Have Your Wedding at a Pigface Show!!!!!!!!!!!! Oh, wait. It's over.

Belting It Out

I found it disheartening when 15 minutes of fame became expected. You’d see the "Survivor" idiots all over the place. Here there and everywhere. But at least they had some decent screen time. Apparently, with our short attention spans and disdain for anyone with a brain, now you barely have to be on TV at all to merit a mention.

Sort of sucks to be this dude, though, I guess. No one would give a hoot if I went out and socked someone in a bar fight. Who am I? No one is the correct answer. But just because this guy sang like drowning jackalope and had no self-respect, he gets put up on CNN.com. Poor sucker(puncher). He's probably proud of it though.

"American Idol" arrested for punching someone, instead of his awful pipes

Go Boy, Go

Neal Pollack sometimes is the greatest man ever. Other times, he confuses me. This time, I would marry him if he'd have me:

NP: "As for Williamsburg, well, you know that it's unspeakable. If you can find two people you like in Williamsburg, go over to their house, rent a couple of movies, pick up a pizza, order a bag of pot from the delivery service, and don't leave until noon the next day. It'll be more fun than going to Luxx, despite what Jeff Koyen says."

The rest of it.

Something Short Today: In Loo of Anything Else

Suddenly I got to go real bad.

UPOC's Humana

To do: Sign up with UPOC's NY Terror Alert group.

Casting Call

Wake me up when Dreyfus comes on.

"On March 30, 1981, John Hinckley attempts to assassinate President Ronald Reagan (Richard Crenna) in front of the Washington Hilton. While Reagan is in the hospital, Secretary of State Alexander Haig (Richard Dreyfus) takes control at the White House, only to find himself close to nuclear conflict with the Soviet Union. A thought-provoking portrait of an infamous day in American history that was fraught with far more chaos than the public knew."

Netflix

This might be the scariest picture ever. It's like some sort of mother-daughter sex show ad. This just can't be happening. My eyes! My eyes!

Say a Little Prayer for My Demo

Ex-execs from Spin and Vibe are launching a music mag for old farts like Gage (happy birthday) and I. "This generation wants to maintain a contemporary relationship with pop culture, including music. And they need a guide," John Rollins, one of the execs, said. 23 skiddoo!

Ad Age

I don't watch a lot of reality TV. No, really, I don't. I watched most of the episodes of "Joe Millionaire" and the first season of MTV's "Real World," but other than that I steer pretty much clear of it. I suppose I have some real interesting, philosophical problems with it (e.g., they're actors; it's meta-TV; it's the decline of western civilization; etc.), but it pretty much boils down to the fact that it just bores me. They all look the same, talk the same, there's no plot, no character development. There's just not much there.

However, the other night, waiting to go out drinking, I caught the first half hour of "Married to America." It got me thinking about men in America today. I'm not talking specifically about the women and men on "Married," but I started getting frustrated.

First off, we all understand that women's magazines are pretty bad things - in the sense that they tell women to spend lots of money, lose lots of weight, and be subservient to men. They are evil. But it seems that men are coming up against these same dilemmas.

It used to be (or some I'm told by older geezers) that rich men did better in life than normal guys. That was the norm for years: women had to be hot and men had to be rich. It was unfair, sure, but in a way it was equal. Each sex had to achieve something. Sure, the goals we were told to go after were more than a little stupid and sexist and all that, but we each had one goal. Occasionally, I suppose, a woman might be both hot and rich and a man might be good looking and rich, but those were exceptions. Remember the Kissinger quote, after all: "Power is an aphrodisiac."

With the advent of all these reality shows and the huge spike in lad mags like Maxim, men are being told to do double duty. We not only have to be successful, we have to be hot as well, or at the least have a washboard stomach. Women, however, more or less still have only one goal. ('’m talking pretty culturally generally here; I'm talking about what the media tells us to do and be, not real life). Of course, more and more men like a woman who has a good job but I really don't think too many care if she's super hot.

It doesn't really matter in the end, though: he couldn’t get the really hot girl unless he had buckets of money. Sucks to be a dude.

I think I mentioned that last week I got old and turned 31. Let me see, ah yes, there it is. I knew I wasn’t losing my mind already. Phew. I mention this because I think I have finally completed my transition to Completely Fucking Outta Touch With The Youngsters. It’s been a while since I understood a single word said by Carson Daily, but I used to think I dressed at least partly hipply.

When I was a wee lad in stirrup pants and a jockstrap (I’m talking about Little League, you perverts!), we used to spend hours working the brim of our caps into the proper shape. It was mandatory that you get it into just the right curve, not too angular but with a nice arc to it, like a good throw from centerfield to home plate. If you didn’t have a well-turned brim, at the end of the game (games we inevitable lost by a landslide) you had to settle for RC Cola, not the good stuff: Mello Yellow.

Nowadays, though, I’ve noticed the curved brim is decidedly not cool. The with-it inner-city kids I see on the subway leave their brims flat as my washboard abs. You could balance a ping pong ball on those things. They jut out like a diving board. Flat like pancake. Flat like a joke falling at a wake. Flat like still water. You could walk the plank of those things. Flat I say. Enough said.

My collection of vintage (and ironic) head gear, once the definition of fashionable, is suddenly useless and foolish looking. I guess it’s time for me to cut the umbilical cord to yesteryear and put the lot of them up on eBay. I’m sure the one that says “Reynold’s Towing” won’t fetch much, but “I’m With Fatty” might buy me a half-decent dinner.

Required Reading

Meet the new boss, same as the old boss: Davos bigwigs

You ain't worth shite: I'm a millionaire!

I hate people: Vacation, holiday.

My birthday was Friday, 31 years too late to be saved apparently.