This Can't Be Broccoli

I was having lunch with the boys, and Brian had a strange request. BRIAN: I want you all to defriend Robert Richardson. Robert Richardson was a friend of Brian's ex, Alex, who had moved to Delaware about two years ago. To be honest, I think I talked to the guy once, so I didn't have a huge problem with defriending him, but I wasn't about to just do it without asking-- ME: Why? BRIAN: Because Alex is having all of his friends defriend me. TURNER: Real mature. BRIAN: I know! So now I want you guys to defriend him and all his friends. SCOOTER: No way! Some of those guys are hot! I could see this wasn't going to be as cut and dry as Brian had hoped. ME: Brian, how do you know those people are defriending you because of Alex? BRIAN: Why else would they defriend me? The few times I talked to Rob we had perfectly pleasant conversation. ME: Maybe Rob no longer feels that's worthy of keeping someone on your friends list TWO YEARS after you last saw them! BRIAN: ...

Matthew Broderick wrote the worst tribute to John Hughes in this week's Entertainment Weekly. It makes absolutely no mention of his career, Ferris Bueller, or anything aside from them sitting in a hot tub watching their shorts fill up with bubbles (awkward? yeah, really awkward). So it looks like the task of paying tribute to this amazing writer and director falls to me (mostly because Anthony Michael Hall is still trying to get that Dead Zone TV movie off the ground). John Hughes changed my life. I know, I know--every teenager watches The Breakfast Club and says that it changed their life. Those who don't usually say Mean Girls changed their life and those people are called "Morons." The Breakfast Club is not only the quintessential teen movie, but it's also a damn good overall script. How ballsy is it to write a movie about teenagers and high school where there's no blatant love story, no homecoming, no classes, no cool summer vacation storyline, and no b...

"I remember her dragging me down the stairs kicking and screaming." This is my Mother. "Of course, I was twenty-five at the time. I was visiting your Grandmother on the third floor when I was summoned downstairs by Grandma Sophie." She's talking about when her grandmother, my great-grandma, taught her how to cook a Thanksgiving meal. "I didn't want to learn because I knew why she was teaching me. She'd gotten diagnosed that spring and she knew she wasn't going to make it to November. So in August, she taught me and your Aunt Debby how to make a Thanksgiving dinner." My Aunt Debby remembers--"That kitchen was so damn hot. I wanted to die." My Mother--"Your Aunt Debby is a wuss." My Uncle Bobby--"I didn't have to learn because I was a boy." My Mother--"Your Uncle Bobby would have given us all food poisoning." My Grandmother--"I was never taught to cook because my mother knew I had absolutely no...

This is what I learned about Adam Lambert from his AMA performance: 1) He likes girls. That keyboardist? A man? Doubtful. Highly doubtful. 2) He's hoping to be the next Christina Aguilera--but never leave the slut phase. 3) He's into bondage--shocker. 4) He and Annie Lennox have the same costume designer. 5) He's not here for my entertainment. That last one I already knew.

Dear Top Chef Producers, I'm not writing a rant this week. You finally sent Robin home, and for that, I'm most grateful. The fact that you strung that poor, annoying woman along for most of the season will be overlooked for the time being. There is a more pressing matter at hand. I would like to be on Top Chef. Now, granted, I can't cook. Not even a little. Occasionally I've been known to make toast, but that's the extent of my culinary knowledge. So why put me on your show? Well, for one thing, I'd be great television. If I were on your current season, there would be a lot more to watch; I'll tell you that much. For one thing, I'd probably be able to get Brian Voltaggio to lose the botox face and actually emote. Oh sure, I'd have to do it by pouring hot oil on him, but good television comes at a price, and that price is severe pain. I'd have started way better fights with Eli than the one Robin had. How you get into a fight with someone w...

Lately, I've been noticing that closet cases are doing an awful job of staying in the metaphorical closet. It seems to me that closet cases used to be, you know, discreet. They were quiet. They overcompensated. They got married to ugly women. These were the rules. Now, it seems like the closet cases want all the rights the open gays have, but without actually, you know, saying they're gay. This cannot go on. You can't use the equipment, if you don't join the gym. So here's my advice to closet cases: 1) Stop watching Glee. Girls and gay men enjoy glee. If you're not a girl, you're gay. When you come out, you can laugh and sing and have fun with the rest of us. Until then, stick to ESPN and pretend you care about wild cards and touchdowns. 2) Stop dressing nicely. Yes, the metros dress nicely as well, but you've surpassed them. They strive to look neat, whereas you're walking around with eye shadow and bracelets on while saying things like ...

Here's an idea: To prevent Sarah Palin from making any money on "The Satanic Verses"--I mean, "Going Rogue"--her memoir, I have a plan. When O.J. Simpson was going to put out that self-produced video where he confessed to murder (this was before the book where he confessed to murder) radio stations actually offered to buy the tape and let you come down to the station to watch it as long as you agreed not to purchase it in order to prevent Simpson from receiving any profits from it. I like this idea. So here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to buy a copy of Sarah Palin's book. I suggest one person in every state agree to do the same. Then, like a library (you know I love those), we'll pass the book around to anymore who's dumb enough--I mean, curious enough--to want to read it. That way, she only sells fifty copies, which is still fifty more than she deserves to sell, but hey--life is full of compromises. So, do I hear forty-nine other t...