Contrary to the mound of cynic evidence on the internet, I don’t hate (or even try to hate) everything.  Quite the opposite, I’ve been known to pose for pictures making “a face like I love it**.” Love what?  I don’t know…it?  Anyway, in an effort to be a more positivity filled lady, I will now add to the popserious repertoire a “Like You Love It” feature. 

I was reminded of how much love it I have when a friend sent me a video of Brandon Flowers performing Betty Davis Eyes.  He must be gearing up for his solo album (yes, I preordered) and I am putting it out there now for the world to read.  This video, I LOVE IT. 

Yes *shaking my head enthusiastically* I love The Killers.  Love them like I love caprese salads, fall nighttime football games and lying on a freshly vacuumed carpet in a patch of sun like a cat.  I am unashamed.  Why do I love them so?  I don’t know… such is Mango.  To look at them, The Killers are embarrassingly the antithesis of ground-breaking.  They showed up on the radar about the same time as Franz Ferdinand with about the same sound, but those boys drew me in with their synthesized pop, skinny suits, the slow amazing build of “All These Things I’ve Done.”  Sure, okay, their sound has “evolved.”  Not really.  They have incorporated influences in a contrived way – the way they channeled the Boss for Sam’s Town or Bowie for Day and Age wasn’t a sophisticated undercurrent of evolution so much as it was an “Oh, so they’re doing Rosalita, now, haha, yeah.”  Then to make sure you got it, B Flo and the group hit you over the head by changing their looks to match album.  It was not how-jou-say avant-garde, I don’t care.  I make excuses for them like a kid caught under the bleachers huffing poppers.  “They’re in on joke, they get it…”  In truth, they probably don’t. 

Maybe it’s just for Brandon Flowers.

That sexy swaggering voice and sweet Mormon boy face which spawned my love of the ironic moustache…  Rufus Wainwright said “He is so sexy yet so unhappy and also somewhat sane and crazy at the same time. I haven’t met anyone who quite fits the Brando mould as much as he does immediately. There’s this dark, moody, restless, annoyed by compassionate figure that’s sucking up all the energy out of the room.”  That sounds like 85% of the people I’ve dated/lusted over so that makes sense…

All the reasons to not like this band aside, I still dance in my apartment to Hot Fuss, still sing “When You Were Young” loudly and in a Brit accent in my car (try it = totally fun), and still spend many an evening wondering if Brando tastes like potato chips in the morning.  Love it.

**Seriously, try it, tell someone right before you take a photo to “make a face like you love it” = best photos ever.  Nigel Barker has nothing on my friend Tim

A few nights ago I was having a chat with a new friend which quickly turned to Jennifer Aniston’s use of the “R” word.  It seems that it’s just another in a long string of what has been really piss poor judgement on the part of Hollywood’s ladies.  I don’t think they need rehab of any sort.  I don’t think they need jail time either.  It won’t help.  The only thing that will, the only thing that possibly can, is a taste of their own medicine.  Yes, lock them in a house together.  That’s why I bring to you my ideal cast for the Bad Girls’ Club: Celebrity Edition.

If you’ve not seen the Oxygen show Bad Girls’ Club, let me fill you in.  First of all, you’re not missing anything, so please don’t search hulu for this garbage.  Secondly it’s not the 1994 movie about hookers in the old west.  It is simply putting 7 of the most obnoxious self-centered women on the planet in the same house and giving them loads of booze.  Now that you’ve got the premise, here’s the dream team cast:

Tila Tequila – She recently had bottles, rocks and feces thrown at her while she tried to perform at an Insane Clown Posse show.  Yeah, that’s about right.  What did she think was going to happen to her at this show?  That it was going to be like an episode of a Shot at Love?  That the entire crowd would try to carry hot dogs across a oiled-up slip ‘n’ slide with only their butt cheeks in an attempt fill a baby pool with the sausages and then she’d make out with everyone at the show only until she decided that she liked boys more than girls and fly off with one lucky s.o.b. to Cabo to give him a raging case of syphilis?  No, Tila, it was never going to be like that.  Because people don’t understand why your famous, and you’re not really a singer, and that’s the bottom line.  This was probably a very well organized modern-day witch burning.  To that I say, Well Played Jugaboos.

JWoWW – I bet you thought I was going to say Snooki, didn’t you?  I do love some Snooki.  I love that she’s just been arrested for being annoying.  I love that she wears false eyelashes to bed.  I love her little brown weird shaped body.  She’s like the mole growing on the back of your arm that you need checked out by a dermatologist.  For this Bad Girls Club, though, you gotta go JWoWW.  She’s ready to throw down ALL THE TIME.  Remember season 1 of Jersey Shore when some chick called Snooki fat?  Then there was that dramatic beat 1…2…and then JWoWW went Kraken all over the girl?  Classy and fun.  She also makes the cast because she constantly threatens to beat up everyone in the Jersey Shore house.  Here’s the thing, she has to know that the Jersey Shore producers are not going to let her stay on the show if she beats up people in the house.  It has got to be in Angelina’s contract that if she comes back in the show they won’t let someone break her hook nose or tear out her $19.99 Paris Hilton hair extensions.  JWoWW goes into the club because in my perfect world, she’s allowed to unleash her fury any time, any place. Also, because her boobs defy gravity. 

Ke$ha – It’s no $ecret I’ve had a hard time with Ke$ha.  I think $he’s cornered the music market on cha$hing in on not being able to $ing, but having $ick producer$.  That $aid, I $pent most of my $aturday $inging “You’re Love i$ My Drug” to one of my gay boyfriend$.  What do you want from me?  It’$ catchy and I’m $arcastic not immune to booty $haking!  Ke$ha gets welcomed to the hou$e because I want to $ee fir$thand if she really bru$hes her teeth with a bottle of Jack, if $he huffs glue a$ a pre-gamer, and if $he pa$$e$ out in a puddle of her own pee after a night out at the dirty free for all.

Lindsay Lohan – Duh. 

Fantasia Barrino – My friend Nate LOVES Fantasia even more after her recent suicide attempt (with aspirin – kinda lame, right?  Comon’ this was just a call for attention, right?  Right?!).  Let’s give her the attention she wants.  She may not be the obvious choice for the club, but if you do the math, I think you’ll see a compelling argument to get her in the door.  She tried to commit suicide (+1), RECENTLY (+15), she was on Broadway (-5), in an Oprah produced show (+5), Adultery (+3), with a sex tape (+7), won American Idol when it was good (-3) = 23.  I probably should’ve laid out what the scandal number had to be before the equation, but I’m making this up as I go along, and 23 is a pretty big number…  She’s IN.

Kristen Stewart – Not so much because she IS a hot mess, but because she LOOKS like one most of the time.  She also looks like she could be a total b.   Sure, I’m judging a book by its cover.  But the cover of this book reads “Stay 50 feet Away Because I’ve Not Showered and I May Kick You in the Shins.”  Kristen Stewart would be that shady roommate in the house who you’re 85% certain steals your stuff.  Everyone had one.  The one that would maybe take a pair of your black pants to wear out on Saturday and then two weeks later you’re all, “I want to go to the Sigma Chi party tonight, has anyone seen my black pants I like to wear with this slutalicious tube top?  Kristen???” (yeah I went to college in 2001).  Only she’d never answer you because she’s also the roommate that sits in the corner chain smoking Basic 100’s while on the phone with her tortured on-again-off-again boyfriend.

Whitney Houston – She’s no newbie to reality TV and as the den mother of this express train to crazy town, Whit could offer some great life lessons.  1) She could teach Ke$ha to sing.  2) She could teach JWoWW to smoke crack.  3) She could teach Tila Tequila how to get a man to pull poop out of her butt. 4)  She could regale Fantasia Barrino with lessons on how to make a “comeback” when your voice is ruined.  5)  She could teach Kristen Stewart how to achieve the Greatest Love of All.  6) She could teach Lindsay Lohan…well, nothing, Lindsay’s probably seen it all before…but I cannot wait for her to yell “LINDSAY!” in the same voice she used to beckon “BOBBY!”

I’ll give anyone 20% of the profits if they can put me in touch with a  producer that can make this happen.  True story.  Now if you’ll excuse me, Dating in the Dark is coming on - quality.

Bear with me.  I rarely blog on a personal note, but I’m going through some stuff and this Zoloft I bought in the pharmacy at the Cancun Airport is not doing the trick.  You see, Monday marked the first day back from the longest vacation I’ve taken in 5 years.  A full 10 days away from house and home and work and worries.  I’ve just returned from a super-filth trip with two besties South-of-the-Border and after waking up 9 mornings in a row with true hangovers, only to dive back into the nearest glass of anything containing tequila what I have these mornings is much, much worse.  Add this term to your lexicon, friend-os, because I’m coining it now and you can once say you heard it from this booze-hound’s mouth first: Vacation Hangover.

You may say, “That can’t be a HANGOVER!  The term hangover is defined by Merriam-Webster as: ‘Unpleasant physical effects following the heavy consumption of alcohol!’ And you’re just mentally depressed to not be with your peeps on the beach!” and I would say “TRUE and FALSE!” and then I would then cite the Mayo Clinic’s symptoms of a hangover and lay out this compelling an side by side argument a la Vinny Gambini

• Fatigue – Dudes, I am super fatigued.  I have to wake up at 6 am.  6.  AM!  I was not aware there was a 6 anywhere on a clock.  Mostly because on vacation at 6 AM I was asleep and at 6 PM I was taking a siesta.  This fact – that there are times involving the number 6 in the day is a disturbing shock to my system.
• Thirst – For anything with sour mix.  I actually grew to LIKE the overly sweet nectar of our Mexican neighbors.  Now, I down-right crave it.  My first sip of water on Monday morning made my body say “whaaaaaa–?” and my liver punch me straight in the babymaker.
• Headaches and muscle aches – From staring at a computer screen and sitting in a desk chair.  I’m so used to being in a reclined position outside that this is killing my gluteus maximus.
• Nausea, vomiting or stomach pain –On the commute in and dreading my overly full email inbox which I know is mostly asinine emails which have already been resolved in my absence.
• Poor or decreased sleep – I can’t sleep at 1 PM anymore without someone waking me up.  Buzzkillers.
• Sensitivity to light and sound – Mostly just the sound of my phone ringing or anyone on a conference call.  Also, not being able to wear my sunglasses at all points in the day is a pretty big let-down.  It means that I actually have to put on makeup in the morning.  This is also bad.
• Dizziness or a sense of the room spinning – I’m so confused everything is spinning out of control around me.  People are asking me to weigh in on issues I know nothing about and I am just trying to make it up on the spot.  However, you know what’s NOT spinning?  The damn clock!  These are the longest days of my life.   
• Bloodshot eyes – Caused by the tears shed 4 times a day when I have to actually PAY for stuff.  All-inclusive resorts, I heart you so much.
• Shakiness – I have no idea what’s going on here this week or what I missed last week, this makes me nervous, when I’m nervous I shake like a poodle on a cold day.  Also from withdrawal.
• Decreased ability to concentrate – I can’t concentrate at all.  All I can do is look at vacation pictures and desperately hope that a Mexican bartender will offer me a body shot.  
• Mood disturbances, such as depression, anxiety and irritability – this is normal, so I can’t really count this one.

As you can clearly see, because both the alcohol induced hangover and the vacation induced hangover show physical as well as psychological symptoms and are both available in metallic mint green paint, the defense holds wah-tuh.  Ok, I give up, I just miss the beach.

p.s. I just googled “vacation hangover.”  Turns out I did not coin the term, but all the sites and blogs out there that use it are lame, so I’m going to continue claiming that I did. 

What’s that glittery neon blue thing coming over the hill? IT’S A EUROVISION!!!!If you need be reminded of last year’s competition, Norway won and therefore hosted this year, ensuring that the ceremony was full of gnomes and vikings. Okay, there weren’t any gnomes (how I wish there were!), but they did bring out what I assume is the premiere hip-hop group in Norway/only two black dudes in Norway to sing while ‘flash mobs’ all over Europe got down (including some poor guy they dropped on a rock in the North Sea and commanded to dance). If you really want to see seven minutes of Europeans looking like dorks, knock yerself out.


The unofficial theme seemed to be ‘boring folk-style ballads’ and countries usually known for their eccentricities went for these safe songs. Naturally, the UK decided to overlook the vast amounts of talent in their nation and go for the humiliating last spot again. COME ON UK. You could even send in N Dubz and do better than that (please don’t judge me for knowing who N Dubz are). In the end, Germany won with a female singer doing her impersonation of every female singer from the UK in the past ten years. Queen Elizabeth must be kicking a corgi yelling “WHY?! I should have bloody gotten La Roux to represent us!”


Click on the ridiculous Euro-stars for their performances!


I had no idea Kenneth from ‘30 Rock’ was so passionate about the Balkans! Looks like Serbia finally made good use of that BeDazzler cousin Bratislav bought all those years ago! I thought this was a song about how great it is living in Belgrade or something, but turns out it’s about the same thing as every other pop song. Personal favorite badly translated lyric:  ”Your breasts is deadly weapon, kiss me like a chump.”


I don’t know how this video isn’t already a viral phenomenon, it has so much over-the-top cheese and wonderment that just watching it sends you back to the ’80s (we don’t need you anymore, DeLoreans). There’s the rotating guy with a mullet-mohawk playing the craziest violin I’ve ever seen, eyeshadow masks, Zack Attack hair, a sax solo, Ray-Bans worn indoors, a voice you’d never expect coming out of an effeminate man and DEAR GOD THE DANCE THE SAX PLAYER DOES. He almost literally makes love to his instrument. I can watch this video at least twice a day until the next Eurovision and never tire of it.


There isn’t that much hilariousness going on with this song, I just think it’s surprisingly well done for Eurovision. The Power Ranger/fembot thing in the background is a bit odd, but I can see 15-year-old me seriously liking this band. Even though I probably didn’t know where Turkey was back then (to my credit, I would be aware of it’s general proximity, but it’s easy to confuse Turkey with Bulgaria on a map). Fun fact: They all have awesome names like Özgür Can Öney and Yağmur Sarıgül, plus their drummer is a former astronomer.


France is one of the few countries that consistently has fantastic original artists representing them at Eurovision, yet they haven’t won in forever. Of all the songs this year, I predict this one in all it’s close-up booty (or should I say, derrière) shaking glory to make it across to the US as a summer dance hit. I’m not usually big on this type of music, but damn is it a fun track. Plus this singer (Jessy Matador) being absolutely adorable doesn’t hurt.


BELIEVE IT OR NOT! Yes, it’s Spain’s Greatest Hero! Singing a circus/toy/terrifying clown song with a bunch of backup dancers stolen from a Children’s Theatre performance of ‘The Velveteen Rabbit.’ For the best face of the competition, pause the video at 1:02. Reminds me of Big Al from ‘South Park.’ Already weird enough, this performance gets crashed by an apparently famous (well, famous enough for his own Wikipedia page) Spanish prankster. It’s Eurovision’s equivalent of that crazy lady who interrupted the guy accepting his Oscar for Best Documentary.


Slightly unrelated, but the man on the far right of this photo looks like a zombie. Sort of like a Lithuanian version of Rockapella, this group ditched the flash and were totally captivating without the accordions, breast implants, or flame cannons many of their competitors relied on.  Ska plus quirky matching outfits and synchronized dancing is always a gold star in my book. If everyone in Eastern Europe is like the people they send to represent them in Eurovision, I’m visiting there ASAP.

*******LOST. Here be spoilers. Now onward to my incoherent thoughts about the finale to my favorite show thus far in my 29 years of existence.*********

I forgive you, LOST. I forgive you for kinda copping out and having a shmaltzy (yet moving) end to a show that was dark and brooding for so long.

I forgive you for leaving so many loose threads and storylines over six seasons. I even forgive you for not having Mr. Eko back…when he was one of my favorite badasses. I know the actor wanted to be written off the show because he hated the climate of Hawaii, but c’mon.

Alright. Not a perfect ending, but any stretch of the dial. Smokey’s death? Kinda lame. Great, Kate. You finally did something useful. SHANNON AND SAYID? Say, what? You have to be kidding me. What about Nadia? Are we to believe that Sayid signed his pact with Smokey to get back with SHANNON? I totally missed that and am glad of it. Yuck.  I wish that we could have seen when/how all the Church of the Sideways souls died, ala “Six Feet Under”. That would have been dope. Instead, we only know when the characters died who died before Jack saved the island…so, Charlie, the Kwons, Locke, Shannon, Boone, Sayid, Christian, Libby etc. And can we talk about how Aaron the baby was in the Church of the Sideways souls, but no Kwon baby? Say, what, now?

Apropos of nothing, is it sad I wanted Smokey to slit Rose’s throat at their cabin? I wanted to be horrified and reminded how evil MIB (Man in Black, obv) is. He killed Zoe like it ain’t no thang (great performance from the actress who played Debbie in “Singles.”), why not Rose and/or Bernard? Vincent could have attacked him!

I am still drained from last night’s finale. I cried my eyes out. I cried during the 2 hour recap. I cried at all of the reunions in Sideways world/purgatory; I cried when Ben was forgiven by Locke. I LOVED that Sawyer and Juliet got their memories from the island back at a vending machine and I bawled some more. I used to HATE Juliet, but her heroic death detonating the a-bomb, made me feel for her. Kate delivering Claire’s baby? With Charlie there? UMMMMM, devastating. Sun and Jin back together? Delightful. VINCENT THE FUCKING DOG coming to Jack’s death in the bamboo and giving him comfort and company so he didn’t pass alone?! FUGGGEDAHBOUTIT.

I know that the finale posed more questions than it answered. But that’s true LOST fashion. I know that the themes of Christianity permeated the episode; Jack’s daddy issues, getting stabbed in his side by Smokey like Christ’s wounds in the crucifixion, the self sacrifice, the idea of forgiving those who trespassed against us (or strangling Locke in cold blood in a fit of jealousy), and the promise that our heaven is comprised of those we loved and lost—I’m a good catholic girl, at heart. I can’t help being moved by it. Thanks, Carlton Cuse, super Catholic extraordinaire.

I guess I was satisfied. The show opens with Jack’s eye open in a bamboo field and ended with it closing. (Apparently, this image was told to Matthew Fox in Season 1 as the closing scene of LOST, no matter what happened in between.) That’s pretty clever, guys. But what a gentle, sweet and kind ending to a show of such “lost” souls—at the risk of being controversial, this emotional ending gave us time to speculate for years to come.

I’ve been all but silent on the American Idol this season, but I’ve been watching every episode.  As I mentioned last season, I’m in an office pool on the AI, it includes mad trash talk - a nice break in otherwise uberstressful Wednesdays.  That is, every season but this one.  This season has been nothing but dread-filled Tuesdays when all day I’ve known that I have to go home and watch the hacks sing on Shamerican Idol.

At first, I kind of enjoyed the show.  Sure it was clear that Crystalmeth was the savior of the season.  I always like the chicks with soul.  But over the last month one thing has become abundantly clear.  The Vaders at Fox want Lee to win.  And if they want Lee to win, of course Lee is going to win.  You can tell for the following reasons:

• Lee is way more marketable.  Sure, they’ll make him lose 25 lbs, do a duet with Uncle Kracker and start dating Jessica Simpson, but they know Crystal’s going no where but Lillith Fair…as a vendor…of hemp necklaces.
• The judges keep convincing Lee and watchers of the show that Lee will win in not so subliminal ways by repeating “you can win this” “you will win this” “you threw down the gauntlet” and “crystal who?”
• Simon chose Lee’s “judges choice” song last night.  That’s the clincher.  He’s the only one on the show with sense.  Ellen chose Crystal’s song – Ellen is now the token idiot judge.  Casey got “Daughters” by John Mayer… they might as well have given him “Butterfly Kisses” and made him sing it at Harvey Weinstein’s daughter’s Bat Mitzvah.
• Lee sings out of the side of his mouth.  This is a pattern for winners.

You know I could be wrong.  I’ve been voting in the pool for the past 3 weeks that Casey would get the boot.  (p.s. if Casey does not go home this week, I quit civilization.  That guy is looking increasingly like a bloated hippie version of Ryan Sechrest.)  I guess it goes to show that the only thing you need to survive on an audience voting show in America is to be the only semi-good looking male.  Please note: Fox also convinced us that Casey was the good looking male on the show when they coached Kara to swoon upon her first sight of him.

American Idol has officially jumped the shark.  I don’t think I’ll be watching next season, but maybe I’ll stay in the office pool just to pick the winners like I pick my NCAA bracket, purely on looks. 

By the by, I saw on some news magazine that Adam Lambert was included in People’s most beautiful people issue.  Gross.  Anyway, he said that all you need to carry off a look is the confidence you can do it, so don’t listen to what anyone else says.  Bust out the bicycle shorts and mesh tank tops.  All you need is confidence.

This is going to get some hate mail.  Before you bring out the claws (Steve’s Dad), know that this comes from someone who likes Sex and the City.  I own all 6 seasons on DVD (it’s amazing to have gay friends who buy you gifts).  I was all about this television show…when it was a television show.  Now, an open letter to the folks behind Sex and the City 2.

Dear SATC Team,

What’s up my gays?  I realize times are tough for you, what with not being able to write scenes which show how you imagine straight sex goes (of note: it’s not really like that).  I get it, I’m there for you, but please, for the love of Manolos, Jimmys and Christians everywhere, stop making Sex and the City movies.  Now that these women are married, settled and have children, following their lives of trying to cling with the last injection of botox to their youthful sista’hood is all very desperate. 

In the past few years the characters we loved have turned into something else entirely.  Charlotte has become a caricature of an idiot when she was once a caring gallery curator trying to navigate the seas of men who just want to bang.  Carrie is now a wishy-washy ring chaser who continues to sabotage her own happiness at every turn.  Miranda is just a bitch these days.  And Samantha.  Oh Samantha.  I love Samantha.  Kim Catrall is a lovely woman.  Sexy and fun.  But she’s 54.  She’s the same age as the ladies on the Golden Girls (that’s right, 3 of that fab 4-some were supposed to be in their 50’s).  You’ve gone to a place where, when you cast 20-somethings having sex with her, we can’t help but wonder if it’s because they have a bet on who can bag the hottest old chick.  It’s like the boys that tried to pick up ladies at your college’s Mom’s Weekend.  It’s a little… much.  Can we please preserve the characters that empowered us chicks in 1998? 

Now you ladies, stop being so greedy.  Move on or move out, because off the royalties to this show, you can probably retire in that villa next to Clooney (watch out for WWII bombs).  Cut the ties.  You’ll feel freed (like when I went on a cruise and my cell phone didn’t get service, at first it was terrifying, then exhilarating).  Go back and watch that episode where Carrie tries out the flying trapeze.  Let me tell you, girls, you’re doing yourselves no justice letting the marketing folks at Warner Bros airbrush the heck outta your aging faces.  You don’t even look real.  It’s haunting me.  Last night I thought I saw Sarah Jessica Parker’s scary photoshopped glowing eyes staring at me from outside my window (don’t worry, it was just a raccoon). 

No note for the men of the show.  You guys are doing okay.  Evan Handler,  as Charlie Runkle on Californication – you are gold. 

LYLAS,
Erdahl.

**If you love Sex and the City and cupcakes and HATE this post, please visit my friends at affairaphernalia to get a themed cupcake stand and take it with you to see what will probably be the highest grossing piece of poo movie of the summer.**

I apologize to have been missing in action, dear Popserious readers.  With Spring comes major allergies and I have been hacking up a lung for the past fortnight. (”I have the black lung, pop.”)

That being said, I have come to appreciate a great new show on HBO called “Treme”…from the same amazing creative team of “The Wire.” (”The Wire” deserves its own post in all its gritty glory, but I need an eight ball to do that one justice. So maybe, later.)

“Treme” takes place in a working class neighborhood of New Orleans, months after Katrina raped NOLA in ‘05. The show is full of music, sadness, culture and humor.

Loads of famous musicians have been populating the episodes thus far, including Elvis Costello, Dr. John, and a bunch of famous Treme Brass musicians/New Orleans legends I am too uncultured to know by name.

The cast is great, too. Just a few to highlight:

Bunk from “The Wire” is a horny trombone player named Antoine Batiste and he’s banging strippers and getting in fights with the fuzz, his ex and his swarthy baby’s mama.

Steve Zahn, who will always be PFLAG-tastic, plays a pothead/musician/love interest for the local chef and is generally hilarious and charming. I have loved Mr. Zahn’s work in “Reality Bites” and “Saving Silverman.” Anything that showcases his funny and geeky sex appeal gets my vote.

Kim Dickens of “Deadwood” and supporting cast of “Lost” fame is a stressed chef trying to make ends meet and she keeps banging loser Steve Zahn, because who wouldn’t bang Steve Zahn?

John Goodman is character Creighton Bernette and alarmingly corpulent; screaming eff bombs on YouTube for aid from Dubbya and married to the neighborhood, pro-bono lawyer. I was really glad to see in National Enquirer that he recently lost 150 or so pounds since filming the first season, as watching “Treme,” you’re seeing John tip the scales at 4 hundo. I like him too much for him to be THAT unhealthy. That’s “Precious” territory. (Did everyone see Gabby on SNL? SHE WAS SWEATING FROM THE EXERTION OF TALKING.)

I can’t do justice to how good the acting is, how badass the music, and how much each episode makes you want to be in New Orleans—eating the food, drinking the hurricaines, and experiencing the people. It sounds corny and trite, but I love that town. It’s one of the last truly, unique places left in this country and what the show gives you is a glimpse at how vital and special that is…and how we need to preserve it.

I really hope this show will boost tourism and I hope you all get down to Louisiana, soon for a weekend of debauchery and Huge Ass Beers on Bourbon Street.

If you get to bang a hot street musician from Amsterdam with a suspected smack/crack or some other bad habit, that’s just a bonus.

Laissez le bon temps roulez.

In order to attend a concert and conduct an interview with a band I am slightly too embarrassed to mention the name of, my flatmate Katie and I recently set out on a trip to downtown Lancaster. Yes, there is a downtown Lancaster, it isn’t all farms and shoo-fly pies. Along the way we passed Pennsylvania’s many wonderfully named towns my friends from other countries don’t believe exist, such as Paradise, Gap, Bird in Hand, and my personal favourite, Ronks, which sounds like something The Major from ‘Soap’ would start yelling for no apparent reason. Other landmarks included a gas station sign promising a free pizza with every oil change (no thanks), a store called ‘Frizz and Freeze’ (which is an ice cream parlor, not a hair salon), a mini-golf course with a giant seemingly functional pirate ship in it’s lake (the only photo I took all day), and the house of James Buchanan, the only president from Pennsylvania (he was also the only bachelor president and the one everyone forgets on their fifth grade history tests because he didn’t exactly do anything).

But the greatest discovery was that of a Sonic. I know they are common sights to most, but oddly none can be found within a sixty mile radius of my house. Of course, they’re now building two in the Philly area, so I have a feeling I will get very fat if I ever learn how to drive in the near future. I’ve long been obsessed with the notion of drive-in restaurants, due to ‘American Graffiti’ and the fact that my Dad is slightly OCD, so the concept of being encouraged, nay, REQUIRED to eat in your car is outright rebellious to me. Plus there’s the commercials, in constant rotation on daytime TV, almost as bad as the Jack in the Box ads that taunt me knowing their closest location is in North Carolina. Screw you, NC, I happen to know for a fact that the Roanoke Colony citizens didn’t disappear, they moved up to Pennsylvania where we have Wawa. Take that historical diss and put it in your pipe, Sir Walter Raleigh.

Katie and I vowed to return to Sonic so that we may savor a post awkward concert shake and batch of onion rings. It was at this point we had planned to wander Lancaster City for hidden gems and adventure, except it was a Sunday so everything was closed. Boo-urns. The day was instead spent sitting in a van parked by Aunt Annies Pretzels Headquarters with a bunch of band bros straightening their hair and arguing who was hotter: Topanga from ‘Boy Meets World’ or Hillary from ‘Fresh Prince of Bel Air.’ If you’re wondering, they came to an agreement on Topanga. Look out, Barbara Walters, I got the hard-hitting scoop! Due to a name mix-up, we weren’t on the list for the show and giddily zoomed back towards Sonic.

The only customers there, we were blessed with the undivided  attention of our rollerskating waiter, Dayton. As in Ohio. The very first thing Dayton (who had a Southern accent despite living in mid-Pennsylvania all his life) told me was that I looked exactly like his ex-girlfriend. “But that’s a compliment, we’re still friends and she’s a sweetheart, not like a bitchy slut ex, so you don’t have to worry, hon.” After bringing us our food (delicious and diabetes-inducing), he checked up on us every few minutes, obviously bored, asking questions like “What’s yer favorite CSI series?” instead of the more traditional, “How is your meal?” By far the best (and only) person named after a city I have ever met, we bequeathed Skatin’ Dayton a 50% tip. To this, he replied that it was going right into his parole fund, and laughed. Katie and I are still on the fence if that was an actual joke or not.

Getting back home is just a straight shot down the highway, but being us, Katie and I somehow managed to end up in Delaware. In doing so, we found a fantastic location for our next (hopefully more interesting and less historical reference filled) adventure, which we will try to head out on soon. Before that though, it’s almost Eurovision time… I can smell the fire cannons, gold jumpsuits and techno-beats already.

I really tried to do my best and watch American Idol this season and give you my awesomely insightful commentary. But I am now here to tell you that I can no longer subject myself to this hideous task. The contestants SUCK shitballs. The songs each week pierce my brain like a knitting needle that just keeps KNITTING AND KNITTING AND KNITTING AND KNITTING. Who selects the song lists? Why do these people choose the worst songs ever made in modern history? Couldnt they do “Gay Club” week and all sing songs by Erasure and  Yaz? How about “Seattle Grunge” week? I wouldnt mind hearing a little Pearl Jam or Smashing Pumpkins once in a while. I just may be interested to see all 760 lbs of Michael Lynche sing something off the Singles soundtrack.

We get it already . Crystal is going to win. She’s like 120 gigalight years ahead of the other performers. She’s so good (comparatively speaking), I almost will forgive her for looking like Peppermint Patty’s runaway sister. I think everyone should cut their losses and call it a day- or get that Taiwanese fat kid with the Whitney Houston voice to make an appearance. Hell, I’d even get Blind Scott from last year back, at least it was fun to watch him do the dance moves.

In case you are wondering, my breaking point happened while watching Siobhan Magnus perform, and I started to think that her mouth looked like a veeg that was 100% dilated and fully effaced. And I said to myself, ” You’re a sick person. Your mind should never go places like that, not even after a few drinks.” Then I started to REALLY hallucinate and had a vision of–get this– Mary J Blige wearing a blond lampshade wig singing “Stairway to Heaven” with Travis Barker on drums and Randy Jackson on bass!!!!!!! I was fucking tripping, I tell you! Then Ken Seeley AND Jeff Vanvonderen came to my house and told me that American Idol is a horrible drug and no good can come from watching it, and listening to bad singing is just courting disaster. They offered me help- some clinic in Delray I think- where I will detox out my ears and brain with some chanting, meditation and group therapy. We will be encouraged to talk about happier musical times, like the time I saw the Chili Peppers at Roseland in ‘94 or when I sat next to Lou Reed at Falai and I felt like I was in the presence of greatness. I also felt he looked alot like my Grandma Ruth.

I’ll be in touch from the clinic. Maybe Dr. Drew will visit me there!