Heart-Dick Productions

Last night I had the utter pleasure to experience the awkward, embarrassing, and ugly sexhound of a movie, Zack and Miri Make a Porno, with an awkward, embarrassing and ugly sexhound of my own. In case you haven't heard about it, it's the latest "let's make lots of jokes about weewees and poopoo but still make it endearing" flick from Seth Rogen, of frat pack fame. You know, call me crazy, but as redundant as this series is, and debase as they may be, I will never grow tired of these movies. And my hat's really off to Seth Rogen for winning fame by being normally funny. A lot of people may say, "Oh my friends and I same the same shit but we're not getting paid millions of dollars for it..." Yeah, true. You're NOT getting paid millions of dollars for it. You're sitting on your ass playing Xbox Live and drinking your Natty Light and he made an effort to work hard and crank out a grazillion movies a year, just bein himself. So, you know, shaddap.I really have come to admire Seth Rogen (along with the rest of the Farty boys that have dominated the American comedy scene since about 2004). A few months back he was actually in the Hitchcock-attributed Hollywood issue of Vanity Fair, recreating Cary Grant's iconic scene from North by Northwest, and later this summer he graced the cover of GQ's comedy issue. In his GQ feature, he described his school of comedy as "heart-dick production," since his films consist of a lot of heart, but simultaneously, a lot of dick. Not too far off the mark, wouldn't you say? Look at what he's been in: The 40-Year-Old Virgin, Knocked Up, Superbad... (no, I didn't see Pineapple Express). Most of those movies tie directly back to Judd Apatow, but I still contest that the uncomfortable, chubby, jewfro lovability of Rogen is largely responsible for this whole phenomenon.

Also, I must contest that he's started a new misplaced romantic lead phenomenon, akin to Tom Hanks in the 80s and Woody Allan in the 70s... Last night, as I squinted through Rogen and Elizabeth Banks' silent explosion of a sex scene (yeah... spoiler alert... they do it, since duh they made a porno!), I actually found myself, kind of um, turned on. It was this strange alloy of arousal, confusion, discomfort, and sheer endearment. Yes, frankly, watching Seth Rogen even make OUT with a girl is weird, and watching him "make love" (as his character Zack actually declared it) is sheerly mind-bending and existential. But the truth is, he created a scenario that was both emotional and real, and yeah, really fucking awkward. But that, I think, is what made it so hot. Oh Seth Rogen, you slick-talkin fly-walkin panty dropper.

PS: For those of you who are attune to viral videos, check this noise out, which was shot on the set of Zack and Miri and I discovered a few months ago! Wee!

When men was men and dames was dames

I haven't paid any heed to this blog in so long - I'm a terrible parent. And then I choose to steal away to it during work. Shame on me!

But. Speaking of mixing leisure with work, I have a new obsession. And it doesn't come from a bar well or the Gawker media network! No, lately I have been fully ensconced in AMC's beautiful confection Mad Men, an ode to the sexist, elitist, Kennedy-era executive kingdom of skirt chasers and four-martini lunches. (As per usual, I am once again slow on the latest brilliant pop culture uptake, as Mad Men has already been lauded by publications like Vanity Fair and graced the cover of Entertainment Weekly.) It's funny, because as misogynistic and philosophically concrete as the time was, there's something still so appealing and captivating about the gloss of it all: the economic optimism, the epicurian habbits of wining(scotching) and dining(smoking), and the impeccable approach to sex and how to sell it. I remember stories of my grandfather (though not in advertising, a thirsty member of Washington's lawyer crowd after he was swiftly ushered out of Kennedy's State Department) spending more time guzzling down lunch than inquiring about his wife and four children. Sure, it sounds a little irresponsible, but as the alpha female of Mad Men, Joan Holloway, says of the behavior, "isn't it the best?"

To sum up the mantra in one scene, here's SterlingCooper's resident slimeball, Pete Campbell, musing for the non-con, ambitious secretary Peggy Olson his idyllic vision for existence:



Fucking hurrah for chauvenism.

Austin Scarlett is in the mothereffin house, bitches.

The demise of Project Runway is such a sorry loss to good television. The fifth season aired on Wednesday and, thanks to numerous and correct theories that it is being quietly put out of its misery by Bravo (to spite that bitch network Lifetime for stealing PR from them - ugh! dumb whores), I didn't even feel buzzed enough to catch the first airing of the premiere. With nothing better to do, I tuned into a repeat to gauge whether or not I would be paying this program any attention this season. Good news is, I think I will (either through repeats or online or some shiiiit). Bad news is it does NOT look like this season will hold a fucking CANDLE to the previous four. And I mean like one of those shitty birthday cake candles that are an inch and a half long and half a centimeter in girth. But I digress.

Although watching these designs unfold, and seeing people in really challenging situations that force them to be innovative is always fun, the cast of this season is just so blaaaaaaaaa. They are either COMPLETELY vanilla (or "silent fashion assassins," as one boring ass Pollyanna defined herself) or totally cliché. Wow, you're a twinky gay guy with crazy hair and a cutesy lexicon? I don't know if you'll stand out next to that girl who ironically dresses up like a 40's pinup and wears red lipstick everywhere. Just to prove that they weren't above keeping contestants around for the pure sake of color and conflict, the folks of PR decided to keep Stella (a 40-something woman who dresses like a hell's angel and seems to have missed the fact that 1988 has come and gone - she was wearing wool long johns with a leather bikini bottom on top), even though she sent something that wasn't even a definable outfit down the runway:


Thank god this adorable number took the cake.

The challenge, by the way, was "taking it all back to where it began," which I think is a whopping harbinger from the PR producers themselves. They're sayin: "This is it yall, because once this mofo moseys on over to the Uterine Broadcasting System you can kiss our popularity wave goodbye." Just as in the first challenge on the first season of Project Runway, the designers were made to pick out materials from Gristedes, a New York grocery store, and make some sort of wearable, innovative costume out of it. AKA yall race in there and whoever buys the most table cloths and shower curtains wins. Yawn. BUT - ZOMG - look who came out to say hello!!!!

AUSTIN MOTHERFUCKING SCARLETT. The REAL winner of season one. Seriously, where has this bitch BEEN? Homegirl also got to be the guest judge for the challenge. Needless to say, Austin was the saving grace for this episode. If only this season's roster were as magically gay as he, maybe Project Runway would have a fighting chance. Sigh. Anyway, here's most of the rest of the designs (and more shots of Austin looking sheerly divine and kick all our asses with his fabulosity):

Finally this blog has some effin relevance in the world.

Holy shet!

My favorite VH1 commentator - or maybe the best talking head in the history of anything in the universe - Michael Ian Black, has challenged Tucker Max to a deathmatch. And in true (drunken) alpha male form, Tucker has heartily risen to the bait. Hurrah. My money's on Tucker, because he is like five times the size of Black with ten times the wired adrenaline, but Michael Ian Black does have that advantage of, you know, fully functional nerve endings and is like, a whole immune system ahead.

Michael Ian Black, by the by, is some hot ass shit right now. Not only because he's the only one worth watching on VH1's new nostalgia fest I Love the New Millennium, but also because he's June's Hot Slut of the Month on Dlisted. I'd post a video of him being filarious on VH1, but that's tired. Here he is in the greatest cinematic tour de force that God ever had the mercy to bestow upon mankind, Wet Hot American Summer:



UPDATE: Michael Ian Black roars with excitement! Tucker responds, "I assume that he is kidding about this. I am not at all. Once he realizes I am completely serious and that this means he is going to get punched in the face, I doubt he'll be as eager as he is now."

Dick Lit

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