I see you, Tommy

I think Tommy Wiseau reads this blog. Yes, Tommy Wiseau, the enigmatic actor/director/producer of my all-time favorite movie, The Room, and the man who taught me everything I know about romance. See, I keep track of page loads via Statcounter and someone in L.A. frequently looks at my post, The Best Worst Movie of All Time—sometimes as often as twice a day.

So Tommy, if it is you, give me a sign. There are so many questions I have, so many things I want to learn from you. For instance, how did you make such a cinematic masterpiece without formal training? What—or who—is your inspiration? Do you have parents or were you popped out of some vagina in the clouds? I'll be waiting, pen and pencil in hand (I don't know which one will work best...I know you understand).

The Black Hole Machine

News is supposed to be informative. It keeps us updated, it keeps us educated and sometimes, like Patrick Swayze's doctor, it gives us just a few months to live. Such was the case with an article that appeared on the front page of the New York Times this particularly frigid Saturday morning,

The story: two Hawaiian scientists are trying to get a judge to halt the construction of a giant particle accelerator set to be finished this summer, for fear that it will create a black hole that could consume the planet, possibly the universe. What the machine is originally designed to do (obviously it wasn't engineered to eat the Earth up) is probably explained further down in the article, but I (like most people) only read the first few paragraphs, then jump to extreme conclusions as I have only ingested the often sensationalized lede plus a few more explanatory sentences.

After committing to enjoying my last few months Queen Latifa-style, but with much more casual sex, I began to wonder: if scientists can make a proton-crashing/black hole-producing thingamabob, why can't they create a working hoverboard? Or an iPod that lasts more than two years?

I [heart] Bruce

My boyfriend wants to be in a blog. He wants me to write about him so badly, in fact, that he has mentioned it on multiple occasions. So here it is everyone—all eight of you—the story of me and Bruce.

We met back in October of last year. I was wearing a hat and he asked if my hair was real. That's how he got my attention—by asking me if I was wearing a wig. I know what you're thinking and you are right: he did read "The Game." We started formally dating in February; now I wear his high school class ring so everyone knows I am going steady with someone, but that doesn't stop them from hitting on me, especially in the workplace.

For our first Valentine's Day together, he took me to Hooters in midtown Manhattan and bought me chicken wings and a grilled cheese sandwich. Oh, and cheese sticks, but that was more for his best friend who came with us.

On Easter I went home with him to meet his mom and his aunt. We drank mimosas and had ourselves a lovely time, even though she likes to call me Sascha. (My name is really Sara...I don't know who Sascha is.) Bruce and I even have a song: "Apologize" by OneRepublic, but the remix version because Timbaland really knows how to add that extra something. I like to think of it as "adding the black." Anyway, here is a picture from Easter. That's Bruce on the right and his mom in the middle. His aunt is the one puking. She had one too many mimosas.

Blame Gray's

In the midst of an allegedly sketchy takeover, down-and-out lending Goliath Bear Stearns maintains it was a lack of investor confidence and not a dearth of funds that caused the firm's liquidity pool to drop almost $20 billion, a plummet that prompted JP Morgan to step in two weeks ago.

Perhaps BS (a fitting acronym) took a cue from president Bush's Feb. 28 press conference during which he denied that America was in a recession. Where, then, did the idea come from? Who was the scoundrel that first whispered the nasty "R" word?

New York City hot dog and tropical juice vendor Gray's Papaya, that's who. And they didn't just say it, they put it in neon lights. In fact, I had a special just the other day (two hot dogs and a papaya juice for $3.50), and it was so delicious I decided that if this is what recessions are all about—stimulus packages, hot dog discounts—count me in.

Damn you, Advertorials

Advertisers always manage to stay two steps ahead. As a child of the online era, I absorb most of my news online in quick B12-like shots; I am masterful at maneuvering through the Internet, deftly avoiding banner ad traps no matter how beguiling their nods and winks, and I never—I repeat never—pay to access anything online.

But every now I then I too am fooled. For instance, last night as I was reading The Huffington Post I clicked on what I thought was a feature article only to find that it was actually a link to a completely separate site—a site comprised solely of advertorials, those pesky ad-opinion hybrids parading as legitimate news.

I, who is so discerning and hawk-eyed when it comes to matters of the interweb, had been duped!

So I shook my fist in the air and damned those cunning, Starbucks-sipping ad execs who concocted such a well-engineered ruse, then I looked at a slideshow of The Washington Post's Peep diorama contest until all was marshmallowy and pastel once again.

DMX finds out there is a black presidential candidate

Hard core rap Don DMX may have made hundreds of thousands of dollars off his guttural vocal emissions ("huh," "wha?," "grr"), but he has no idea who Barack Obama is. In an interview with XXL magazine, the out-of-touch rapper reveals that he has, in fact, been living under a rock the past few years, emerging only to get arrested for drug possession and beating people up. Here is an excerpt from the interview:

The Best Worst Movie of all Time

Writer/actor/director/producer Tommy Wiseau is like the George Clooney of bad movies. His most notable cinematic offering, The Room, has the mouth-to-sound inconsistency of Kung Fu Theater and the maudlin appeal of a Spanish soap opera. To say that it's my new obsession would be putting it lightly.

Wiseau supposedly shelled out $6 million to make the film, went through seven crews because people kept walking out on him, and wasted an immense amount of time, energy and money filming it in both HD and 35 mm (as in both units taped together) because he wasn't sure which one would work best. But it wasn't all for naught: The Room enjoys a cult-like following in L.A. with frequent midnight showings and a loyal fanbase.

I have attached the trailer below, and you can click here for the YouTube page with clips of the best scenes.

What I can't figure out is how he made the money to produce the film in the first place. How did that burn-victim-looking beefcake (who some believe is retarded...like, retarded retarded) get such deep pockets? I asked around and here are the theories I came up with: Russian mafia hitman, international sex trafficker and internet gambling bookie.

I have an idea: let's consult Heidi

A seemingly drugged-up Heidi Fliess discussed the "psychology" of the Spitzer scandal last night on ABC news, where she suggested that the embroiled governor should have just gone to the Bunny Ranch in Nevada for "finer-looking girls." (see Alexis Fire or Mercedes Love)

My favorite words of wisdom uttered from the collagen-injected lips of the former Hollywood Madam? "He does have a sex drive and wants to get laid...He just went about it in a very sloppy manner."

Click here to watch the entire video, or go to her more in-depth analysis on Radar.com.

Newsflash: market researchers crack male code

In a recent national study funded by Spike TV and TVGuide.com, Latitude Research found that men like...drum roll please...football and hot chicks.

No shit.

The poll, which yielded a handful of similarly earth-shattering results, also had participants rate who they thought was the most smokin' Desperate Housewife, Grey's Anatomy resident and Lost castaway. (Can you say "airtime" Evangeline Lilly?)

For more of what you already know, pick up the March 17 issue of TV Guide with the complete results. Or I can just tell you: men like to poop, watch sports, have sex and eat steak.

My buddy, Spitz, and me

It is official, (former) Governor of New York Eliot Spitzer and I have one thing in common: we both resigned from our formidable posts today. I am again a free agent, inclined to impulse, unrestrained whimsy and toking from dusk till dawn while doing yoga in the living room, though, admittedly, my days will likely just be consumed by the Food Network.

But I am for hire, ya hear? Just not in the way Spitzer understands it.

Camera phone picture gallery

This morning I saw a poster on the subway (part of the semi-colon-heavy Subtalk series) featuring a "homeless" man whose visage was an uncanny throwback to 80s-era Bowie. In other words it was the perfect camera phone picture. But to my utter horror I was out of storage space on my dinky Motorola Razr and had to forgo my photo-op as we were nearing my stop. For posterity's sake and to avoid a similar scenario, I have unloaded ten of my favorite camera-phone pics to be immortalized on the Internet.

1. The vision of these two glitter boxes catapulted me into childlike glee as only glitter can do. Why would anyone want to throw them out?


2. This guy likes to ride around my neighborhood. And yes, that is a feather tied to a knife in his sock.


3. The sign outside of this Hell's Kitchen laundromat says "Issues, worries, lost underwear?" I liked how they were advertising the fact that they were not panty stealer/sniffers—like that was their selling point.


4. That's me. I'll have you know there are children out there who can't sleep because of this picture...and even some child-sized adults.


5. This is my roommate's cat Beowulf right before he shoots lasers out of his eyes.


6. Writen on a bathroom wall somewhere. At the time, it blew my mind. Then I peed on my leg a little.


7. If I smoked cigars I would have to cut them. And if I cut them I would use this lady legs cigar cutter on sale (for something like $1,600) at Mantiques Modern in Chelsea.


8. The most righteous camel toe I have ever seen. Ever.


9. The line at Target two days before Christmas. All I wanted was some toilet paper.


10. By far the best subway entertainer in NYC. He sings Calypso-style music and dances with a fake horse.

Dawn of the Chaste

Yesterday morning on the Today Show, author Dawn Eden discussed her book "The Thrill of the Chaste," which explores the rewards of dating without sex (or as the title's postscript reads: Finding Fulfillment While Keeping Your Clothes On [exclamation point]).

Dawn Eden: what a lovely biblical-sounding last name! Too bad it's really Goldstein. After Eden found Jesus, she exorcised the Jew and the free love out of her sinful soul. Here is an excerpt from the personal essay she wrote to accompany her appearance.

What was missing was joy. The kisses and caresses I sought, the heights of sexual excitement that I pursued — all served to camouflage the emptiness I felt inside.That emptiness was in fact a God-shaped vacuum, as I discovered at 31 when I had a born-again experience that converted me to Christianity — beginning a journey that would eventually bring me to Catholic faith. But when the initial rush of my newfound faith faded, I had to face some hard facts — namely that, where my sex life was concerned, I had to get with the program

Yes, the Christian program. So she dropped the sex, the Semitic surname and picked up the Bible (but was it solar powered?), expelling the serpent from her Garden of Eden.