When Mother Nature Has Major Menopause

As we near the end of the first and only January we'll ever know of 2006, and the bills from an extravagant holiday begin their roll over in our mailboxes, the new gym memberships creep to an inevitable halt and the guilt for failing to send out those thank you cards yet again this year slowly sets in (and then thankfully quickly fades), it's no coincidence so few of us find the time or reason to reflect back on -- of all things -- the weather.

But for those of us who cherish and pride themselves on surviving the blizzard-like conditions of a white, New York City style Christmas, these heavenly hot flashes have left us wondering: Where, oh where, has Winter wandered?

According to Dr. James E. Hansen, the top climate expert at NASA, and former director of the Goddard Institute for Space Studies, those weathered winds of a wicked winter may soon become just a whimsical wish from our past.

In fact, his recent research has shown that 2005 was the warmest documented year in at least a century, a sign of something major shifting in the environment.

The culprit? No surprise: Global Warming.

Perhaps less shocking than that, the Bush administration refuses to hear about it. And if they continues to get their way, soon you won't be hearing much more on the issue either.

Following a controversial speech in which he spoke out against the government's failure to curb the emission of greenhouse gases associated with global warming, Hansen reported being threatened by the Bush Boys, claiming "dire consequences" would arise should these public statements continue.

Shortly thereafter, as expected, NASA began implementing a series of "restrictions" on Dr. Hansen's access to statistical information, insisting on reviewing first his lectures, papers and postings on the highly heated -- no pun intended -- topic.

But in recent interviews with the New York Times, the not-so-scared scientist insists it's his job and duty to speak out, to warn those in positions of power and to use his knowledge to help find a cure, not just cut corners.

In a January 29th story, Dr. Hansen told the NYT it would be ironically irresponsible for him not to continue to push the point to the press, despite the warnings of "dire consequences," because NASA's mission statement, after all, proclaims a promise "to understand and protect our home planet."

For his part in the paradigm, President Bush plans to outline in this Tuesday's State Of The Union Address his own personal mission statement: "It's My Party, and You'll Die If I Want You To."

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some belated letters to mail out, bills to pay, and all before running out to the gym.

But first I have to decide which tank top to wear with my shorts and flip flops...

A Gay Man's Guide To Getting Leid At Work

Another Fagtastic Friday and though I haven't shaved in a week and look like the gayest grizzly bear nature has ever rejected, I just had to pose with these freshly cut leis sent from a coworker out in Hawaii.


Thanks Tania's Sister! Enjoy Your Weekend Folks!!!

The New Canada: What You Bloggin' Aboot?

In an attempt to forge a closer working relationship with the George W. Bush Company -- I'm sorry, I mean the United States of America -- Canada has chosen to trade in it's long standing history of liberal and open-minded politics for the fresh, albeit fatal, face of the new Republican agenda.

Results from this week's general election showed Stephen Harper, leader of the Conservative Party, pulling in the majority vote to reign as the country's new Prime Minister.

It has been reported that shortly after the announcement, President Bush placed a 16 minute congratulatory call to Harper, wishing him hopes for a profitable future and offering advice on what to do next.

Shortly thereafter, Harper began work systematically destroying the national system of health care, increasing crime, rejecting the Kyoto Protocol to curb the effects of global warming, and banning all gay marriages, gay people in general and anyone who saw Brokeback Mountain and didn't "hurl, eh?"

Controversy bubbled over yesterday when Harper let it slip he always supported the invasion of Iraq and suggested reversing Canada's decision not to join the U.S. on the war front -- which, if you ask me, is exactly what Iraq needs right now: MORE untrained, useless, sissy-boy fighters to help slow down our political progress.

The Blind Leading The Blind...Part V

It's out with the old, in with the Jew!?! Which Recasted Romeo is hanging up his handguns to perform Hava Nagila at a socialite's son's secretive but much anticipated New York Bar Mitzvah?

No word on how many paycheck zeroes will appear for his appearance, but rumor has it if you want him to sit for your Passover dinner, his hourly fee oh-so-doubles.

*** NOTE: All "Blind Items" listed on this site are from my own personal experiences, unless specified, and are not to be published or reproduced without my express permission. My reliable and inside sources are confidential, and all gossip tidbits have been verified for accuracy before publication. ***

Catch Up On Previous Blind Items:
TBLTB Part I TBLTB Part II
TBLTB Part III TBLTB Part IV

This Week: You Outta Be In Pictures, Baby

PBS and Sesame Street announced this week a plan to keep up with the pop-crazed celebrity culture by reinventing some of their all-time classic learning tools.

Seen here:

"One Of These Things Is Not Like The Others..."

And no, kids, Ellen is NOT pregnant.



People's Sexiest Man Alive Matthew McConaghuey dodged rumors this week of his failed romance with Penelope Cruz because of his sexuality.

The actor, who enjoys banging on lap-drums naked with other men, started sucking on balls, an act with which he seems otherwise entirely comfortable.

And finally, if a pop-star poops in public, but no one is around to smell it, can you still make fun of him?



Justin Timberlake, here leaving a Palm Spring's port-a-potty, and two older women rushing to be next in line. Let's just hope they didn't lick the toilet seat...too much.

Sealed tupperware containing the air from his visit will be available on E-bay shortly. Current highest bid: $1.3 Million.
And that's mine.

This Just In: I'm Alive, And It's Terminal

Well it's official. I'm dying.

I shifted my weight atop the parchment paved butchers block, waiting for an explanation, a possible miscommunication, a reason why, or how, or when...I wondered to myself was it worth it? This life. These moments.

My doctor wheeled his chair over, the chart holding the fate of what has become my daily routine balanced under his left arm. I asked him to give it to me straight, the irony in my word-choice settling in only hours later on the ride home. But before he could speak, my brain released, or cleared rather, a kind of wiping clean, as if someone was holding a weighted middle-finger to the delete key.

All my memories, working backward, from the burnt English muffin at breakfast to my first kiss in college, past the failed drivers test, past the prom, freshman year, my best-best friend Susie Blackart, the cabbage-patch kid I smashed into her overhead light in second grade, my first haircut, my last diaper, my mother's smile, the tit, the womb, and then stop. Right there. The moment of conception.

Deception. Life, if you will.

Suddenly, having taken stock of my life's collective meaning, all the anxiety, the stress, the fears of failure, the money worries, the does-he-like-me-like-me's, they had no consequence, no more power, no more hold. I was free, free to die.

My career crystallized, my mortgage materialized, and through these new eyes, I saw the truth, the meaning, the gift of life itself.

I was excited in that moment to take what remained of my days on earth for granted, to exploit my ability to walk upright, to flaunt my fevered appreciation for the capability to breath, to digest, to eat corn and flush corn, to smile at strangers, to compliment coworkers, to enjoy the laughter of a child and pity the tears of an invalid.

I never felt more alive than in the moment I was prepared to die.

But that's when he said it. You're going to be just fine. And suddenly that moment faded, my eyes gravitated back to his and I felt the blinking cursor paused in my beating brain. Control-Alt-Delete and I was rebooted, reborn, but back in the same body, the same worries, the same old context and constructs. Yeah, I was alive and well.

Damn it.

For shits-and-giggles, or perhaps from the remnants of the old-new-me I asked him how much longer I had to live. He said a lifetime. Give or take. I calculated in my head what that meant, trying desperately to account for fleeting time, to get back to that high, that freedom-filled fantastic fate.

Fuck.

If I live to be 80, from dust to dust, I've been given 4,160 weeks. Having used a third of that already, I'm down to 2,800.

Twenty-eight-hundred weeks. That's all I have to live. Give or take.

Yet it means nothing until the man in a white coat presses his weight against my knees and tells me I'm a goner. We wait, I suppose, to hear the deathly diagnosis. But we're all infected, we're all already goners, from the get go. There will be no survivors from this disease, and no cure.

Only memories, while they last. Only a hundred and eight second chances to become the person whose life is worth erasing. Only four thousand weeks to attempt something new, if you haven't already, and two thousand weeks to remember them.

Yes, I am dying, officially. But oh, what a good time I'll have doing it.

Hex, Lies And Videotape: New Footage Fu(ks Bush Fast & Furious-like

No, it's not another Hilton sister sex-tape. This time the saucy starlet is none other than the ominously elusive Osama bin Laden, very much alive and doing well thank you very much, still four whole years after the September 11th attacks.

Cursing the United States and our fearlessly futile leader for his mere existence in the universe, Osama warns of future violence within the U.S., as he continues to prepare Al-Qaida cells around the world for the next dreaded wave of terrorist attacks.

The White House confirms an offer was made for a "long-term truce" with what bin Laden called "fair" but undisclosed conditions between the two factions.

Press Secretary Scott McClellan immediately refused such an offer, responding flatly, "We do not negotiate with terrorists."

He then went on to remind Osama that only Academy members may nominate and vote for their favorite films in each category, with the final ballot results being held in absolute secrecy by two partners of PricewaterhouseCoopers until that last anxious moment on stage during the 78th Annual Academy Awards Presentation.

A spokesman for the Al-Jazeera television network which originally aired the footage of the feared and flagrant fugitive reports that although Osama thoroughly enjoyed A History Of Violence, he is secretly hoping Brokeback Mountain takes home the award for Best Picture, with star Heath Ledger earning the much deserved Best Actor.

And they will too, if that Philip Seesmore Eatsoften doesn't inhale the entire cast before the show. Bastard. That is, both Philip and Osama.

It's All Fun And Games 'Till Someone Loses An I-raqi Surface-To-Air Missile

Three fatal helicopter crashes in just under three weeks over the blood-soaked killing-fields of Iraq has suddenly probed the Pentagon to investigate a theory the insurgency is using lost missiles unaccounted for during the initial U.S. invasion to attack U.S. forces in the air.

Worried government officials told ABC News today there are hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Russian-made SA-7 missiles originally a part of Saddam Hussein's arsenal which were stolen by Iraqi fighters back in 2003. These weapons are most troubling for the helicopter crews because they are being used on non-combatant choppers providing aid and relief to wounded or stranded ground troops.




The good news: Paris Hilton's classier younger sister Nicky found her unaccounted for pride.

And at Eckerd no less!

They Say Those Who Can Still Act, Do; And Those Who Can't...Get Pregnant

Baby Watch 2006, Hollywood Edition. It seems everywhere you look these days there's a full grown belly bursting with baby-booming-goodness.

But is the most recent rise in celebrity leg-spreading just the next hottest trend destined for decay, like Uggs or Jamie Fox's career?...Or is it part of a larger conspiracy? A purposeful plan? A mission, an assignment intended to keep quasi-talented, barely-noticed actors and actresses off the streets, and further, off the big screens?

And if so, who's responsible? God? P.R. Agents? The Gay Mafia?

We may never know the truth, but we can count on extended moment-by-moment coverage of every push of every birth -- the water break, the circumcisions and yes, the inevitable, unbelievable, over-rated baby-naming bonanza.

To get a feel for what's to come, sometime in the next nine months, let's start at the top, where all eyes (and photogs) currently reign:

The Brangelina Bump
Apparently in an attempt not to anger the Gods, Angie tried to keep the expectant news under wraps for as long as possible. In fact, not even Bradly is quite sure when he officially sperminated his baby's mamma, but working backward would make it one magical night in September...

I know the entire world is expecting this kid to be the hands-down most incredibly beautiful baby ever born.



But may I remind you, fate has a way of settling all scores in the end.

Just take a good long gander at the most recent pics of supermodel Heidi Klum's supersick love-child.

Suddenly clubbing Baby Seals doesn't seem so horrid, does it?


The TomKat Kiddies
Even on ice, teeny-tiny Tom attempts to feign a flame for anyone with a working camera. And as Katie, or Kate, or Kat, or whatever the hell his cult is calling her these days, grows larger around the mighty midsection, one cannot wonder why she would risk gliding over a slippery surface when carrying the most precious of proof that her man isn't as MO as most people imagine.


But as the wise world waits for their inevitable invitation to the Late-term Pregnancy Problem Party, we gotta hand it to Holmes for her Best Supporting Actress performance on this one. Now if only she could wield those powers to the dramatic beats of an actual movie script...


The Gwyn Guts
I know what you're already thinking...Not another crack at the crazy lady who named her baby after a fruit...So I won't. I'll just mention how the only time Princess Paltrow comes back to the U.S. is to take advantage of our health care system. Some would say being a pregnant ex-patriot works for her. I'm just surprised she gets work at all.


And as for the other Gwyn-girl, she'll either be the coolest mom ever, or a snarky up-tight bitch. But with Uncle Moby babysitting, at least we're sure to get a gay kid outta one of these gals...


Most Shocking Of All...

Alright so she's not pregnant, but man...talk about letting yourself go. Word on the street is Mariah Carey has packed on more than just a few extra pounds, all for her next movie role, the much anticipated sequel to Glitter.

Working Title: Gluttonier.

No seriously, the girl's an absolute beast now.

And that, my friends, concludes our in-depth investigation into the boisterous Baby-Boom infecting Hollywood at the moment.

But before you can return to your boring, baby-less lives and pretend to be happy for all of them, remember that the true victims here aren't even here yet to be victimized. Sure, money can buy you love, and it can bring you fame; it can even get you laid. A lot. But just like money, sometimes sperm is better saved than spread around.

I hereby submit the following as evidence.

Halle Berry Speaks Out: "I Have A Cream"

All skin is NOT created equal.

Everyone knows black don't crack -- which is why I was surprised to find, on this, the honored day marking the life and death of Martin Luther King, Jr., a new ad hocking Brown Sugar Body Polish plastered across Halle Berry's freakishly annoying official homepage, Hallewood.com.

Ranking in at Number 1 on her "10 Things Every Groove Girl Should Have" list, Halle reminds her loyal fans, "On the days we groove girls take showers, this body polish is a fun way to exfoliate dead skin and smell good while you do it."

So what have we learned here?

1. Halle Berry doesn't shower often.

2. For $55 you can stink like you do.

And even though the sugar-laced product smells "good enough to eat," you shouldn't. Her much anticipated Bulimia Babe's Burrito Barfing Elixir won't be available 'till at least late next summer.

MTKJ would be so very proud.

They Say It Takes An Entire Village...

...Which apparently is especially true for Brad and Angelina.

Perhaps one of the townsfolk can clue in soon to be Papa Pitt as to how many months pregnant Angie really is.

What a difference a thumb makes, huh?

You Know It's Friday The 13th When...

...Melissa Joan Hart gives birth. To what, we're not sure. And by the look of this pic, neither is she...



But whatever creature-feature busted out of Sabrina The Teenage Witch's woman-like womb, it was damn-near time!

Gives new meaning to the Mother Ship, eh? Congrats M-Jo!!!

All Dressed Up And No Where To Blow

Bring Out Your Dead! 'Coz it's time for another mind-numbing special edition of "Hey Remember When?" -- a picturesque look back at the great bold oldies and the blonde bobble-head biatches they've both blissfully become.

Hey, Remember When...Lindsey Lohan was a full-figured fire-headed fox? MMM is for MMMemories. First she tells you the waste-away is a result of her bulging battle with bulimia. Then she takes it all back, declaring her words were "misused."

Diet was the issue, undeniably. But it ain't your mamma's Special K our teen tart's been bowling through like there's no tomorrow. And if she's not too careful, there may not be...

Hey, Remember When...Nicole Richie was the sexy, sass-slinging star of the Simple Life? She was the only reason that show lasted, or could have for at least a season or two more. Now I'm using her personal memoir, The Truth About Diamonds, as a paperweight -- more than I can say for her, her future or shrinking book sales at this point.


Rumor has it Lohan and Richie have been getting together for more than just late-night partying. Seems they've put their collectively coked-up energies into a new album to be released this spring. I hear the title track, Walk Like An Addiction, is pretty darn catchy.

At least we still have classic ass-kicking beauties like Bebe to remind us not only do blondes NOT have more fun; brunettes look better doing it. Every time.

People Announces Sexiest Fetus Alive

Well it's official: Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are doing each other.

And you're not.

Here's a list of possible baby names:

Zeus.

Ttina.

Or most fitting, baby Maddox's Absolute Worst Nightmare, Part III.

Turn Your Head And Scoff

According to new research just published in The Archives of Internal Medicine, men who are screened regularly for prostate cancer do not have a significantly greater chance of surviving the disease over those who have never been tested at all.

Studying over 72,000 men who underwent rectal exams from the years 1991 to 1995 in various New England hospitals, the scientists discovered just under half the men examined, despite the doctor-recommended screenings, eventually died from the disease.

The surviving rate of the remaining patients may, in fact, have been a result of regular prostate examinations, but no definitive evidence of this highly debated belief could be concluded.

In a related story, latin pop-singer Ricky Martin spoke out feverishly in favor of regular rectal screenings, claiming he even travels on va-gay-tion with his own personal urologist.

The Blind Leading The Blind...Part IV

So here's the latest rundown on Hollywood Heavyweight: Hot, Horny and Oh-So-Happy -- but mostly in the original sense of the word. Private in his personal life, the seemingly-straight star isn't just cool with publicly knowing gay people, he rather enjoys their johnsons/rods/dicks...

Not that you could tell with all the beautiful name-less models being paraded down the red carpet dangling off his arm. Of course, when a local talent agency is called to provide dates for his keep-up-the-image parties, our good-gals are forewarned ahead of time not to expect much in the triple-x-sexcapade department. Least not 'till after hours when the boys come out to play.

*** NOTE: All "Blind Items" listed on this site are from my own personal experiences, unless specified, and are not to be published or reproduced without my express permission. My reliable and inside sources are confidential, and all gossip tidbits have been verified for accuracy before publication. ***

Out With The Cold, In With The Flu

Everyone I know is sick.
Some try to blame it on the weather; others choose to play the "smoker's cough" card. But I'm not entirely convinced the constant state of sickness surrounding my circle of friends and coworkers isn't the effect of something bigger, something much, much worse.

Like growing up.

Throwing up is bad. Especially when you're not a Long-Island turned Hollywood Hottie. But I can't deny the urge to do it. All the time. Every morning. Before the shower, and many times in it. Let me just profess, I don't actually go through with the act. But the urge to do it is there nonetheless -- followed shortly there after by the pounding headache and a nose so runny I cashed in my pension plan to buy out stock in Kleenex.

But am I really that ill? Or is this simply a sign of my body just shutting down? Giving up? Giving in?

I asked around, coyly with my coworkers, so as not to isolate myself as the "diseased one." And as I blew my nose and gently rubbed my temples, I recognized the signs of recognition in their eyes. Each of us, calmly scanning the next, lips twitching, throats swallowing (well, those of us who still could), and though no one chose to say it aloud, we all knew the symptoms of this stoic sickness.

My doctor says it's just the flu. A cold. A sinus related ailment. And the cure: rest, fluids, healthy eating and a cool-air humidifier. But after plenty of sleep, pissing every hour on the hour and a balanced meal before balmy breezes, I still can't shake the feeling it's lying dormant. IT. Waiting. This creature haunting my body, my bloodstream. This creepy, callous cohort gliding up my nostrils, down the back of my throat and deep into the very pit of my stomach.

Allergies aside, something still isn't right. But all my tests are clean; I even got a seal of approval from my insurance company asking me to pose as the poster boy for healthy wholeness. I, of course, refused -- for how can I praise the system of health in this country when this stealth symptom of sickness continues to infect my loved ones?

No, I'm convinced there's something more here. Something none of us can stop. So if you're feeling sticky, picky or sicky, if you're waking up with the shakes, if you're fevered and furious, if your body simply seems to disagree with you on every account, you may have already been infected. You may be on your way.

You are getting old. And there's no turning back.

Just wait 'till you start farting and not notice it.

Some Like it Hot...Off The Presses

Is IBM into S&M?

Couldn't resist taking a picture at work today when one of our more "troubled" printers began acting up.

More disturbing was the Doctor of Domination sent from Tech Support to repair the machine, who repeatedly spanked the sides of the printer when it refused to obey, then stripped off it's outer layers, forced it to stand in the corner facing the wall and wear a name tag proudly announcing its naughty nature.

You should see what he did to the fax machine when the fuse blew.

Miscommunication At Mine Not So Minor

As the world continues to grieve with the families of the twelve coal miners found dead after a mine explosion trapped them underground in West Virginia, the media has begun their inquisition into how initial news of their survival had been so tragically miscommunicated.

Ben Hatfield, president and CEO of the International Coal Group which owns the troubled Sago Mine told an early morning press conference that incorrect information regarding the lives of the miners had spread from the rescuers to the command center, resulting in families and friends being left to believe for hours their loved ones were found alive.

The decision to wait before confronting the overjoyous families with the horrible correction was made roughly 40 minutes after good word came out from the rescue team, a possibility officials were skeptical of finding from the beginning. Instead, three hours later, in the face of violence and confused chaos, Hatfield revealed the truth. "In the process of being cautious," he said, "we allowed the jubilation to go on longer than it should have."

In defense of Hatfield and company, it should be noted that miscommunications are nowadays common for presidents, especially during stressful periods where accuracy and honesty are essential.

Sometimes they utter things that mean the opposite, like "I Do," "I understand," or say, "Mission: Accomplished."


My deepest prayers and sincere condolences for those affected by this tragedy, the families of those who suffered losing their loved ones -- twice more than anyone ever should -- and a hopeful and speedy recovery to the one survivor of the horrendous accident.

Everybody Loves Raymond Ryan?

If you can't get enough Ryan Seacrest...You soon will.

The American Idol host with the most (beauty products) is set to take over the world -- or at least Dick Clark's old gig -- one television network at a time.

With his weekly radio talk show, American Top 40, a production company creatively named Ryan Seacrest Productions and even a clothing line of his own design, the magnificently metrosexual man-boy has just signed a three-year deal with E! Entertainment Television to produce and host their red-carpet coverage, beginning with the next Golden Globes.

Reportedly, Seacrest will be snagging a $21 million contract -- though to be fair, $19.7 million of that will be spent the first year alone on manicures and hairgel.

In a related story, on hearing of her cutsie-wootsy competition, the impossibly irreplaceable Joan Rivers began to weep -- through small incisions behind her ears where the doctors moved the tear-ducts to make room for more fagtastically flawless refinement.