Cheney Trumps New Orleans?

I'm usually a fan of the cover illustrations for The New Yorker. When you're scanning hundreds of magazines at Borders, the typical close-up photographic portraits and nondescript graphics blend together like grazing zebras. It's a welcome relief when your eyes land on a colorful, witty illustration that slyly satirizes a recent event or general idea. There's something both charmingly sophisticated and coffeeshop cool about using cover art the way The New Yorker does.

So I was disappointed when I came upon the news (via The Millions) that the magazine had bumped a beautiful and touching rendering of New Orleans:



Instead, they used a trendy, unoriginal joke about Dick Cheney's hunting mishap:



According to the artist, Bill Joyce, the magazine had approached him, a Louisiana native who still lives there, to do both a cover illustration and a story about New Orleans post-Katrina. The editors then decided to go with the Cheney story, not only replacing Joyce's cover but also completely dropping his story as well.

There are many reasons why they may have dropped his story. They did feature other New Orleans-related content in that issue and his story may have been redundant. Or, quite simply, it may not have been well-written. Since we can't read it and weren't privy to the editors' discussions, there's know way of knowing.

We can see, however, the cover they rejected and its unimpressive replacement.

By the time this issue hit the stands, the hunting story had already been written about, blogged about and talked about everywhere, from network news to late-night talk shows to online editorials everywhere. The New Yorker, jumping on the political bandwagon a little late, would hopefully have a new perspective worthy of their cover. By using a bland Brokeback Mountain reference, they proved that they don't.

While this isn't a terrible cover (out of context, it's almost kind of funny), it does feel dated and, worse, uncreative. How come a highly esteemed publication such as The New Yorker can only think to make yet another Brokeback Mountain reference/joke? There's already been about, oh, three million Brokeback jokes made in the media, from late-night monologues to dozens of homemade parodies. Plus, as this blog explains, the magazine already did a Cheney-and-Bush-as-gay-lovers cover a few months ago. Expired, over-saturated topic + expired, over-saturated cover = an oversight on the part of the editors.

Conversely, Joyce's boldly colorful cover manages to be both haunting and hopeful, conveying pride in the face of disaster.

As Joyce himself says, "I really had hoped that compassion would win out over clever. Mr. Cheney's friend is thankfully alive. Meanwhile, we're still finding bodies in New Orleans."

Hooray for Jay

(Blogger Update: This piece was chosen as an Editor's Pick of the Week Feb. 22-28 at Blogcritics. I'm honored!)


How come someone as funny, unpredictable and uninhibited as Jay McCarroll only gets a one-hour special while the zombie humanoid clones of The Bachelor get hours and hours of airtime? Why does the incoherent train wreck that is Flavor Flav get an entire season of Flavor of Love while the wisecracking, creative McCarroll barely gets one episode?

McCarroll, the winner of the first season of Project Runway, is the subject of Bravo's Project Jay. The cameras follow this country boy from a small, rural town in Pennsylvania as he deals with fame, moving to New York City, and putting together his first professional collection.

Unfortunately, as he puts it, he's broke. It doesn't help that he turned down Runway's $100,000 prize money in hopes of signing an exclusive licensing deal with an undetermined company.

But who needs money when you're so full of witty one-liners? On watching himself on TV: "I have the world's smallest mouth. No wonder why I can't get laid, because they're like 'that mouth is so small.'"

On his financial woes: "I just pray that I get money from somewhere even if I have to, like, sell my sperm...or hook."

On his self-image: "If I was born hot: a) I would've been dead of AIDS by now. And b) I would've just been so dumb, like those dumb hot people I'm so jealous of. Why am I so jealous of them?"

It's too bad he doesn't get more airtime because he always seems to have a lot going on in his life. Much of the episode is Jay scrambling to finish an Emmy dress requested by Runway's host, Heidi Klum, only to have her reject it at the last minute. Plus, a nagging back problem results in full-out surgery. Thankfully, there's also time devoted to his creative process, where we learn how a friend's mix tape can influence a whole collection or how he can spend six straight hours designing without even getting up to pee. As he puts it, "If you have passion, you should probably take advantage of it."

The show also slyly reveals the incestuous nature of reality TV, as Jay gets his haircut from one of the stylists on Bravo's own Blow Out and runs into previous Runway contestants Austin Scarlett, Kara Saun and - gasp! - Wendy Pepper (season one's scheming villain).

I've been a fan of both seasons of Project Runway, and I've always admired Jay's work (including his Runway Fashion Week collection, examples of which are pictured here). It's colorful, funky and sometimes even glamorous, all from a rebellious outsider's point of view. I understand how he's a controversial figure, as he tends to bitch about things that don't go his way. But most of the time, he's a funny, talented, even charming guy.

Plus, how can you not root for someone who can be self-depracating, sarcastic, and arrogant all in one delicious sound bite such as "physically, I hate myself. Mentally, I'm gorgeous"?

Move Over, Margaret Cho

"I've decided that I don't care if I come across as the biggest fag-hag in the land," Cathy Crimmins writes in the introduction to her book, How the Homosexuals Saved Civilization. It's a good thing she doesn't care, because that's basically how she comes across. She makes the ladies on Will and Grace look like homophobic Bible-thumpers in comparison.

With her funny, accessible style, Crimmins delves into gay men's contributions to American society (she excludes lesbians as they're more "domestic"). She's an amiable narrator for the book - you could picture yourself having these discussions with her over Cosmos at lunch.

Unfortunately, she decides that her personal stories and wide-ranging yet shallow grasp of pop culture are enough. It seems as if only the most basic research was done in preparation. Footnotes, a bibliography, and/or literary references would give it more credibility. I understand she's intentionally avoiding an academic tone, but even an index would be appreciated. It doesn't help that she contradicts what little research she's done: in the first chapter, she claims the word "homosexual" was coined in 1869; by the last chapter, it's mysteriously bumped to 1867.

Crimmins takes us through American culture (mostly post-Stonewall riots of 1969): language, community, celebrations, rituals, food, fashion, sex, art, film, television, music and theater. The subtitles alone are hilarious, such as "Groin Control to Major Tom: The Father of Glam Rock, David Bowie" and "He's Dead, but We Can Still Have a Party: Gay Advances in Mourning Rituals."

With such a charming companion by our side, it's frustrating when her information and arguments are inconsistent. Her conclusions may be correct, you're just not sure how she got there, as in her chapter on movies and television. She concludes that The Wizard of Oz is "absolutely wholesome and absolutely queer at the same time" by describing how it has inspired nationally touring karaoke shows attended by straight families as well as gays. Fine, but what about the actual content of the movie? Most people understand how it's wholesome; it would be fantastic if she enlightened us about it's "queer"-ness. Strangely, she doesn't.

The section on film's classic leading men is dubious. Apparently, in her book, almost every remotely well-known actor was gay or bisexual, but never backs this up with actual evidence. An unconvincing paragraph on Montogomery Clift is thankfully followed by two effective pages on Cary Grant. Unfortunately, since the book was originally published before Brokeback Mountain arrived on the cultural radar, one can only wonder what Crimmins would have made of its impact (although couldn't she have included an addendum to the recently published paperback to cover such an important milestone?).

For the TV section, she introduces the subchapter on awards shows by saying "gay men have made major contributions." She then describes Bob Mackie's (designer of Cher's legendary, over-the-top Oscar gown) influence on Carol Burnett's famous Gone With the Wind satire, a totally irrelevant digression. What does that have to do with award shows? Where was Crimmins' editor? By the time she steers back on course, her two examples for gay men's contributions are comedian Bruce Vilanch writing some of the funniest lines for Academy Awards hosts (a perfect example) and Alan Carr producing the infamous Rob Lowe/Snow White skit. It's blatantly counterproductive that one of the most "horrible, laughable" moments in Oscar history is half of her argument's evidence.

Crimmins' chapter on gay men's contribution to music is equally inconsistent. Her analysis of Cole Porter's timeless, daring lyrics and influence on heterosexual romance is lucid and fun. She consults intelligent scholars and texts to explain gay undertones in heavy metal (including political science professor Kenneth Quinnell's humorous but oddly thought-provoking question: "Is it a coincidence that the head-banging motion just happens to be the same motion as providing oral sex to a guy?"). But she completely flummoxed me when she described rock as an "essentially effeminate form". Excuse me? Rock music is sweaty, oversexed, athletic, aggressive and arrogant - masculine qualities that defy "effeminate" descriptions.

She also claims to have discovered a "gay presence" in rap. This is an especially intriguing idea considering rap music's notorious homophobic nature and Kanye West's recent, risky suggestions that rappers stop using those lyrics in their acts. But Crimmins never elaborates whatsoever on that notion. What a cocktease.

This isn't to say Crimmins doesn't make good points. Thanks to houseware and fashion collections from designers Todd Oldham and Isaac Mizrahi, respectively, Target has easily surpassed dowdy competitor Wal-Mart to become the department store for fashionable straight people of various incomes across the country. And it's funny to think how so many young, straight men flock to Abercrombie and Fitch, a company that bases its marketing campaigns and overall aesthetic on gay photographer Bruce Weber's homoerotic images of practically naked buff college jocks. From contributions culinary (chef James Beard and critic Craig Claireborne making it okay for straight men to cook and use exotic ingedients) to theatrical (Tony Kushner's Angels in America went from being a "gay" play to a post-9/11 vision "interpreting loss and renewal in American culture"), Crimmins has a lot to say about what breeders owe queens.

Altogether, this is a fun, breezy book that would be a good introduction to gay men's cultural contributions for those that would not pick up a heavier, more academic tome (although those are the very people who wouldn't even pick up this title, either - it's the very people who should read this book that won't). It's just too bad that Crimmins didn't write something on the "grand scale" she claims this subject demands. If she had, she would truly be paying tribute to the gay men she so clearly admires.

Don't Be Dissin' Carrot Top...

For this week's Roundtable, the lovely and talented Trish focuses on an oft-neglected, much-maligned minority group frequently scorned across the country...and maybe even the globe.

Yes, that's right, we're talking about...

Redheads.

You know who I mean. Those awkward, loud-mouthed, be-freckled hoodlums that use their obnoxious, braying personalities to compensate for their lack of souls-

Oops. Wait. I mean, those lovely, dignified...um...people...who have contributed...um...stuff...to society throughout the years.

Whew. I got through it without saying that redheads are blood-maned children of Satan.

Anyway, head on over to And I Was the Echo to discuss these poor, unfortunate spawns of the...I mean, people.

Everything I Need to Know I Learned From the Final Destination Trilogy

You think I'm kidding, but I'm not. Check out all the lessons these films have to offer:

20. Don't work out.
19. Don't use tanning beds.
18. Don't buy a car with an air bag.
17. Don't stand in the middle of a field.
16. Don't get in elevators.
15. Don't go to the dentist.
14. Don't go to the hospital.
13. Don't use your stove and microwave at the same time.
12. Don't use drive-through windows.
11. Don't use the subway.
10. Don't scare pigeons.
9. Don't listen to John Denver while brewing tea.
8. Don't light firecrackers underneath a horse's ass.
7. Don't celebrate the Fourth of July.
6. Don't get on a plane.
5. Don't get on a rollercoaster.
4. Don't drive a car.
3. Don't get in a car.
2. Don't cross the street.

And the #1 lesson to be learned from the Final Destination trilogy?

Don't work at Home Depot.



Now, this may all seem like common sense. You're probably sitting there thinking, Donny B, I haven't lit a firecracker underneath a horse's ass since I was nine years old. Tell me something I don't know. But the point is, these films are often underestimated for their cultural contributions. I mean, what did we learn from the Friday the 13th and Sleepaway Camp movies? Don't get to summer camp. Geez, ya think? I don't need a film to tell me that. Or the message of Halloween? Don't babysit. Yeah, you're telling me.

But not everyone knows about the deadly John Denver/brewing tea combination. That's why I and the Final Destination films are here to help spread the word.

Party Like It's 2001 or, 2001: A Space Cadet's Odyssey

I've noticed a strange pattern in my pop culture consumption since 2005 began. I've read Michael Pollan's best-selling disection of nature, art and human behavior in The Botany of Desire and Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections, a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. I recently blogged about pop singer Pink, who's biggest success was the multiple-hit-single spawning Missundaztood (her spelling, not mine - it's kewl to spell rong, u know?). And the other night I watched the rock musical/cult hit Hedwig and the Angry Inch. What do these all have in common?


They were all produced in 2001.

Five years ago doesn't seem like a long time. But then I realize I was twenty-one. Doesn't that sound so young? Especially compared to twenty-six. 21. 26. Meh.

When friends are hanging out with a group of people that includes early twentysomethings, I often hear the refrain, "I feel so old." But when I'm around twenty-one-year-olds, I think, "God, I'm so glad I'm not that age anymore." All the drama, the lack of perspective, the general spazziness...no thank you.

But seeing those numbers...21...26...hmmmm....

Turning twenty-one, my Irish Car Bomb cherry was popped (as for many virgins, the first time was iffy, but I kept at it until I got it right). I moved into my very first apartment, a tiny studio where the kitchen lined the wall of the bedroom/living room and my closet was also my office. This was also where I happened to randomly turn on the morning news - something I rarely did at that time - and saw the second plane crash into the World Trade Center. I went to my retail job at a high-end cookware store that sparked my dormant love of cooking and food; by the time I got to work later that day, we had to evacuate the building and leave the heavily-populated downtown area.

I took in movies like the David Lynch mind-twister, Mulholland Dr., the revolutionary animated film that has since been mostly forgotten, Waking Life, and Wes Anderson's quirky family dramedy, The Royal Tenenbaums. Two of my favorite films even today were from 2000 but viewed in 2001: Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, which birthed many knock-offs that never matched its intense majesty, and You Can Count On Me, a quiet, perfectly written film that introduced me to the talents of Laura Linney, Mark Ruffalo and writer/director Kenneth Longergan.


College was not going well. Let's just say I wasn't properly motivated to drag my ass to my senior seminar class where we actually had to draw (with a crayon) a symbol that represented who we were as a person on large pieces of paper clipped to the wall. Hello, kindergarten? I drew an easel with a blank piece of paper and described myself as a "work in progress." The class and teacher perceived this as "deep" and "self-aware." Okay, sure.

Unmotivated and overwhelmed, I took fall semster off and became a full-time sales associate. I worked, I made money and I liked it. I didn't read a lot. I barely wrote at all. What was I doing with my time? All I can remember are nights such as watching Book of Shadows: Blair Witch 2 in my dark studio with friends and then randomly discussing our sexual firsts over glasses of cheap wine.

I remember hearing about The Corrections during the media frenzy when Franzen turned down Oprah's Book Club. Why didn't I read it then? I knew I wanted to watch Hedwig when it first came out - why didn't I bust a move to a theater?

Obviously, there could be many different reasons. We can't consume every single piece of culture that flies by our radar. But I often get the feeling that now I'm trying to play catch-up, as if I have to compensate for my slacker twenty-one-year-old self. Which isn't to say that I don't enjoy what I'm consuming in the moment (I'm using "consuming" as a substitute for reading/viewing/listening to, etc.), it's more like I feel the need to get through something just to say I've gotten through it. I wonder how common this experience is for people at any age.

Maybe, at twenty-one, I simply wasn't ready to get through Franzen's sprawling, time- and continent- hopping, overfed yet satisfying novel. At twenty-six, I barely have the attention span to listen to the brilliant lyrics in Hedwig, so I can't imagine my younger, unfocused self appreciating it except on some superficial, easily-entertained level.

Although I'm definitely more self-motivated than I used to be, I wonder: will my thirty-one-year-old self look back on me now and wonder what the hell I did with my time? Will I be grateful that I'm not an aimless twenty-six-year-old anymore? I already keep lists of movies I've seen and books I've read, so hopefully that will be enough to persuade him I'm not a total slacker. Maybe I keep those lists as a sense of both accomplishment and personal history. As I add new entries, each previous entry is like a barcode triggering memories to pop up on my internal display screen: what movie theater I saw this in, what couch I sat on when I read that, what this chapter taught me at that point in my life, etc.

All of this means that in another five years, when I'm 31, I might finally sit down and watch Napoleon Dynamite so I can join in on the never-ending Napoleon-quoting conversations. And then I'll finally be caught up.

(Blogger's Note: After I wrote this, I realized that I might have been subconsciously inspired by Lauren's lovely stroll down memory lane. So, thank you, Lauren.)

Food, Folks and Fun, part 2

So for this sequel to the original "Food, Folks and Fun," I have some exciting news: not only did my piece on Transamerica get chosen as an Editor's Pick of the Week over at Blogcritics, but I was joined by fellow Roundtable blogger/drinker Stephen V. Funk. While we've both been honored like this before, it's never been in the same week. Here's what the editors had to say:

Transamerica by Don Baiocchi: "A stunning review in every way. Just stunning! I couldn't have asked for a finer article."

Coming Soon: The Anti-Grammys by Stephen V. Funk: "In this cute and topical opinion piece, Stephen takes a look at the Grammys in the aftermath of the broadcast, as well as offering a suggestion for alternative entertainment in the future."

Congrats, Stephen!

In other news, in my ongoing quest to get through every recipe in Everyday Italian by Giada De Laurentiis, I have recently cranked out a few more tasty dishes.

Frittata with Tomato and Asparagus: Not only have I never made a frittata before (it was one of my dad's specialties), I've never used a broiler before. They've always scared me. In the two apartments I've lived in, they're these drawers sitting below the oven, a shallow container of blazing heat that looks as if it could melt titanium. So, after cooking the eggs, asparagus and red onion (I didn't have any tomato) on the stove, I sprinkled the cubes of fontina cheese on top, grabbed the skillet's handle and took a deep breath. I slid the pan into the broiler, waited four minutes, and out came a bubbling, perfectly browned egg pie. Delicious.

Prosciutto-Wrapped Breadsticks: With just three ingredients, could this get any easier? I set out a platter of these cheesy, toasted breadsticks at Stacey's Super Bowl party and they quickly disappeared. And anything with prosciutto is a winner in my book. Seriously, I would wrap this salty, melt-in-your-mouth Italian bacon around liver and onions and still love it. I even love just saying the name. Prosciutto. God, that's sexy.

Pine Nut Cookies: If my ten-year-old self knew that some day I would be writing about the virtues of shortbread cookies, the most boring of cookies, he would be seriously disappointed (and then he'd be raking in the dough because he could actually see into the future, and then I wouldn't be sitting here blogging on my futon bed but instead lounging by some white sand beach sipping mojitos while wearing a bathing suit made out of fifty dollar bills, but I digress...). But, seriously, after pulling these blonde discs out of the oven, they were still so buttery and soft, with a crunch from the golden edge - I never knew shortbread could taste so good. Add to that the ground fennel seed that flecked the dough (although the licorice flavor was so subtle it was almost nonexistent) and the pine nuts that studded the tops of the cookies, and I was hooked.

So, all together, that's six recipes down, only 119 to go. Great. And now I have a new deadline. I have to get this done by April, when Giada's new book comes out. Wish me luck!

Oh, and a special prize to anyone who knows where the title "Food, Folks and Fun" comes from!

Girls That Like Boys Who Do Boys Who Like Girls That Like...

For this week's Roundtable, my good friend Lauren adds some welcome discussions on modern sexuality. Specifically, she asks why is it OK for ladies to get it on with ladies but the same is not true for gents? Is it nature or nurture? And where did Kylie Minogue's sister come from?

All this and more over at Life of a Franco-American in the UK...

Multimedia Love

I'm usually ambivalent about Valentine's Day. For people who are in relationships, it's either a good excuse to get out of their ruts and be romantic with each other (although it's kind of sad if they need an excuse in the first place) or it just puts undue pressure - usually on the guy if it's a hetero couple - to live up to unrealistic standards of what "love" or "Valentine's Day" is supposed to be like. For singles, it's either depressing to be alone, exhilerating to know you're not stuck in some unsatisfying relationship like so many others, or entertaining to laugh at those who are spending a ton of money on their loved ones just because they're told to.

But, this year, for the first time in a long time, I will be celebrating Valentine's Day. Nothing over-the-top, but something I'm definitely looking forward to.

I thought I would share two things. The first is Shakespeare's Sonnet 29. I know, a love poem from Shakespeare is not very original. But I'm new to poetry and I thought this refreshing, uninhibited belief in the redemptive power of love, though melodramatic for some tastes, would be appropriate.

When, in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least,
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising,
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate,
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings,
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

All right, that's enough of that schmaltziness, right? The second gift is a commerical from Saturday Night Live courtesy of YouTube.com. If you're more in the "Valentine's Day is just a corporate-induced, captialist excuse to waste money on crap you don't need for someone you probably won't be with a year from now" camp, then this satire is for you. And anyone else who likes, you know, funny commericals. Enjoy!

Step Up to the Roundtable...If You Dare

I originally envisioned this blog as a place for potential future employers to view my writing samples, so I chose to use my name for my blog's URL address as I thought that appeared more professional. My blog has since taken a more personal, casual path, still writing as best I can about my interests but without holding myself to any restrictive "rules." Looking back on it, whether professional or personal, I didn't really have to use my real name.

On the other hand, I'm always slightly perterbed by "anonymous" comments and bloggers. It's just too easy. Isn't part of being an adult being accountable for your actions? Granted, even non-anonymous commentators usually just use funky, weird names instead of their real ones. I never thought I'd have to worry about attaching my name to my writing, but now I kind of envy the freedom anonymous writers have to say anything they want. Not that I'd go around writing about torturing kittens, but still...

I started thinking about this responsibility more in the past month for two reasons. First, I had my own personal experiences with this blog that made me question my own actions as well as those of others, which made me wonder: should I take advantage of the blogosphere's lax rules on identity? Is it too late and, therefore, should I just stick with what I'm doing? Second, in some small way, the James Frey chaos almost mirrored my own predicament regarding personal choices and documenting experiences, opening up a debate that is still continuing all over the web.

Writing on the Internet, it's easy to say whatever you want about whomever you want. Identity, confrontation and accountability are all thrown up in the air. But what if that person showed up at your door? Would you have the guts to tell them to their face?

Which leads me to my two-part Roundtable discussion:

If you could say whatever you wanted to someone face-to-face, with a guarantee that you would receive no negative reaction whatsoever, what would you say and to whom?

And, since there's no consequence to your actions, would you choose to remain anonymous (your identity would be protected) when you told them?

Would you talk to a famous actor? Athlete? Musician? Maybe a scientist? Your next-door neighbor? Your mother?

Maybe you would inform Clint Eastwood that he didn't deserve to be nominated for Best Actor for Million Dollar Baby, or explain to Wendy Pepper that she shouldn't have been in the Top 3 at Fashion Week for Project Runway.

Would you tell Nicole Ritchie and Star Jones that, despite their books, they don't get to refer to themselves as "authors"?

Maybe it isn't something negative you want to get off your chest. Some people embarrass easily, and would therefore prefer to give compliments anonymously. Maybe you would tell Drew Barrymore that you want to lick chocolate off her toes, or inform your local barista that you look forward to his coffee every day.

The only caveat is that the Roundtable does not talk politics or religion, so please keep that in mind.

Basically, I'm handing you the microphone and the spotlight, only no one in the audience can throw tomatoes at you. Whether you reply anonymously, with some made-up name, or with your own, I'd love to hear how and what people would say if given the chance.

Transamerica = Road Trip!

(Blogger's Update: This piece was chosen as an Editor's Pick of the Week Feb. 8-14 at Blogcritics.org. Thanks, editors!)

I don't know what it says about Transamerica that I'm having more fun thinking about the storyline's possibilities than I am about writing a real review. With a conservative pre-operative transsexual and his/her 17-year-old, drugged-out, hustler son driving across the country, how could this movie be anything less than a feel-good, feel-bad party on wheels? The possibilities provided by this situation are endless. First we have the spin-off sitcom ("One of them shuns curse words, the other snorts coke! Hilarious hi-jinks ensue!"), then the conservative tirades ("I'm so sick of liberal Hollywood shoving their gay agenda down our throats. First they want us to believe cowboys can be gay, now they want us to let transsexuals drive. What's next, drag queen accountants?").

In reality, the movie is surprisingly conventional. Everything you need to know is in the title: Transamerica. It's crossing state lines, cultural lines, gender lines, and familial lines. The first promotional poster for the movie featured the tag line "Life is more than the sum of its parts;" the same could be said about the movie. By mixing the cliches of the road trip and sexually deviant outcast genres, Transamerica uses the former to transcend the latter.

Let's start from the top. Stanley (Felicity Huffman, of TV's Desperate Housewives) is on his way to becoming Bree. He's taking the hormones, he's got the frumpy skirts and jackets, he's had both his jaw and Adam's apple surgically shaved (ouch!). All that's left is the final nip/tuck. Before he can get it done, however, he finds out his one sexual encounter with a woman resulted in a son who's now in jail. Bree's therapist won't approve his surgery until Bree deals with this relevation.

Bree flies to New York, bails out Toby (Kevin Zegers - looking, sounding and acting like the love-child of Christian Slater and Ian Somerhalder) and, since they're both heading back West, decides to drive back with Toby to save money. However, Bree tells Toby that she's sent from the Church of the Potential Father (get it?) rather than tell him the truth.

The road trip itself is unspectacular. Bree and Toby meet quirky characters, have misunderstandings and awkward encounters (Toby is way too comfortable using his body to get what he wants), and eventually make their way to Bree's family when they run out of money.

At first, it seems writer/director Duncan Tucker has fallen victim to the predictable plot points of his chosen genre. However, by putting Bree and Toby through the paces of a road trip, the plot takes a backseat (no pun intended) to character. We get to know Bree throughout their journey - her intelligence, her paternal/maternal side, her flirtations with a friendly Native American, her repression that borders on self-loathing - and Huffman really deserves all the critical acclaim she's receiving. Her awkward, exaggerated physicality and tightly-controlled voice are fascinating, yet she stretches beyond gimmicks to fuse Stanley and Bree into one complex person.

The cliches continue in the last third of the film, where Bree confronts her unaccepting family. Her parents don't understand her, her sister is too self-absorbed to help, past mistakes are used against her, etc. The mother's melodramatic rejection of Bree reflects her own insecurities, as if she's certain that her son's supposed failures reflect her own shortcomings as a mother. Although these familial relationships and tense dinner scenes are cliches at this point, Tucker slyly uses them to show how universal Bree's problems are. Who can't relate to the dysfunctional family? The audience sympathizes with Bree because she's a person with the same kind of problems we all have (unless you come from a functional family, in which case you are the freak).

All in all, Transamerica is satisfying enough, with a serviceable script elevated by an incredible performance by Huffman. Actually, while I am a Reese Witherspoon fan, if Huffman trumps her for the Oscar this year, that would be just fine.

But now I'm going to crank out that script for the Transamerica sitcom. Maybe I could call it "Two and a Half Men." Or "Three's Company." Wait, those are already taken. How about "Desperate Pre-Operative Transsexual Housewives"? Obviously, it's a work in progress. Just like Bree.

Pink vs. the Magazine Stars

I've had a love/hate relationship with Pink. Actually, it's more of a like/don't like relationship, since she's never done anything I've absolutely loved or completely hated. She keeps presenting herself as a "bad girl," but I don't know what's so bad about her besides the fact that she smokes and likes to snarl and flex her biceps for the paparazzi. If you're going to be bad, be bad! Trash a hotel room! Kick a puppy! Light someone on fire! Apparently, now you just have to say you're tough and that's it - no verification necessary.

I was pleasantly surprised when I saw her new video for "Stupid Girl." In it, she makes fun of Magazine Stars (I don't even think I should call them actresses or singers at this point): Lindsay Lohan, Jessica Simpson, Britney Spears, Paris Hilton, and the Olsen twins. Now, you may say, "So what? Everyone I know makes fun of them anyway?!" While every normal person might actually understand that Paris Hilton has no talent, or that Jessica Simpson's mediocre musical career does not warrant the attention she receives, the point is that no one in the media acknowledges this. Every magazine cover, every entertainment news show, everything pouring out of the TV/music/film/magazine industries would have us believe what these people ate for breakfast is important.

So while Saturday Night Live and Kathy Griffin have gone here first, it's rare and refreshing to see a female pop star make fun of her contemporaries. Cynics may say Pink is using their non-stop presence in print and on TV to help promote herself (and therefore exploit the very problem she's condemning), but I say: who cares? She's taking a risk. Even though Pink has fought against being musically associated with the likes of Spears and Simpson by angling for a more "rock" sound, she's still considered a pop star, and a lot of her fans (especially the younger ones) might take offense to her making fun of their role models.

More importantly, there's a message behind it. "What happened to the dream of a girl President? She's dancing in the video next to 50 Cent," she sings, standing at a podium in a business suit. "Girls with ambition, that's what I want to see," she declares, apparently forgetting Paris' and Nicole Ritchie's new-found status as "authors." In the video she's trying to persuade a young girl to drop the TV remote and pick up a football while making fun of tanorexic singers who writhe around on soapy cars and toothpick munchkins who get into car accidents every other day. Not exactly deep, but hey, it's a music video, and how many of those even have a message at all?

Unfortunately, the song itself leaves much to be desired. While I'm not a fan of all of Pink's hits, songs like "Feel Good Time" and, especially, "God is a DJ" are great, booty-shaking anthems. In "Stupid Girls," the above lyrics make strong points, but the rest consist of boring cliches. Even worse, the production is bland, uninspired pop, the very sonic landscape that she has been fighting to distance herself from on her last two CD's.

A spoken interlude where she whines that eating over 300 calories is so "not sexy" before sticking a toothbrush down her throat reeks of unoriginality and tastlessness. Can't Pink mock the media and magazine stars guilty of promoting unhealthy body images without making fun of girls suffering from the results of unrealistic body expectations? And if she can't, couldn't she at least be more creative about it?

So I'm back to my like/don't like relationship with Pink. Even with the song's flaws, it's still great to see a female pop star be funny and sexy at the same time while belting it out with a raw, rock-tinged voice. However, considering how eager she is to criticize the lack of authentic talent and personality in our celebrity-obsessed culture, I wish Pink had made sure her music was up to her own creative standards.

Food, Folks and Fun

The lovely editors at Blogcritics have chosen my piece, "Oprah Rips Frey a New One," as an Editor's Pick of the Week. Thanks, guys!

Even though this whole Frey case has been covered to death, there was always one bit of information that I could never work into either of my pieces, nor did I see it included anywhere else. I know it's not exactly relevant to the issues his case raises, but it still bothers me. When A Million Little Pieces first came out in 2003, he did an interview at Salon.com. This is what he had to say about some of his well-known fellow authors:

I don't give a fuck what Jonathan Safran whatever-his-name does or what David Foster Wallace does. I don't give a fuck what any of those people do. I don't hang out with them, I'm not friends with them, I'm not part of the literati." Don't even get him started on Dave Eggers. "A book that I thought was mediocre was being hailed as the best book written by the best writer of my generation. Fuck that. And fuck him and fuck anybody who says that. I don't give a fuck what they think about me. I'm going to try to write the best book of my generation and I'm going to try to be the best writer.

What a classy guy. That would be Jonanthan Safran Foer, author of best-sellers Everything Is Illuminated and Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, David Foster Wallace, author of Infinite Jest, Brief Interviews With Hideous Men, and Consider the Lobster, and Dave Eggars, author of the hugely popular A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. Even though Frey tries to make it sound like he's rejecting them as part of the snobby "literati," it sounds more like the bitter rantings of an insecure writer jealous of the attention his talented peers received. And I wonder, does he think AMLP is the best book of his generation?

I just had to share that, even though it doesn't reveal anything new about Frey since we all now he likes to see himself as some kind of tough gangsta, but seriously, who talks like that in an interview?

Now that I got that out of my system, I can move on. You can also read my two other Blogcritics Picks of the Week, the first on my favorite Food Network show, Everyday Italian, and the second on the ridiculous Barbara Walters special, The Ten Most Fascinating People of 2005.

At the end of the Everyday Italian piece, I asked (ok, begged) for a copy of host Giada De Laurentiis's cookbook so I could actually try some of her recipes. I was curious to see if her food could stand alone and not just look pretty on TV. Since then, I have gotten the book (thanks, Eric!) and have tried some recipes.

First, I tried her Chocolate Amaretti Cake, a flourless chocolate cake batter made with crushed amaretti cookies (dry, airy Italian almond cookies) and orange zest. It came out moist and almost fudgy, with the cookies adding a perfectly mild crunch to the batter. Italians aren't known for desserts beyond cannoli and tiramisu, but I think this cake definitely has the potential to become just as popular. I will definitely make this one again.

Then, I made a simple pasta dish, Orecchiette with Sausage and Broccoli Rabe. I love pasta recipes that include veggies and protein all in one dish and this one is so easy to make. I substituted farfalle because I couldn't find orecchiette noodles and regular broccoli for the broccoli rabe. But the simple coating of olive oil, garlic and red pepper flakes was perfect, adding a little kick without overpowering the fresh broccoli or spicy sausage.

Finally, yesterday I made Panino di Proscuitto e Fontina. I love panini, and this grilled sandwich with fontina cheese, spinach, red onion and proscuitto was a perfect compliment to the butternut squash soup that it accompanied.

There's so many more recipes I'm planning on trying, but so far, so good. Although some dismiss Giada as just a pretty face (which covers about half the pages in her cookbook) she at least can back up her looks with simple, modern dishes adapted from classic Italian recipes.

I know this post is covering a lot (James Frey and panini?), but I'm in a kind of Friday, end-of-the-week-recap mood.

Mozart: This Generation's Ben Affleck?

For this week's Roundtable, Stephen (or Mr. Funk, if you're nasty) poo-poos the commonly held theory that Mozart is, like, talented. This reminds me of the very first Roundtable back in the day, when RW knocked Anthony Hopkins down a few notches. That's right, we're the Roundtable, and we don't care what anyone else thinks! And it's not just because we're drunk!

Anyway, Stephen is causing quite a ruckus over there, so you may want to hold onto your gimlets...