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I thought nothing could top Spinning Into Butter, the leaden, completely uninspired race drama starring Sarah Jessica Parker, who'll surely live to forget it. But we already have a new nadir in '09 cinema: I Hate Valentine's Day written by, directed by, and starring three-time loser Nia Vardalos, who has a big, fat bomb here.

It's bad enough that Vardalos plays a florist with two pseudo-campy, completely stereotyped and sexless gay assistants who seem fresh out of an early '90s sitcom. It's even worse that the film lamely makes fun of such ancient targets as modern art and karaoke, for God's sake. And that Vardalos and John Corbett meet cute, fight cute, and go through some contrived breakups just so they can patch things up and make the film's 90 or so choppy minutes seem very much longer.

Our favorite punching bag--four-eyed, two-chromosomed Sarah Palin--weirdly resigned as Governor of Alaska the other day, and her reasons seemed so sketchy that left-wingers started immediately wondering just what hideous scandal is about to hit the freezing fan. Did she club a baby seal? Is she finally ready to answer the Katie Couric question "What do you read?" and the answer is so damaging that she can't possibly continue in public office? Does she have a secret girlfriend in Argentina? Has Bristol been implanted with eight embryos?

Whatever the case, read this blog speculating on the supposed "iceberg scandal" to come and give it some thought. Then turn on QVC and see if she's there yet.

Photo of Philly skyline by Ed Yakovich

First of all, I'm assuming you do live in New York because I have tunnelvision and can only see five feet in front of me. But let's say you had to move somewhere--anywhere--else. Where aside from NYC could you exist in America and be just as comfy and complacent? I could only perhaps haul my gay ass to Philadelphia or Providence because they have some culture and besides, you can get around those places on a bike (or on bended knee). So I'm including them in the list of choices, which are:

The other day, The New York Times reported that HX Media had suspended publication of The New York Blade, the biweekly gay newspaper that was a shadow of its former self. But they also let go all employees of HX itself--meaning the weekly gay bar magazine that's long covered nightlife and entertainment--the magazine having been sold to undisclosed buyers. Apparently the current issue--with Bruno on the cover--will be the last one for a while (hopefully not forever; I need to keep up on my gogo boys).

Rumors have everyone from New York Press to Next having bought the mag, but whatever the case, every drag queen I know is walking around in withdrawal over the lost weekly publicity fix, and there's nothing nastier than an unhappy drag queen. Come back, HX and save us from these trannie messes!

Fuck you, world, for bringing me into this weird, dispiriting earth situation. I never asked to be born!

Fuck you for making it a Twilight Zone scenario whereby every moment of your life brings you closer to death and total oblivion!

I'm beyond horrified that Al Franken will be sworn in as a Minnesota senator. Not because of his liberal politics, mind you--I adore them-- but because people sometimes mistake me for the comic-turned-politico, and I was secretly hoping he'd go away so this wouldn't happen anymore. I am not making this up, people. A man once chased me down the street insisting I was Franken and imploring me to sign an autograph, smoke billowing out of his nose with a vehemence that suggested I'd better go along with this crazed identity mishap or die. Others run up to me and gurgle, "I loved you as Stuart Smalley!" thinking they're ever so perceptive and adorable as they wait for me to say "I'm good enough..."

Even before JonBenet Ramsey's sad plight, I felt that those faded beauty queen mothers who pushed their daughters into kiddie pageants in order to live out their twisted Mama Rose-like dreams belonged on Death Row along with molesters and serial killers. But I will say that their kids manage to sport some pretty great looks en route to the runway! Inappropriate at times, and downright bizarre for sure, but still quite photogenic!

A little facial hair, carefully trimmed and sculpted, can be quite appealing and even downright sexy at times. But too many guys misuse their male privilege and use their faces as wayward canvases for unspeakable arrays of glaring hair-don'ts.

The worst offenders have big, flowing beards to throw you off the scent that they're completely bald. It doesn't work. They just look like bald guys with beards!

Michael Jackson's illustrious but weird life will surely be turned into a TV movie as soon as the sequins get cold. So I've been doing some imaginary casting and coming up with these fanciful yet mildly disturbing inevitabilities:

As Michael: Usher. They can digitize the surgery.

As the other members of the Jackson 5: Who cares? Do you even know all their names?

Back when little Jordan Chandler was in the middle of those torrid allegations against Wacko Jacko, you'd have to have been SICK to think "He's super hot." But look at Jordie now that he's all grown up and quite woof-y. It's enough to warrant a loud chorus of "Pretty Young Thing"!