one of your films is heavy, heavy shit. Would it kill you to go outside your range, and say do a Quentin Tarantino or Danny Boyle flick? Now, that I’d actually like to see. You could still get in some of the ultra-violence and asshole depravity you crave–you just don’t have to wear a fucking period costume and take on some horrible dialect to do it. Well, you might have to do the dialect part.

Last of the Mohicans, or “the Deathface of Fun.”

We get that you can play these complicated, dark historical figures–and no one can wear a mustache quite like you and start screaming insane shit like, “I drink your milkshake!” But it’s getting kind of old. And dull. And if anyone says they actually enjoy sitting through one of your films more than once, I call bullshit. These are the same kinds of people who say they enjoy things like quarterly juice cleanses and reading the New Yorker cover to cover. Bull. Shit.

So, you’ve pretty much already got this year’s Oscar for leading actor locked up. How can the Academy not give you the award–I mean, the greatest U.S. president combined with the complex, highly contentious issue of slavery, and one of the most important events in American history? It’s almost enough to make me root for Bradley Cooper for best actor. And that poor son-of-a-bitch Joaquin Phoenix, shit, he’s gotta be hating life. First he gets screwed out of winning for Johnny Cash, and now he’s gotta sit there and watch this shitshow unfold on Sunday. I’d rather stay home, sit on my couch, and eat a bag of Doritos with one hand down my pants.



P.S. Oh, and while I’m at it, will you tell your friend Steven Spielberg to stop making this heartstrings-yanking Americana schlock as well? I’d really like it if he’d go back to stuff like big sharks eating stupid people in the ocean.

A Supremely Useless Guide to Ultimately Successful People

There is no other time of year that makes people feel more worthless, slow and sloth-like than the New Year. Yes, you ate too much cheese in December. Yes, you went a little cra-zay with your credit card at Target. And yes, you spilled too much childhood angst at your family gathering and too much self-loathing to your 2 a.m. NY’s booty call.

And now, you think, it’s time to change all that. But, noble goal-setter, odds are that you will probably crumble back into your average too-many-nachos and karaoke lifestyle soon enough.

Do you ever read articles or books (yes–books! Those things longer than 50 pages and no pictures) about really ambitious and successful people? And how they got to be that way? When you read about someone functioning for years on three hours of sleep a night and masterminding a major company’s rise to dominance from the garage to exploiter of Chinese labor and pusher of cheap, disposable, worthless consumer goods that are choking the planet, does it gnaw at your very being and make you want to pull your own hair out? Well, let’s take a look at this guide, a supremely useless round-up of ultimately successful people, that will make you crawl back into that New Year’s Eve pile of puke you left outside that faux Irish pub’s alley. Hey…I think I found my I.D.

Marissa Mayer, CEO of Yahoo: Unless you lived, breathed and masturbated to the goings-on in Silicon Valley, you’ve probably never heard of Marissa Mayer or attended one of her fancy dinner parties in her apartment in the Four Seasons San Fran. When the Titanic that is Yahoo announced that it was going with Mayer as its next CEO, the tech world was all a-Twitter. So young! So ambitious! Such a genius! Mayer, one of the first ones on board at Google, is a computer mastermind and is reportedly worth $300 million. Oh, and on the day she got her gig, she also announced that she was pregnant, and was basically like, “I will be back at work within a week or two!” At 37, Mayer is exactly my age, and the stats did not go unnoticed. I think it’s pretty awesome that more women are getting jobs in male-dominated fields, but that Superwoman-I-Can-Have-It-All-Shit can suck it, no matter who’s having the baby or sitting in the top spot (you fucking hear that, Kelly Ripa?). It basically makes the rest of us who want to have a life look bad. Or lazy. Or worse. And we already have enough stacked against us. However, this paragraph alone from a New York Magazine profile really hit it on home for me: Workaholic Marissa Mayer is the bitch you love to hate in your office. And you know it:

“Those who succeed under Mayer tend to share her cutthroat worldview: Winners win. ‘She will outwork you; she will outwork anybody,’ says Casey, a former professional cyclist who rode on U.S. Postal with Lance Armstrong and later worked with Mayer at Google for half a dozen years. Indeed, Mayer has said that she pulled 250 all-nighters in her first five years at Google, and has been dismissive of people who, as she puts it, ‘want eight hours of sleep a night, three meals a day.’ ”

As someone who does want three squares–no, fuck that, I eat six mini-meals throughout the day to keep my energy levels up–and at least nine hours of sleep a night (you heard me right), I can proudly say that I’ve never pulled an all-nighter for anyone. You want to know why? Because unless you’re working for yourself, when you let your job become your life, you are a fucking fool.

Oh, and she posed in this dress.

Hillary Clinton, Sorta Secretary of State, Former First Lady:

Oh, man, has Hillary Clinton has had a rough month. First the concussion, then a blood clot. Always the bridesmaid and never the bride, she has been run ragged during Obama’s first term. Ms. Clinton has “logged more than 400 travel days and nearly a million miles,” according to this piece in CNN. This isn’t the first time Ms. Clinton has run herself into the ground. During that whole first time around in the Oval Office, she admitted to sleeping three to four hours a night during the Lewinsky scandal. Granted, she’s had an incredible job to do–and she’s done it–but Ms. Clinton, please get some rest. We may need you to step up in 2016.

The Obamas:

We are all madly jealous of this shot.

I was going to just do Barack, but fuck it, if I didn’t read that Michelle gets up at 4:30 a.m. to go work out with him before his day starts, she more than deserves to make this list, too. People look at the presidency and see a lot of things: honor, prestige, power. I just see a job that has to be a huge pain in the ass. Unless you’re George W. Bush, you pretty much don’t get to sleep in–ever. And when you’re not busy trying to negotiate with Boneheads, er, Boehner, you’ve got just a jillion other things to worry about. A super-overachiever, Barack’s mom used to get him up at 4 a.m. to study, or so he told us during his campaigning in 2008 and in his book, “Dreams of My Father.”

five days a week…[she] came into my room at four in the morning, force-fed me breakfast, and proceeded to teach me my English lessons for three hours before I left for school and she left for work. I offered stiff resistance to this regimen, but in response to every strategy I concocted…she would patiently repeat her most powerful defense: “This is no picnic for me either, buster.”

Somehow, amid Harvard Law Reviews and U of Chicago law school gigs, he still got in the cool, pot-smoking, Columbia student part. But the only way I want to still be up at 4 a.m. is if I’m getting ready for bed.

Lena Dunham, writer, director, actress, 20-something Voice of a Generation:

Ok, something tells me that Dunham gets her three squares and eight hours. She did a sorta interesting independent film that got her a sorta-interesting-yet-incredibly-indulgent-and-insulated TV program on HBO. Oh, and a $3.7 million book deal that pretty much sums up everything that is wrong with the book publishing industry. But, hey, yeah, if you measure success by TV shows and money, which we do here in America, then Ms. Dunham really kicked some Bushwick ass and became every Oberlin student’s wet dream. But before she counts her cash, she might want to think about what happened to that Prozac bitch.

$3.7 million of life advice, like "make sure when you have sex with hipsters they wear a condom."

EL James, author, Fifty Shades of Grey:

This woman should not be famous. At all.


This has to be the most Bieber-as-Lesbian look yet.

Do you feel awful yet? Welcome to average. It’s kind of not so bad.

It’s official: There are no new ideas in fashion. Or how the January issue of Lucky pissed me off.

Nothing prepares you for the slow suck of January through March like the January magazines. And no other January issue is lacking for, uh, content than magazines that don’t feature any writing to begin with.

This brings us to ‘Lucky,’ the magazine about shopping and style, or as Jon Stewart once put it, “the magazine for retards.” Now, don’t get me wrong. I likes to look at some pretty clothes whilst sipping a rooftop cocktail or at the beach. And I’ll admit, I’ve actually bought shit I’ve seen in ‘Lucky’ because A) it’s not a magazine for ridiculously young girls, or B) a magazine for the menopausal set, and C) there’s shit in here that I can actually afford, unlike all the crap Anna Wintour puts in Vogue.

That said, this latest issue of January’s ‘Lucky’ reached new lows in fashion I don’t remember seeing since I had an unfortunate incident outside a Daffy’s in the Atlantic Center in Brooklyn. Look, ‘Lucky,’ it is precisely this time of year–when we are sick to holy Mother of God of wearing the same-old winter shit, and it’s too early to crack out those crisp summer tees and sundresses–that we need you most.

This January 2012 issue of Lucky looks like a couple rental interns scrounged through the office closets and literally vomit-styled the models to meet their ad-vs.-editorial quota to keep the doors open one more month. And they were blind.

Since I couldn’t find any of this stuff on the actual site (apparently, it’s just still a “preview” of January issue online. the fact that I couldn’t find anything immediately online these days kind of just blew my mind) I actually took pictures of the magazine’s worst looks to post below:

Lucky: This look says I’m funky and fresh!

What it really says: We may have met in the bathroom at Union Pool in Brooklyn, where I promptly blew you, but I’ll be sitting on your doorstep all night, every night, for eternity!

Believe it or not, this is the "look of the month"

Lucky: So Madonna!

What it really says: I’m a socially inept asshole who has to constantly draw attention to my tits. Or “I’m on ‘Gallery Girls.’ ”

Did you know that you could wear a leather bra as a top?

Lucky: Be cozy and cool!

What it really says: Amanda Bynes is my style icon.

Even Lindsay Lohan wouldn't step out in this shit in LA. And LA is the only place in the world where sluts pair strappy sandals with stocking caps.

Lucky: Bold stripes and florals almost always complement each other. (really, they said this.)

What it really says: ‘Almost always,’ still not always.

You know your wardrobe needs a pair of Beetlejuice pants. Or Lenny Kravitz.

And now, just to end on a nice note, here’s what I found on Lucky online while searching for this garbage. Brilliant party dresses:


Vivienne Westwood

I would kill for this Tom Ford.

See what you’re capable of Lucky? Now quit letting extras for ‘Girls’ style your magazine and get your shit together for February.


‘True Blood’: Who’s Doing Who, A Brief Guide to Paranormal Sexual Mash-ups

If you are a remotely intelligent person who dabbles in sleazier affairs then you probably know that HBO’s ‘True Blood’ is back on the air.

Now, Alan Ball is a brilliant, brilliant man. Because when he started this Trash-O-Rama of hot paranormals banging the living hell out of one another, he stacked the cast with insanely beautiful people pretty much across the board. There is something for everyone in the ‘True Blood’–women, men, the gays, lesbians, furries, you name it, it’s got it in sweaty, oiled-up HD. Everyone is half naked and whacked out on something during ‘True Blood,’ which makes it like the best gay bar ever come to life in your very own fucking living room every Sunday night.

Hats off to Alan Ball and crew.

That said, I figured a little revisiting Who’s Doing Who (or is it Whom? Who cares?) and then some added Mind-Blowing Pairings thrown in for good measure. Because like any good orgy, ‘True Blood’ ain’t going down until everyone has practically gone down on everybody else.

Let’s go:

Sam and that hot shape-shifter chick, Luna. They met last season, part of Sam’s shape-shifter support group. When they got buck nekkid to go running through the woods like the Wild Stallions we know they are, well, we were a little impressed that Sam was actually going to score with someone pretty damn hot. The downside? She used to do a werewolf.

woof. woof.

Sam’s Mind-Blowing Pairing: Sookie. Bon Temps’ least-favorite waitress finally throws her drooling boss the pity fuck he’s been dying for.

Alcide and Eric Northman. If buff wolfman Alcide is going to be a bitch for anyone, it’s going to be for Eric Northman, Viking Stud, Fairy Fucker, All-Around Badass. If these two got naked and started rubbing their parts together my mind would literally fucking explode because it would not be able to handle the hotness.  The only question is would Eric ever let Alcide be Alpha Dog once in a while and go top? Oh, the sexual puns! They just keep writing themselves!

This plus...

This! Get outta the way, Sookie, you ruinin' my fantasy!

Eric’s Mind-Blowing Pairing: Bill Compton. I find Bill so incredibly boring that it would take an Eric fuck-over to breathe any life into this piece of walking dead.

Jessica and Jason. I’ve never been a huge Jason Stackhouse fan, but man, do they write some hilarious lines for this uber-stud with an IQ of a tit mouse (“Santa?” anyone?). Stackhouse is known for taking his shirt off, drinking beer, taking his shirt off, and screwing the ladies. A lot. And he seems pretty good at it actually, even though he’s probably like only Tom Cruise-sized in real life. Jason started banging his BFF’s hottie, Jessica, who is pretty damn sizzling hot as far as the show’s chicks go. Jason inspired one of the best lines last season by Sheriff Andy Bellefleur, “conscience off, dick on!”

In the back of a pick-up truck, oh yeah! This show just gets trashier and trashier...

 Jason’s Mind-blowing Pairing: Andy Bellefleur.

Pam and that ‘Law & Order: SVU’ dude. I’ve never liked Christopher Meloni, the latest cast member to join ‘True Blood’ as part of The Authority. I think it’s just that he has that whole asshole cop look to him. Perhaps that’s why they cast him as part of The Authority. And that is why I want Pam to eat his face off.

No one wants you here. Seriously. Get out of my show.

And ‘True Blood’ characters we never, ever want to see do it. Hoyt’s mom. Russell Edgington. Tara (again). No one cares what happens with Tara. And please, no more Andy Bellefleur ass shots.

10 Other Things I Would Like To See Justin Bieber Do

Amid this week of fuckwittery and tomfoolery, I stopped and thought: I wonder what my man the Biebs is up to?

Well, a lot, quite frankly. In addition to assaulting paparazzo and slamming his head into glass, the Bieb is a very busy man, being’s that he just turned 18 and has a new album coming out, and being featured in GQ magazine as a Man.

Well, Biebs, welcome to adulthood. Here are 10 more things I would like to see you do in the coming year:

1. Somehow infiltrate the couple that has become “Kimye” and break that shit up…sing “Boyfriend” to Kim K. whilst dumping some Cristal or something on Kanye—make a scene. Get married by hosting large wedding on E! and make Ryan Seacrest even richer with your ridiculous wedding reality show: “Kim and Bieber: Forever!”


Mmm...Kim K. Now with more flavor crystals.

2. Get incessantly bitch-slapped by Tyrion Lannister aka Peter Dinklage, the Pimp.

'Nuff said.

3. Set a $100K Birkin bag on fire.



4. Stop using Twitter. Just stop. Please.

5. Film new movie “Always Say Always…”

6. Now that John Edwards has some more free time since he got off, perhaps you can collaborate on another Ryan Seacrest venture: “Awesome Hair 101.”

All I can hear is him singing a song, "I'm sorry, so swarry..." in that lil' Kim Jong Il puppet voice from 'Team America.'

And for good measure, here’s that:

7. Show up at the MTV Movie Awards wearing a thong and baby-tee. Sit on Eminem’s face.

8. Call Justin Timberlake. Ask him how you do this.

9. Somehow, someway, get a “Toddlers & Tiaras” type YouTube talent show search on, looking for the next Mini-You. Have Mini-Bieber sit on your lap, like Mini-Me in Austin Powers, at all public events.

10. Film a rom-com with Zac Efron, fighting over who gets to bang Katherine Heigl, filled with all sorts of nursing bra and vaginal suppository jokes. Call it “Milf.”

"uh, yeah, so I haven't had a crap project in a while...call me!"

Got it, Biebs? Your next major project awaits! Love and kisses. Me.

Girls! Girls. Girls?

Like everyone else with HBO, or the ability to get on Pirate Bay, I have viewed the much-buzzed-about new series, “Girls.” “Girls” is about four early 20-something white chicks, presumably from privileged-enough backgrounds that they can walk around the city and sit around their seemingly decent apartments smoking cigarettes and weed in their fashionable consignment shop wear, bitching about their lives.

If you'd see this on a park bench, you'd flick your lit cigarette at it.

Dear HBO,

Do we need more shows about entitled white kids? Or are we all good now?


I want to like this show. Really. Seriously. It has the capacity to be good, but somehow the private-schooled, unpaid internship, finding yourself in north Brooklyn (aka Williamsburg and “Greenpoint,” as we learned last night, which is essentially the same thing with more Polish people and delis) preys on Every Little Thing I Fucking Hate About New York.

Way to go HBO. You’ve managed to make yet another precious show about NYC. See “Bored to Death,” the twee, adorable adventures of one Jonathan Ames (who is actually a decent writer), which has since been cancelled.

First thing: If you’re going to write about New York and its neighborhoods, please get your details right. The bars Weather Up and Washington Commons are in Prospect Heights, not Cobble Hill. Two completely different fucking neighborhoods—kind of like getting the Villages mixed up. BTW, both those bars suck.

Moving on… I don’t know what bothers me most about this show…the fact that it smacks of insider privilege from the get-go. Creator/Director/Writer Lena Dunham’s own history begins the problems: in addition to her own very precious background (artist parents, Oberlin), she got the series through her first indie film, “Tiny Furniture,” which means she was a film-making and being bankrolled instead of actually working through some shitty, unpaid internships, whilst living in some rat-infested studio in Bed-Stuy.

Indeed, Dunham does exhibit talent for her medium—her characters get in very New York-y type situations, say funny, clueless things—but, I guess after years of living in a city, struggling to pay bills and survive with a shred of dignity instead of waking up with female condoms on my doorstep, I’m tired of hearing this NY story: Rich kids move to city; “struggle” through demeaning jobs (not really); don’t get what they want; repeat.

One of the show’s promo clips even shows Dunham saying to herself in the mirror: “You are from New York. You are automatically more interesting than other people.” Or something like that. People actually believe this shit about themselves, it’s just that this joke isn’t funny anymore. Especially when you’re surrounded by these kids.

I don’t know about anyone else, but I am incredibly suspect of anyone who hasn’t had to have a shitty gig at least once in his or her lifetime. To this effect, the most annoying character in Episode One, Mr. Brooklyn—the overeducated, non-stop talking, vintage sweater-wearing know-it-all—spits out something along the lines of “You guys have no idea what problems are. I have $50K in student loans,” whilst mixing up some opium tea. If Mr. Brooklyn is your Common People Touchstone, you got fucking problems.

Is it the incessant whining about their miniscule problems? Endless self-absorption? Or inability to make decisions and stand up for themselves? I don’t know. All I know is that I had to have more balls than this at 22.

So, TV, enough with these Entitled White Kid NY Stories. Here are some shows I’d like to see:

1. Kenny Powers takes over managing his hometown Wal-Mart.

2. The Norma Rae story gets a 21st century facelift—factory workers (oh, wait, are there American factories left?) who make a few bucks above minimum wage on the night shift get into silly antics, meth.

3. Overseas volunteers near some refugee camps navigate 12-year-olds with semi-automatic weapons, diarrhea and teaching people how to use female condoms. It could be called “NGO.”

4. “Johnny F.: Pool Boy.” A 30-something man who services pools in the Hamptons’ raucous experiences with Real Housewives, exotic pets, marble saunas and diaper sex.

5. “The Young Ones: The New York Years.” Find four fuckwits trying to pay their rent in NYC: a bike messenger, a wannabe chef who’s slinging sandwiches at a greasy spoon, a truck driver and an unemployed. Throw together in an unheated, bed-bug ridden, industrial loft in East Bushwick. Make one of them sleep behind a sheet in the corner of the apartment and pee in a bucket. Repeat.

Or just bring back Roseanne.

The 8 Dumbest People in Pop Culture This Month (And One Really Smart One)

1. Anyone who paid money for the new Madonna album, MDNA. OK, this technically puts it into the hundreds of thousands along dumb people lines. I have loved Madonna for ages and ages—actually still do. I, too, grew up grinding and grinding to “Like a Virgin” and wearing my sister’s training bra as a top before I even knew what virgin meant. But if you absolutely must purchase mediocre party songs, buy them made by someone under 30, will you please?

2. Levi Johnston. Christ. He’s like the K Fed of Alaska.

levi johnston

Please google image "Levi Johnston shirtless," lose your lunch. You're welcome.

3. Oh, Rick Santorum. You are that annoying party guest who lingers by the Ritz and fake spray cheese when the last mini-van has pulled out of the driveway.

rick santorum

"Uh, where's your plunger?"

4. Anyone who will pay money to see that “American Pie: Reunion” movie. Nope, still not funny.

american pie reunion

This promo shot for the movie begs the question: In what West Hollywood dumpster did they unearth Tara Reid?

5. Kim and Kanye. I don’t know what fresh hell is to be revealed to us through these two mashing their body parts together, but it’s probably a good sign that, indeed, 2012 is the end for humankind.

kim and kanye

It's so shiny!

6. Kirk Cameron. As a child, I had two major Teen Beat fueled crushes, and like most American women, one I’d defend to this day—River Phoenix would truly be in Johnny Depp territory by now—and the other? Eh, in every life a little Scott Baio must fall. My Scott Baio was Kirk Cameron, that lovable buffoon on “Growing Pains” with his goofy big nose and gangly limbs, getting all bad grades and charming the ladies. Well, Kirk has grown into a tremendous douche, and while most of the time, his Christian Campaign has been mildly amusing and ignorable, he’s now getting into Crazy Land territory with his stupid, stupid documentary “Monumental,” and even dumber comments on gay marriage. Hey, Santorum, can you pass the spray cheese?

7. Frat Boys. I will never, ever leave an opportunity on the table to kick frat boys while they’re down. And this month is no exception with the Dartmouth scandal being the latest in WTF to explode out of a misogynist, classist, racist system that requires insecure business majors to pay major bucks to make friends and live in a house that constantly smells like feet and jizz. Nothing will convince me that these assholes aren’t headed for careers at Goldman Sachs—and will easily eclipse my life’s earnings in their first-year bonus. But, hey, they ate vomit in college. How cool!

8. That “Is Anyone Up” guy. I’m all for turning a quick buck on the Internets—and support our right to porn—but this is just mean. And loads of bad karma. Also, folks, Don’t Take Pictures! You know it’s going to end up online at some point.

Well my, my, what a Pigdog.

9. And one smart guy, Drew Magary of Deadspin, who truly inspired great levels of writerly jealousy in me this week, using a word in GQ magazine I have never seen before, or if I had, forgot it existed: Pigdog. Yep, pigdog is such a brilliant use of two derogatory terms that it gladly joins the canon of other great words that are becoming, unfortunately, overused, thus lessening their great power: dickbag, douchebag, etc. Welcome, pigdog, to my vernacular. I look forward to working you into many conversations in the coming weeks, before you get all tired out by May.

10 Things Steven Tyler Ruined For Me

OK, OK, he butchered the national anthem last weekend before the Patriots/Ravens game, but Steven Tyler has been mucking up a lot of bizness for everyone for quite a while.

All that said, as he rambled up to the song’s albeit gritty, screeching climax, lest we forget that most rock singers really can’t sing to begin with…to sound remotely good they typically rely on their sideman’s ax (cue Joe Perry), an extravagant light show and the fact that their middle-aged audience has been pounding Jager bombs since the babysitter showed up.

This is what Insane Clown Posse fans grow up to be.

Also, Tyler is on another little shitshow we like to call “American Idol,” which also launched last week, squashing the hopes and dreams of thousands of mediocre to completely untalented teens who think that this may be a real career path for them, can I get a ‘Mer-Kuh, fuck yeah?

Here’s a quick recap of 10 things that Steven Tyler has ruined for me:

1. Last month, “O” the Oprah Mag, featured a very special interview with Oprah and Tyler. In it, the two strolled hand in hand next to his home in the New Hampshire woods, talking about drugs, getting off drugs, being bored, being bored on the road, finding redemption, and getting on “A.I.” Thanks for ruining my February issue of “O.” I was looking forward to another 3,000 word cliched expose on finding my true spirit, not a print recap of your “Behind the Music” special.

I am always amazed when worlds collide like this, like Stephen Hawking meeting Pamela Anderson, or Bill Gates having coffee with a Kardashian.

2.Once upon a time, before I started developing decent taste in music, there was a land. A land next to Omaha, Neb., where Aerosmith was a-coming to town with Jackyl (remember those idiots with a chainsaw?) opening. I had to go. It was the concert experience of the season!

And so, we purchased our tickets with our meager minimum-wage salaries, and I duly requested the night off work weeks in advance of the protocol. Even though I was attending school full-time and pretty much pulling close to 35-40 hours per week in work, my manager gave me shit about this. I had to swallow a ton of shit, in fact. For one lousy night off, I had to hear about my uppity need to go see Aerosmith. “Ooo, I guess someone has no work ethic…instead they need to go see Aerosmith..” And on and on this went.

I thought, this better be one hell of a fucking show.

No matter. A small amount of shit to take from a small-town, SuperValu cokehead, non-deoderant-wearing manager is a tiny sacrifice to go see the rock ‘n’ roll. We drove to Omaha. We sat up in the nosebleeds. We pretended to like the Jackyl guy swinging his chain saw around. Then Aerosmith came on. It was Ok. The End.

Which was probably one of my first lessons in overhyped, expensive, shit-eating things that you are told will be the Ultimate Experience Ever (see also Disney World; Nascar events; Super Bowl) you will want to do, and when you get there, you realize that you really need not ever do that again, a la David Foster Wallace style.

3. Dodge Truck Commercials (see No. 4).

4. Steven Tyler ruined Vegas Whores for me. Years later, I was reviewing the Aerosmith show in Las Vegas. Now this was some sort of re-re-invented Aerosmith. You know, past the drugged-out, spacy ’70s, past the whole Run D.M.C. ’80s resurrection, past the ’90s party jams for dumb boys resurrection. You know. Resurrected.

The entire show, I shit you not, was a commercial for Dodge trucks. Aerosmith signed some big sponsorship deal, and although I’d seen Microsoft banners and the like plastered all over the backstage at Rolling Stones, etc., never before had I seen the commercial become the actual concert. Dodge was everywhere, dripping from the ceiling, dripping from the stage. At one point, Aerosmith even busted out the song they wrote specially for a Dodge commercial while the ACTUAL DODGE COMMERCIAL played on a large screen behind them.

But the worst? The gave out these little glowy red keychains with the Dodge insignia on them and people were fighting tooth and nail to get a hold of them… the bathroom was a frenzied scene of botoxed Orange Co. moms and former strippers scraping their two-inch talons toward one another to grasp them. Women who were once enthralled to score some free stale coke and a nearly expired condom in the bathroom were now clamoring for Dodge glow-in-the-dark keychains. It was one of the saddest things I’ve ever seen in my life.

Also a testament to how easy it is to dazzle the idiot eye of American consumers.

5. Scarves.

6. Liv Tyler. I think I could have possibly enjoyed you somewhat as an actor-thingy. But your dad’s molesty-type use of you in his rock videos put the kabosh on all that.

Two careers jettisoned by a creepy old man's idea of a roadtrip. RIP Alicia Silverstone's career.

7. Run D.M.C. (Just kidding! Nothing will ruin “It’s Tricky” for me. Nothing!)

8. My dream of becoming a grayed-out, drugged-up version of a crazy old rich person. Yep, you’ve ruined that completely for the rest of us.

9. Man boobs. Man boobs on fat bloke? Pure comedy. Man boobs on scrawny bloke? Tragedy.

His boobs are definitely not awesome.

10. Love in an elevator. You just try doing it now without hearing that song in your head.

What to do? What to do? But count my BK commercial monies?