After master thespian William Shatner brilliantly reinterpreted Sarah Palin's farewell address, he returned to the Conan O'Brien show to perform a few of her Twitter tweets. More poetic fun. Watch:

If John Barrowman's personalized autograph to me weren't enough to make me swoon and give me Torchwood (ba-da-dum!), then the following video seals the deal. At Comic-Con, Barrowman asked David Tennant of Dr. Who fame for a kiss. Tennant obliged, and Barrowman melted. Super hot. Watch:



[Thanks to Jason at Is That a Gavel in Your Pants?]

In case you missed this hot news that spread like erotic wildfire, Olympic gold medalist swimmer Ricky Berens accidentally bared his juicy ass to the whole world when his skin-tight swimsuit split open down the back at the World Swimming Championships in Rome. Unfazed, Berens swam the 4x100m relay freestyle event, qualified for finals, and won.



For the not-safe-for-work closeup photos, go here, pervs. Now that's an ass you can eat sushi off of!

[Thanks to Will Blank.]

Perhaps some of you have seen Sarah Palin's rambling, sometimes incomprehensible farewell address (full video here and here), so you will no doubt take delight in the following performance by the incomparable William Shatner, who appeared on the Conan O'Brien show this week to recite excerpts from Palin's speech as if it were a beat poem. Brilliant. Watch:



[Thanks to Isaac Butler at Parabasis.]

I was at Target the other day, and the lady in front of me was buying something called Pet's Eye View Camera, a digital device (on clearance!) that you hang around your cat or dog and that snaps pictures from their point of view at regular intervals.

Do people find this interesting? Would you be interested in me hanging a camera around Pork Chop's neck so that you can see what he sees while he's taking a crap and such?

I was reading some reviews of the product online, and it seems that once your pet dunks the camera in water when taking a drink then that's the end of it. But perhaps it will be fun while it lasts?

Every few months or so, I talk to someone or hear about someone who has just discovered the wonders of Google Reader and praises it effusively, and I'm struck with surprise once again that everybody who reads blogs and/or news online regularly doesn't already use it. Google Reader is a free service that consolidates all your online reading into one handy place on the Web. So get out of the Dark Ages (Rome fell during that time, and you don't want to be associated with that, do you?), look at the following handy video that explains Google Reader and "feeds" in simple terms, and, of course, make sure Bamboo Nation is the first blog you "subscribe" to (click here for my feed url). Watch the video:



Do it, aspiring nerds!

As you may know, I often make fun of Loren and his love of the BBC sci-fi series, Torchwood, by calling it "Dorkwood" and running around the apartment doing an absurd imitation of Captain Jack. The delightful fact that Captain Jack kisses boys and is played by openly gay actor (and musical theater performer) John Barrowman hasn't even swayed me enough to watch the new miniseries Torchwood: Children of Earth, which legitimate news outlets have been raving about.

I speak to all of you today as a deeply humbled individual, who expresses genuine respect for John Barrowman. You see, Loren was at Comic-Con this past weekend and got Mr. Barrowman to personally autograph a Captain Jack picture for me (click to enlarge):



In case you can't read it, he wrote:

Prince,
It's Torchwood. Not Dorkwood. Give us a kiss.
Love,
John Barrowman
Captain Jack

When I saw this, I laughed for about a minute straight. After that, I couldn't stop imagining what it would be like to kiss Captain Jack. Maybe I can convince Mr. Barrowman that "Dorkwood" is a term of endearment?

I do believe Children of Earth is still on the DVR. Is there Captain Jack nakedness? Please?

This is actual testimony from a City Council meeting in Santa Cruz, California. I think I know what she's talking about, and I think I'm on her side, but I was too distracted from laughing so hard. Does that make me a bad person? Watch:

At the end of The Graduate, Benjamin Braddock stops the woman he loves from getting married to another man by crashing her wedding. He bangs on the church glass and screams, "Elaine! Elaine!," in a fit of romantic desperation. (Yup, for those of you who haven't seen The Graduate yet, I just ruined it for you. Serves you right.)

While many people find the film's iconic climax to be breathtakingly passionate, I know that there are a fair number of people who think Elaine (Katherine Ross) made a big mistake by jilting her groom and boarding a bus with Dustin Hoffman's conflicted post-grad slacker. This particularly sharp exchange in Whit Stillman's underrated Barcelona is a fine example of what I'm talking about:

FRED: You think wedding vows are going to change everything? God, your naivete is astounding! Didn't you see The Graduate?

TED: You can remember The Graduate?

FRED: Yeah, I can remember a few things. Apparently, you don't. The end? Katharine Ross has just married this really cool guy—tall, blond, incredibly popular, the make-out king of his fraternity in Berkeley—when this obnoxious Dustin Hoffman character shows up at the back of the church, acting like a total asshole. "Elaine! Elaine!" Does Katharine Ross tell Dustin Hoffman, "Get lost, creep, I'm a married woman?" No. She runs off with him—on a bus. That is the reality.

Fred may have swallowed that ending far easier, say, if Benjamin and Carl (Elaine's fiancee, played by Brian Avery) fought for her hand in marriage in a duel or a knife fight or something like that. Hell, I'm sure Fred would've even settled for a good old-fashioned debate.

In Chalk Repertory Theatre's bouncy production of Mat Smart's The Debate Over Courtney O'Connell of Columbus, Nebraska (playing now through August 24, 2009, at Cafe Metropol in downtown Los Angeles), a debate is what you get—one that's amusing and a tad absurd and who's outcome is determined by an audience vote (which, I am told, varies wildly performance to performance).

Cafe Metropol (a great restaurant by the way—the Truffled Mac & Cheese and the Lobster Ravioli are like sex on a plate) becomes part of the play, wherein Scott "Scooner" Hooner invokes an obscure Nebraska law—the Morgan Morality Act of 1894—that allows a woman's ex to challenge her new lover in a public debate for her hand. The Chalk Rep audience—yes, you can eat while watching—witnesses the debate and is ultimately responsible for one of four possible endings. Whether you side with the nice, successful, devoted fiance or with the aggressive, reckless, passionate ex may say lots about your own outlook on love and romance.

Act Two of the show—a separate one-act play—imagines how the Morgan Morality Act came to be. (There is a question, by the way, of whether the law actually exists. A cursory search on the Internet turned up nothing.) So the production flashes back to 1894 and, startlingly, plays out in broad and sometimes hilarious sketch-comedy brushstrokes—replete with Shakespearian gender bending, fast costume changes, physical comedy, and a slo-mo fight scene that milks that effect for everything it's worth. The second act gets so delightfully ridiculous at times that I found myself muttering, "What am I watching?!" That I reveled in it is a testament to the energetic cast (Feodor Chin, Amy Ellenberger, Jeff Galfer, and Larry Herron) and Jennifer Chang's briskly paced directing.

As a supporter (and creator) of theater for people who don't go to theater, I'm chalking this one up for the team.

[The Debate Over Courtney O'Connell of Columbus, Nebraska is running through August 24, 2009, at Cafe Metropol in Los Angeles. For more information and tickets, visit Chalk Repertory Theatre.]

I just thought you might like to know what Pork Chop is up to today. Watch:

The 1988 action film, Bulletproof, may have gotten universally panned (IMDb users have not been kind), but, when the entire movie is condensed into a three-minute highlights reel, this Gary Busey stinker is some damn good entertainment. His character, Frank McBain, is nicknamed "Bulletproof" because he has many lives, evidenced by the fact that he consistently survives bad dialogue...butthorn! Watch:



[Thanks to Gabriel Fleming for sending me this.]

I wrote a new post for The Bilerico Project.



Read "Barbara Walters on 'Bruno': 'I Don't Like Seeing Closeups of Anal Sex.'"

Because of commercials, I'm just now beginning to realize how difficult women have it. Not only do your breasts need care while you sleep, but other parts of your bodies need high maintenance too. This ad for the Shick Quattro For Women TrimStyle With Bikini Trimmer encourages you to "mow the lawn," something that men (straight men, at least) don't feel the social pressure to do.

The other thing I "learned" from this commercial is that all black women have big bushes and all Asian women have small bushes. Seriously, that's what the ad suggests. Watch:



I personally believe that men should be properly manscaped—not shaved crazily or anything, but trimmed respectfully. What do you think? Ladies? Guys? Holla, straight dudes!

[Thanks to Superbadfriend for sending me this.]

I like foreign-language horror movies because they make me feel like I'm watching films that are much more sophisticated than they actually are, simply because they are in a foreign language. "Look at me! I'm a connoisseur of world cinema!"

But if you're as savvy as I am, you know that foreign fright flicks are not the vehicles for social commentary that they would have you believe. They just want to scare the living fuck out of you.

At a lean, mean 77 minutes and 75 minutes, respectively, the French Them (Ils) and the Spanish [REC] assuredly deliver some good scares and genuinely creepy atmosphere for most of those relatively short running times. I wouldn't be surprised if at least a few of you crapped your pants out of sheer terror.

It may sound like I'm exaggerating the merits of Them and [REC], which were recently released on DVD, but, if you dig horror movies, these two are must-sees—convince your chicken-shit spouses that you're renting international art films.

David Moreau & Xavier Palud's Them, a home-invasion thriller that relies on sustained dread rather than cheap shocks, hardly has any blood or gore and there's not a torture-porn scene in sight. But after an unidentified threat invades the home of a French couple in the Romanian countryside, the movie keeps your nerves jangled until the very end. The nature of the threat is not clear to the audience for most of film—is it a harmless prankster? a relentless serial killer? something supernatural?—but when the big reveal does happen (I won't spoil it here) it's more horrifying than I imagined.

Watch the trailer (I'm posting the original French trailer, sans subtitles, because it gives less away than the American trailer. Don't worry—the DVD has English subtitles):



The Strangers, another home-invasion horror movie that I raved about last year, was made several years after Them. I could spend the rest of this post doing Them vs. The Strangers commentary, but I'm not. Both have their merits, and both have lingered in my mind long afterward. However, Them's eleventh-hour surprise and disturbing climax left me shaking.

While The Strangers is perhaps somewhat indebted to Them, last year's U.S.-made Quarantine (which I thought was pretty good) obviously owes everything to Jaume Balagueró & Luis Berdejo & Paco Plaza's [REC], the film that Quarantine is a remake of.

Quarantine amiably follows the original Spanish movie practically scene by scene (and often replicates shots even), but [REC]'s super low-budget grittiness and relentlessness makes it one of the scariest movies I've ever seen.

While Them wants to creep you out and get under your skin, [REC] wants to fuck your shit up. A television news reporter and her cameraman follow some firefighters on a routine call about noisy neighbor in an apartment building. Turns out that a highly contagious strain of human super rabies (or something like that) is turning tenants into rabid, flesh-eating monsters. The cameraman captures it all on video (it's one of those POV movies that works wonders in ways that big-budget debacles such as Cloverfield never could), and the reality-TV feel of the proceedings adds a layer of tension to the truly scary proceedings. [REC], too, builds to a disturbing climax, after leaving a bread-crumb trail of shocks along the way.

Watch the trailer (again, the DVD has English subtitles, while this trailer does not):



I have to go back to watching Pixar films for a while.

In the remarkably perceptive L.A. Story, Steve Martin famously declares, "I could never be a woman because I'd just stay home and play with my breasts all day." But I have come to learn that breasts are not merely playthings and must be tended to with some tender loving care. I learned this after seeing a commercial for Kush Support (a real product!), which demonstrates that your boobies need attention even while you are sleeping. Watch:

Friends, I need your advice. Yeah, sure, in the comments section you can leave your clever, borderline snide remarks, but I am requesting a fair share of genuine counsel. Otherwise, I could end up in jail. And because I'm real pretty, burly men will want to violate me. And I know you all think that that would be a dream come true for me, but it's not. Because the burly men in jail will not all look like Channing Tatum or Ryan Reynolds. I will be screwed—in a bad way.

So here's the situation:

A few months ago, I was stopped by a police officer for making an illegal left-hand turn off of Los Feliz Boulevard in Los Angeles. (There are certain hours each day where left turns are not okay.) Because I have an irrational fear of authority, I fumbled for my license, proof of insurance, and vehicle registration, all of which were up to date. To my surprise and subsequent panic, the car registration paperwork I handed the officer was from the previous year—so I desperately dug through my glove compartment for the correct piece of paper. Sensing that I was crumbling like a little bitch, the kind officer decided to not cite me for the moving violation, and instead wrote me a "fix-it" ticket for the registration. All I had to do to clear my name was go into the courthouse in downtown Los Angeles and show my valid registration from the Department of Motor Vehicles.

Several days later, I went to the court to resolve the situation, only to find out that there was no record of my citation in the computer system. The court clerk looked at my traffic ticket. The officer had intended to check off the downtown Los Angeles courthouse as the location that the citation would be processed at, but the check mark that he wrote was awfully close to the box for the San Pedro courthouse. The clerk speculated that my citation was being processed at a different location and that it would take a while for it to get back to Los Angeles. There was nothing she could do for me that day.

And here's the part of the story where you have to understand my history with traffic tickets. I have only been stopped once in my entire life, 15 or so years ago. (I'm a good Asian driver!) It was for speeding, and I don't remember any other circumstances surrounding the incident because it was so long ago. Now of course I have received parking tickets since then—after all, I lived in San Francisco for 12 years—and I assumed that traffic tickets were processed the same way that parking tickets were processed. I mean, it's totally reasonable for me to think that, right? It's completely logical for me to assume that, since you receive a notice in the mail about your parking ticket after the ticket has been issued and attached to your car, you're supposed to receive a notice in the mail for a traffic ticket too. So, with this knowledge, I thought, "Oh, since the clerk said it would take a while for the citation to come back to Los Angeles, I will know when that happens because I will receive a notice in the mail."

Most of you know where this story is headed. YOU DON'T GET A NOTICE IN THE MOTHERFUCKING MAIL! That ticket the officer writes is your only notice before the system starts trying to assault you with its huge, ugly, misshapen cock!

Several weeks after me waiting for the imaginary notice to come, I received an angry letter on yellow stationery that said a "hold" had been placed on my driver's license, that it was subject to suspension, and that I had 10 days to pay the $811 bail amount.

After freaking out, I thought to myself, "Oh, this is a simple matter to resolve. I just need to talk to someone."

Most every time I called the courthouse and navigated the menu to get to a real live person, the system automatically hung up on me because it said it was overloaded with calls. On the few occasions I was lucky enough to be put on hold, I was told I was the 75th or so person waiting to speak someone. (I'm really not exaggerating!) I never made it through.

I called the collection agency that the courthouse had sent my matter to. The person I spoke to was mean, and her only goal was to get that money. She didn't want to hear my story, and she wouldn't give me any names of someone, anyone, I could talk to or any numbers other than the general courthouse line.

"Okay," I thought. "I'll just write to the courthouse." I sent a long, involved explanation of my circumstances, along with a copy of the original misinterpreted traffic ticket, and waited for a response. What I got instead was a notice that said I had an outstanding warrant and that reiterated the hold on my license and the bail amount.

"Well," I thought, "maybe if I address a letter to someone specific, they can help me." After extensive research on the Internet, I was able to get the names of two traffic court referees, who handle cases at the Los Angeles court. I sent both of them certified letters and waited for a response. What I got instead was a notice from the Department of Motor Vehicle saying that my license "hold" would convert into a suspension if I don't resolve this matter within the next month.

I finally realized what I had been doing wrong this whole time: I was trying to resolve the situation in a logical manner. It was like attempting to reason with a crazy person or to use common sense with the criminally insane.

Okay, folks, what do you think? Did I lose before I had even begun? Or is there still hope? Should I try to contact someone higher up in the court system? Who? Should I track down the police officer? Could he help in any way? Would physically going to the courthouse do anything? Would the clerk even allow me to speak to a supervisor or someone higher up? Do you know someone who has vast knowledge on matters such as these? Or should I just shut up and pay the goddamn fine already?

The well-being of my ass is now in your hands.

[Update 08.14.09: Read "My Traffic Ticket Dilemma, Part 2: It's Over, It's Over, It's Finally Fucking Over."]

[Update 08.20.09: I'm such a good boy. At least I didn't pay my ticket with a bunch of urine-soaked coins, like this disgruntled citizen in Portland. Seriously. Watch:]

You know how much I love Channing Tatum, so it will come as no surprise to you that the new issue of GQ, which features Channing on the cover and a photo spread inside, has already been abused by me so many times that it might try to run away and seek solace in a police station or a shelter and require therapy in order to recover. Anyway, when the magazine appeared on my doorstep, I started to panic. On the cover, Channing is looking very handsome in a shirt and tie, but I was worried that GQ wouldn't have any nude or at least half-naked pictures. But I opened up the magazine and I instantly remembered that he like being in various states of undress. (He can't resist the power of my gaze—or is that the power of my "gays?") Click pics to engorge, er, I mean, enlarge (what is be bouncing that ball off of?!):








[Can't get enough hot Channing Tatum commentary, photos, and videos? Click here for more blog posts about Channing Tatum.]

Have you seen the new red-band trailer for Jennifer's Body, written by Diablo Cody? It's pretty awesome (way naughtier and way better than the regular trailer that's been playing in theaters). Watch (not safe for work?):



Diablo informs me that hot Adam Brody, who appears in eyeliner, does not bare his ass. (I ask these things for your benefit, not mine.) What a waste.

Read "Man Charged 23 Quadrillion Bucks For Pack Of Cigarettes" from The Huffington Post.

I wrote a new post for The Bilerico Project.



Read "Six Underwear Models and a Camera; Plus, 'Gay' Underwear Becomes Mainstream."

By the way, did you know that men's underwear sales are a great indicator of how the economy is doing? Seriously. Watch:

The title of this post is self-explanatory. So are the lengths this bunny will go for a little treat. Watch:

I wrote a new post for The Bilerico Project.



Read "The Politics of Comedy: What's Off Limits?; Plus, 'The Goods' Wants You to Laugh at a Hate Crime."

Because of the sheer force of my whoreish magnetism, I was recently tasked with writing a commercial for Fox Searchlight, a TV spot that will air nationally in order to promote one of the studio's upcoming releases. (I'm not sure exactly what I can or cannot talk about yet—if you know anything about studio lawyers, you know that they will find myriad reasons to climb up your ass and park there to make sure you never forget who holds the power.)

I was at the commercial shoot all day today, but, unfortunately, not in the capacity of a writer on set, which would've given me permission to run around demanding my ad copy be spoken exactly the way I wanted it to be spoken. ("You're ruining by brilliant words!")

Instead, I was responsible for crafts service, which basically meant buying a lot of food that I personally liked and everybody else be damned. Okay, not really. I know how to treat a crew—try to force-feed them yummy snacks and beverages the way an Asian mother rides her kids about food.

More details to come—once I manage to evict the lawyers from my rear.

I cross-posted my commentary about Bruno over at The Bilerico Project because I suspected it would generate some lively debate. And I was right. Follow the comments thread for some enlightening and sometimes fierce discussion.



Read the post and comments for "Love It or Hate It, 'Bruno' Will Probably Be the Highest-Grossing 'Gay' Movie of All Time; Plus, What Do YOU Think of 'Bruno'?"

Perhaps you've read some of the wildly mixed reviews for Bruno, but I assure you that a comedy like this one cannot be considered objectively. I understand that many people may not find Sacha Baron Cohen's super obnoxious and super gay Austrian fashion reporter very funny, but I'm certain that just as many people are like me and think that he's hilarious and that Cohen is a comic genius without peer. (Basically, you know if you'll enjoy this movie or not.)

Bruno is one of the funniest films I have seen in a long time. There's a scene in which Cohen mimes a long, involved, graphic oral sex scene with the supposed ghost of Rob Pilatus of Milli Vanilli fame—performed in front of a clueless psychic reader—that had me convulsing with laughter and made uncontrollable tears stream from my eyes. Make no mistake: almost everything in this movie is in bad taste.

As you probably know, Cohen and crew dupe people around the world into thinking that Bruno and his frequently offensive antics are real—he convinces Paula Abdul to use the back of a Mexican gardener as a chair; he traps former presidential candidate Ron Paul in a hotel room and tries to seduce the congressmen with a striptease; he convinces a talk-show audience that he adopted an African baby by swapping an iPod for it; etc. There are some questions, of course, about how many of the "victims" were in on the joke, but there are enough genuine reactions—enough "there's no way this could be fake" moments—that this particular controversy doesn't matter.

But that's not the only controversy to deal with here, of course. You're probably aware that Bruno has been creating quite a bit of stir in the gay community. The Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation, according to the Associated Press, declares that "the movie was a well-intentioned series of sketches—some hit the mark and some hit the gay community pretty hard and reinforce some damaging, hurtful stereotypes." Universal Pictures, which released the film, counters that the film "uses provocative comedy to powerfully shed light on the absurdity of many kinds of intolerance and ignorance, including homophobia."

So...which is it?

Could it be...neither?

The biggest question surrounding Bruno over the last few weeks is whether or not people will be laughing with us or at us. But I'm pretty sure you know that answer before going into the movie simply because Bruno doesn't reveal anything you're not already aware of. Some people don't like gays—Bruno's not breaking any new ground here. As to whether or not he reinforces hurtful stereotypes, it could be argued that Cohen's shtick is so over-the-top, so absurd, and so much the point of the entire movie that it's actually less damaging than more subtle, less noticeable forms of cinematic stereotyping and homophobia—the one-dimensional gay sidekick that's nothing more than a series of witty quips, the casual use of the word "fag" in teen comedies, etc.

Would I go as far to agree with Universal to say that the film is a tool to deal with important social issues and that Cohen's intentions were "pure?" No fucking way.

Cohen is a comedian, a provocateur, and he's after big laughs, and he will do anything to get them. As you know, I am the type of person to shock rather than be shocked, but I can honestly say that I was floored by how far Cohen goes in this movie. The graphic sex scenes (partially blurred out to preserve an "R" rating), involving dildos, a champagne bottle, and a brazenly aggressive swingers-party dominatrix, made even my jaw drop.

And it's hard not to admire Cohen's apparent fearlessness: he travels to the Middle East to organize peace talks between Israeli and Palestinian representatives, only to fall into a ridiculous discussion about "hummus" rather than "Hamas"; he interviews a purported Arab terrorist and tells him Osama bin Laden "looks like a dirty wizard or a homeless Santa Claus"; he swishes his way around a military boot camp; and, in the film's climax, he has a hot make-out session with another man in front of a venue full of angry straight people who thought they were there to see a cage match.

The film, like Cohen's similarly staged Borat, is primarily a comedy of manners more than anything else. Neither movie (no matter what the studios claim) is intended to be a political statement about homophobia or, in the case of Borat, xenophobia—politics just happen to be the (unfortunate?) byproduct of Cohen's exercises in exploding pedestrian social mores. How much will people tolerate behavior that deviates from perceived norms? How will people react in situations that you could never imagine in your sickest dreams? The fact that Borat is a "foreigner" and that Bruno is a homosexual is a gimmick, a comedian's device to get from point A (set-up) to point B (punchline).

Sorry, gay community, Bruno does not reveal hidden, surprising, intolerant depths in the heart of straight people, and the movie does nothing to advance the LGBT movement. But, sorry, religious right, it doesn't set gay America back years either.

It's entertainment.

I wrote a new post for The Bilerico Project.



Read "'Fruit Fly' Buzzes and Sings [Outfest 2009]."

For those of you who walked away from Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen feeling like you had just been date raped and swearing that you'd never watch another action movie ever again, I urge you to reconsider because The Hurt Locker, an Iraq war thriller that will get your adrenaline pumping and your brain stimulated, is playing at a theater near you (if you live in a major city—sorry, North Carolina, you'll have to keep yourself occupied at the gun show).

Mark Boal and Kathryn Bigelow's The Hurt Locker smartly eschews political debate (Iraq war movies have famously tanked) and instead chooses to plop audiences right in the middle of the action by following an Army bomb squad stationed in Baghdad in 2004. The bomb diffusion scenes are suspenseful and the gun battles are intense, but I especially liked the film's attention to detail—blood being cleaned off of bullets to keep them from jamming, soldiers having to ignore pesky flies in the face while in the middle of rifle fight, etc.

The three central characters are very much types—the unhinged and recklessly fearless squad leader and bomb expert (Jeremy Renner), the courageous by-the-book second-in-command (Anthony Mackie), and the twitchy and fragile specialist (Brian Geraghty)—but how they interact with each other and how their relationships play out, sometimes in the heat of battle, reveal hidden depths.

You may have heard about the great cameo appearances by Guy Pearce and Ralph Fiennes, but Jeremy Renner delivers a star-making performance as a man addicted to danger. It's when he's closest to death that he feels the most alive.



By the way, Jeremy Renner is super hot. Just thought you might like to know. (A guy so nice I spanked it twice.)

Most of you know that I cannot wait to see Bruno (I was a big fan during his days on Da Ali G Show) and I've had to satiate my anticipation by visiting the hilarious Bruno MySpace page over and over again. (Turn up the sound and groove to the quintessentially gay techno beat of "In Oder Aus.") I want to see the movie even more now because Bruno creator Sacha Baron Cohen shocked the world the other night when he appeared on the David Letterman show...as himself! (This is the man who would only show up as Borat on the talk-show circuit when that feature was released a couple years ago.) Anyway, Cohen (who is incidentally way easy on the eyes) chats about how he tried to land Bruno an interview with a real-life terrorist. Watch:

I wrote a new post for The Bilerico Project.



Read "Hiding Pills in Brownies; or: Combating Homophobia in California's Heartland (Finally)."

There's a new Subway sandwich commercial starring Michael Phelps (which suggestively declares, "Thank you for letting me be myself!")...



...which totally reminds me that I haven't posted a random picture of the Olympic hottie in a very long time.



That is all. Thank you for visiting.

Remember Mike Valentino, that hot North Carolina blogger who quickly became my BFF after we sexually harassed each other online while you, dear readers, witnessed the virtual man-on-man action? (You can trace the evolution of our relationship here.)

Well, a few months ago, he stopped writing, yanked his genuinely funny and smart blog from public view, pretty much dropped the off the face of the earth, and quit responding to my naked-picture texts. (Yes, I have his number.)

After some people, including his wife, beat some sense into him, he has launched a new blog under his real name, Michael DeAntonio, and it's off to a great start. (He has so far objectified Iranian women and weighed in on Michael Jackson.)

I like to think that I had everything to do with it. After all, he started posting again shortly after I alerted him to this terrific quote from choreographer Martha Graham:

There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and, because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and it will be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is nor how valuable nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours, clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep yourself open and aware to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open.... No artist is pleased. [There is] no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others.

Basically, what she's saying to all artists is: If you are an artist, you must create art. It's not fucking up to you to decide, bitches!

Visit Mike DeAntonio's new blog, Mike the Bull.

Remember the bizarre movement called "laughter yoga?" Well, I just found out that traffic cops in Bangkok, Thailand, took part in a program that forced laughter onto them for their mental and physical health. I'm not knocking it, but there is something absurd about watching a room full of Thai policemen artificially causing themselves to belly laugh. Watch:

Dear readers, I know you think I have my finger on the pulse of the viral video universe, but my finger is actually somewhere else. (Don't you know me well enough by now?)

So keep sending me those funny videos, cute animal clips, etc., that you suspect I might enjoy, even if you think, "There's no way Prince hasn't seen this yet." I may very well haven't, and I may very well want to share it with the world. And sharing...is caring. And I care. I care the fuck out of the world.

So e-mail me or submit (anonymously if you want!) by hitting the contact button in the sidebar of this blog. Thanks for helping me make Bamboo Nation a better blog!

Did you know that The Bilerico Project, the site I regularly contribute to, was named as a "must-read" blog by The Washington Post? And The Advocate just called it a "top political blog?" That's excellent! It makes me come across as highly intelligent and concerned about social issues! It makes me more deceptive than the Decepticons!



Well, I just wrote a new post for The Bilerico Project.

Read "Same-Sex Shenanigans Performed by Nearly ALL Animals."

This bitingly perceptive "ode to every indie movie" takes aim at Sundance bait—with a certain studio known unto us taking the brunt of the good-natured (?) ridicule. Watch:



[Courtesy of Gabriel Fleming.]

I don't typically wish ill-will upon anyone, but Sarah Crazypants Palin ignites my latent need to deride, insult, and throw up in my hands. And she provided so much fodder this past holiday weekend—she announced her resignation from her position of governor of Alaska in a rambling speech that only a nutty aunt could match; her attorney threatened to sue The Huffington Post, MSNBC, The New York Times, and The Washington Post for libel; and she posted a defensive message on her Facebook page that was supposed to justify the fact that she's a—there's no other word for it—quitter.

And Palin's spokesperson is as nonsensical and evasive ("the world is literally her oyster!") as she is, as demonstrated by the spokesperson's appearance on Anderson Cooper's show. Watch Cooper's eyes start to glaze over and then watch him scratch his head in WTF?! confusion at the 4:30 mark:



Oh, and how I'm looking forward to hottie Levi Johnston's tell-all tome about the Palins, if anyone will publish it. But I'll settle for him running around shirtless on a movie set. (The New York Post reports that he wants to be in pictures.)

Yes, I know, I know, Levi still needs a lot of work. According to a fantastically informative feature in GQ:

Levi was mostly monosyllabic at that first lunch. He didn’t know me yet, and he didn’t trust me yet, and really, even when he came to know and trust me, he was still mostly monosyllabic, but the syllables took on greater depth.

And:

[Levi's manager] is working to contain and reduce in frequency Levi's homophobic outbursts, instituting a new philosophy of "versatility."

Just put him in a room with me for five minutes! I'll show him versatility!

Dear readers, as you may have noticed, posting has been rather light this week (making Ryan Reynolds photo collages are a big time suck), but I'll be back in full swing on Monday. In the meantime, enjoy your holiday weekend and take delight in "Web Site Story," CollegeHumor's witty and well-made parody of the iconic musical. Watch:

I'm pretty sure you've seen those unintentionally ridiculous anti-piracy ads aimed at teens that played before movies on some DVDs. Well, the British sitcom, The IT Crowd, has created a commercial parody that gives the original a much-deserved spank on the ass. Watch:

Look, you can't do proper man-on-the-street interviews when there's a drunk guy in the way. So smack him! (I love the looks of faint horror on the anchorwomen after the offending slap. Ha ha ha ha ha!) Watch:



[Courtesy of Will Blank.]