Critic's Choice Award - The Ryan Phillippe Edition

This photo is not good enough for my friend Ashleigh.

Ever since I moved to LA in 2006 she's been hounding me to get a photo of her favorite actor/celebrity crush Ryan Phillippe, who, after a decade of mostly drinking and fucking, is FINALLY doing something that required promotion in NYC.

Nevermind that she's a married mother of two rejecting this photo from the comfort of her Miami living room while it's 21 degrees in New York.

Nevermind that I have a boot on my foot and can't chase an SUV down the street, hoping Ryan will feel sorry for me and roll the window down for a photo with me at a red light.

Nevermind that I see more celebrities in a week than she's seen all year or that her biggest 'get' lately is a pre-prison Teresa Giudice.

No, this photo is not good enough.

Who Killed Lila Stangard?

If you told me back in September that I'd be seeing gay sex on TV I'd have shot you a side eye and told you you're crazy, but tonight at 9PM I'll be glued to my television for the two hour season finale of How to Get Away With Murder, a roller coaster of a show that's already given me cunnilingus, explicit guy on guy ass eating, a cavity search/hose down scene that shouldn't have stirred my loins the way it did, and Viola Davis removing her wig.  On network television.  In prime time.

Hottie Jack Falahee plays Connor Walsh, an accomplice to murder who spent the season trying to cover his ass when it's not getting rimmed

while Marcia Gay Harden plays a sister intent on finding her brother's killer

in this fast paced murder mystery that's right up there with 'Who shot JR?' and 'Who killed Laura Palmer?'.  If they give me a cumshot tonight I won't even care who killed Lila, although my bet is on Bonnie.

American Bad Ass

If you're into trashy southern redneck trailer park music about hard drinking and stripper fucking you'll be happy to know that Kid Rock has a new album out.  The Motor City bad boy is in NYC to promote it, and I caught up with him at Sirius today, where we talked about pussy, guns and Jesus and I apologized for working for Pam Anderson's attorney during their divorce proceedings.

Jody Watley - Still A Thrill!

Not even a busted foot in a boot could keep me from enjoying the funky disco soul of Miss Jody Watley last Wednesday at B.B. King's in midtown.  Looking every bit the diva that she is, girlfriend turned it OUT, digging deep into the Shalamar legacy with gems like A Night to Remember and Second Time Around before showcasing her solo hits in an energetic set that had the crowd on its feet, singing and dancing from the moment she sauntered onstage, and the lady behind me deeply regretting her seat assignment.  The only things missing from this amazing performance were Jody's cover of Borderline (better than Madonna, in my opinion) and a photo with Miss Thing, although Patrick the security guard can tell you I damn sure tried!

Jer-ry! Jer-ry! Jer-ry!

In addition to being wildly entertaining, television can be very informative, and some shows provide a great instruction manual for navigating human relationships.  For example, half watching the Jerry Springer Show in waiting rooms, I've learned there are a lot of really fucked up people in the world.  Either that, or there are a lot of people willing to act fucked up on TV.  I've learned that women are much bigger whores today than ever before.  Apparently it's normal to have one kid and fifteen potential fathers.  I've learned that no one ever uses birth control or contraceptives.  Ever.  And that fat women ALWAYS think they're sexy.  They'll wear the tightest, smallest outfit they can find and claim all 500 pounds of them is 'voluptuous.'  I've learned that if you meet a woman on the internet and are finally meeting her in person for the first time, she is a man.  And there is no reason to calmly talk something out when you can throw a chair, pull hair or get into a fist fight to make your point.  Oh, and I've learned how to throw a chair.  Important life lessons NOT taught in school!

1° and Kevin Bacon

A shitload of cold has busted out all over New York City today, and unless you're a Snow Miser or a polar bear it fucking sucks!  No lie, it took a St. Bernard with a whiskey barrel collar to help me hobble to the subway on my one good leg this morning and I'm typing this with a stick because I'm wearing ten pairs of mittens.  It was 1° when I got to work this morning, and that's still 5° away from this.

Childhood Memories

The only person who will understand the significance of this photo in my life is my brother Todd, and it's a good bet he's not even reading this blog.  When we were kids, we discovered the strange world of Marlys Mullen, her groovy sister Maybonne, sensitive oddball brother Freddy, and their random cousins and bizarro friends running amok in Ernie Pook's Comeek, the alternative weekly comic strip from Lynda Barry.  Drawn from a child's point of view, the strip perfectly captured the joy and sorrow of childhood, from baton lessons and toys from Sears to first love and the last day of school, callous teachers, indifferent parents, ruthless classmates and the inevitable social traumas of growing up.  If you're not familiar with Lynda Barry you are missing out on some of the great right ons of childhood, yours and mine.

The Only Issue I Ever Buy

The Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue hit stands Monday, and while I've never cared for sports I've been a fan of beautiful, nearly naked women making other girls insecure while teasing guys with quality pussy they'll never fuck since Paulina Porizkova made the cover in 1984.  This fascination probably comes from my mother not letting me play with dolls as a kid, and it's what led me to the Sports Illustrated Swim City fan event in Herald Square.  Billed as a chance to 'meet' this year's swimsuit models, it was more like beautiful girls behind a velvet rope taking selfies with each other and sipping Starbucks on the couch while ignoring virgin loser fan boys.  Just like real life.

The models, who you can see in bikinis all year around thanks to Instagram, included covergirl Hannah Davis, who kept that bald pubic mound covered

Nina Agdal (who was dumped by Adam Levine AND Leonardo DiCaprio, probably because she's a boring fuck who just lays there while they do all the work) posing with Samantha Hoopes (who looks like she'll push a bitch down a flight of stairs ala Showgirls if it gets her the cover next year),

Sara Sampaio, taking a photo with Victoria's Secret Angel Lily Aldridge and fake girlfriend to a homo soccer star Irina Shayk, who barely moved from the couch the entire time she was there,

Gigi Hadid, the only successful child to ever come out of the Real Housewives franchise unscathed,

and Chanel Iman, the affirmative action Victoria's Secret model chosen to replace Tyra.

Bass Fishing

After dating every actor/model/cater waiter in L.A., failed astronaut and former boy-bander Lance Bass has finally settled down, marrying his HOT piece over Christmas, and of course E! cameras captured every delicious second of this mess for the special Lance Loves Michael: The Lance Bass Wedding.  The happy couple made the rounds yesterday to promote this shitshow, and I had no qualms about asking the non-famous half to take this photo.  Check out Lance's hair!  It's that fly away emo look that was so popular about three years ago!  How long do you think it takes him to get it like that?

Not So Smooth Criminal

Watching TV can be very instructional.  For instance, I learned that you should try not to lose your engagement ring while you're burning a corpse in the woods to cover up a murder or you'll be trading that bespoke Vera Wang wedding dress for prison orange, and being forced to sign a prenup will be the least of your worries.  Such is the case of Michaela Pratt, as played by Aja Naomi King on ABC's breakout hit How to Get Away With Murder.  Dummy!  Note to self: remove all jewelry first.