Josh Groban is Sexy! David Tennant goes grey.

It is official. Josh Groban is sexy. You've all heard it from me, but now other 'People' think so to. We now have tangible documentation.

Josh is going to be in the upcoming Sexiest Men Alive edition of People Magazine. Yay Josh!

See the video here.

Josh will also be back on Glee sometime this season.


In other news, St. Trinian's 2: The Legend of Fritton's Gold will be coming out in the UK soon. December 18th to be exact. And on that date we will get a chance to see the lovely David Tennant as the villainous Lord Pomfrey, the leader of a woman-hating secret society. If we were not in love with the girlz already, this is definitely enough to entice us to watch.

DT sheds his typical suave style for a more mature look. But like Richard Gere, he only makes grey gorgeous. And rumor has it, he ends up sloshing through the sea at some point. We can only hope for a Colin Firth/Darcy calibre moment! (Though I actually did not find that as exciting as everyone else seem to.)

Now if only they would release the trailer already!

"The president of the United States is Zac Efron."

"The prime minister of the United Kingdom is Robert Pattinson. Praise be to Robert Pattinson."

So reports Step Hen Fry on his mock transmission from the futuristic year 2034, in honor of his acquiring his millionth follower on Twitter last weekend. It's a pretty standard joke, but it is still funny because oh, it is so true. With the theatrical release of the next Twilight monstrosity and the opening of Efron's newest film in the UK, the rabid brainwashed hoards of crazed fan girls are being unleashed in unprecedented droves.

Some of us women like to think we belong to the more reasonable gender. We are not handicappingly obsessed with sex, horribly lookist and shallow, emotionally repressed, violent and mesmerized by explosions and physics-defyingly ludicrous fictional cars. And yet, at times like these, it seems like girls are willing to gun down their grandmothers and eat their best friends just for a chance to have a 5 second interaction with a handsome man. Caution is thrown to the wind, any rules or guiding principles of logic dissolve. Robert Pattinson recently expressed his remorse for jokingly telling a fan girl that stripping would be the best way to get his attention. Reprehensible statement, as he admits, but the worst part of the story is that the girl actually does it. "She stood there and frantically started taking her clothes off and got dragged out of the room by security," Pattinson recalls.

This is absurd. This cannot go on. Do these fangirls check their self-respect at the door as well as their sanity, manners, and self-control? Swarms of these fan girl mobs follow RPattz, Efron and others around like a plague of locusts, leaving devastation in their wake. Is there really call for such desperation? It is as if girls think that maybe, just maybe, if they can get Pattinson or Efron or Lautner or whoever to see them for even a slit second, it might be love at first sight, the moviestar might take her in his arms, declare to the world that she is someone special and truly unique from the mass of other screaming girls, extract her from her humdrum and dissatisfying life, give her a new one where she is important, take care of all her problems, and live happily ever after. All they want is a chance for a miracle. And this is worth any degradation or harm they might be asked to endure or inflict on a competitor.

This hardly bodes well for feminism. Girls are better educated and have far more opportunities open to them than ever before. Yet, mobs of them are still throwing themselves at the feet of men, begging for salvation. And most reprehensible, we seem to tolerate it as some sort of endearing side-effect of girlhood. It is not! It is a deeply troubling orientation toward not only romance and relationships, but toward self-esteem, self-value, intimacy, achievement, and let's face it, girls' grips on reality. Not only that, it fulfills every stereotype about women unable to survive without men, unable to form independent thought without men, and unable to accomplish anything without the promise of love and romance. This mentality runs rampant among the young (and even older) generations of females--- but we do nothing about it.

The situation is also not helped by the consumer economy, who jumps at the chance to merchandise anything. Already 10 years ago, clothing stories were stocking 'Mrs. Kutcher' bags. Hardcore fandom is now more than ever defined by the amount of purchasing one is willing to stomach--- with fan memberships, calendars, pre-orders, special additions, action figures, dolls, stickers, pins, costumes, hats, t-shirts, magazine clippings, posters, bookmarks, special edition magazines, book signings and appearances in other cities, states, and countries, and the list goes on and on and on. Hardcore fans are also expected to be up on the latest news and therefore to vigilantly update themselves on news, blogs, photo galleries, websites, fansites, radio shows, podcasts, gossip sites and that list goes on and on. Merchandising and media companies can milk these confused girls out of copious amounts of time and money. They encourage the crazedness, which in turn encourages the merchandising. If they'll buy it, we will make it. If they'll make it, we will buy it. Round and round it goes, slowly skewing the entire world.

Doctor Who, horrified

The first red flag went up as I watched the season one finale of Fox's sci-fi, horror, procedural drama Fringe. After 19 episodes of searching for the illusive William Bell, revolutionary researcher, corporate mastermind and former partner to mad scientist turned FBI consultant, Walter Bishop, the determined Olivia Dunham discovers (after several, 'He can no longer be found on this world'-type winks from various minor characters): what do you know, Bellie (as Walter seems to call him occasionally, or maybe Billy which would make more sense) is camped out in a parallel universe! "There's more than one of everything" the episode title tells us while bashing us over the head with significance-laden one-liners.

Hmm. A science-fiction show in which an exclusive branch of the government quivers with fear that part-human, part-machine beings have started opening gates (rifts anyone?) between worlds and are now planning to trek over for a day of universal destruction. Sound familiar? "Yes!" holler the Whovians, waving their Doomsday dvds. [During the two episode plot of 'Army of Ghosts' and 'Doomsday' part-human, part-machine beings march through a rift in time an space from a parallel universe, and make attempts at world domination--- resulting in much consternation and bereavement. "MUCH bereavement," sob the Whovians, again waving their Doomsday dvds, crying and listening to their Doctor&Rose playlists.] Russel T. Davies and friends should be getting out their intellectual property law because J.J. Abrams and co. are not done scavenging for plot points.

This week the show revisits the Observer--- no, not the newspaper, but a mysterious and hairless man who wears dated clothes and with a fondness for hot sauce. Or I should say, the Observers, as Olivia and Peter find out there are more than one of them. Guess what they do? They manipulate the laws of time and space, show up randomly in times of crisis, goof around with strange and wondrous tech, resist the wear and tear of age, and photoshop themselves into famous images from history from the Boston Massacre to the demise of Franz Ferdinand--- see that's one of them right there, right next to the Doctor.

"Who are these guys?" Peter questions dramatically, scowling with his typical frowny face.
"Timelords!" shouts out Walter.
Astrid hits him, "They cut that line dummy!? Remember?"
Walter eats some jelly babies to console himself.

Unfortunately for this new breed of timelord, I mean, for these Observers, one of them goes rogue, radically stopping a girl from getting on a plane that is going to crash into the ocean. Ok, the Doctor would not be too pleased with this type of meddling either, what with the laws of time and space collapsing on themselves and destroying the world, but at least he would draw the line at sending an assassin to kill the poor tied-and-gagged-for-her-own-safety girl. Luckily in the end rogue Observer sacrifices himself and this appears to rebalance everything.

"I think, it is what they call feelings," whispers rogue Observer as he croaks. "I think it is what they call love."
"What good are your skills if you cannot save the woman you love?" cackles back a co-Observer.
Whoops! No that was the dalek in Season 1 epsiode 6 of Doctor Who. Either way, rogue Observer bites the dust. And credits.

We, Whovians, should continue to keep a close eye on Fringe and its infringements, but we can take consolation in the fact that the Doctor is still much cooler than these sudo-timelords. They have none of his charisma, charm, wit, in-jokes, penchant for running up and down corridors, or any TARDIS-worthy equivalent, and they certainly could not pull off the converse sneakers/tuxedo look. And, they definitely have none of the dashing good looks topped with the dynamic explosion of awesomely mussed hair that makes all the girls go weak in the knees.

The Doctor still lords the universe, though we wouldn't mind him taking one pointer from these wannabes. Maybe the next time he is forced to 'genetic transfer' Martha Jones, he could eat some chili pepper first. Just a suggestion.

Everybody loves a critic. Or at least I love this one.

Hollywood, and the entertainment industry in general, is a man's world. Moneyed, opinionated, white men pull the strings, oppress minorities and women, hoard profits, laud over their enslaved underlings, take all the credit, and believe themselves gods. Why the world at large puts up with this is a valid query but is subject for another blog, a 22 volume treatise, and several documentary series.

But we can take some solace in the fact that every once in a while someone makes a swipe at one of these over-stuffed, over-rated moguls, and it is quite satisfying to be validated even if for just that brief moment. And this takes me to BBC Film critic Mark Kermode, who has something to say about Michael Bay.

In brief: Michael Bay is terrible. In long: "His films take millions of dollars but I think he's terrible. His films are rotten." and "If critics made any difference Michael Bay wouldn't be making movies. He's just terrible. Watching a Michael Bay movie is like being hit over the head with tax returns."

What music to mine ears! Finally someone, some man, some man in the industry, speaks out against gratuitous Michael Bay! Maybe all the trailer-editors/producer/whoever makes them will realize that putting "A FILM BY MICHAEL BAY" or similar in their mash-ups makes quite a few of us snicker. I was actually given a Transformers shirt for free by a studio exec and just could not bring myself to wear it. I eventually shame-facedly foisted it off on my sister's boyfriend, who at least is an engineer and has a somewhat valid interest in robots.

Kermode further spouts poetry when discussing Kiera Knightley: "I called her Ikea Knightley as her acting was so wooden." though he somewhat chickens out by adding, "She is better now." Regardless, this Kermode is a critic after my own heart.

**retires to a rose garden and sighs dreamily**

Leveling the Scales

I recently had the privilege of watching Britain's (un)offically smartest man--- Stephen Fry, that is--- bustle endearingly through his latest guest star stint as Doctor, now Chef, Gordon Gordon Wyatt on Fox's stellar police drama, Bones. Whilst making other intelligent observations about the quality of both the episode and Fry's performance, I recall saying to myself, "My, isn't Stephen looking trim these day!" Whether the man who has in the past described himself as a "floundering whale," "sloshing bin of yogurt" or similar has indeed shed pounds or not (which in the interest of his health I hope he did as I and his millions of other fans want to prolong his life as long as science and fiction possibly can) the point is our witty Twitter king is looking slimmer.
A few days later, I happened to catch another gem of British comedy yucking it up on the Graham Norton Show: Robert Webb and David Mitchell. Graham noted that Robert Webb, the sexy one of the dynamic duo, and wife had recently had a baby girl. (Pause for Webb enthusiasts' celebratory dance, song, etc.) "Oh David you look marvelous considering you had a baby three months ago!" quips Grahmy dearest, making a jab at David's now not-pudgy tummy after the comic cutie happened to have lost some weight from "having a bad back" and "doing some walking" according to self-report. Cue Mitchell rant about vanity and self-loathing, while Webb grins from ear to ear faithfully beside him. ("He's funny!" adds a giggling Anna Paquin helpfully, just in case we missed out on that fact.)
Alan Davies, yet another hilarious humorist, also has made comments about his weight. In mocking the 'can you pinch an inch' attitude to women of his acquaintance, 'Yes!' screams the not-exactly-Capt. Lardy, "Because when I'm reaching up for something, I don't want to split open."

But how atypical is all this! Talking about men's weights? Usually we don't even bat an eye when some fat, ugly balding chump gets it on with the gorgeous, super-fit supporting actress. See The Witches of Eastwick for a pronounced example of this. But here we are, celebrity gossiping about men losing weight for once! Maybe the tables are finally starting the turn as men get a taste of high cosmetic standards women are expected to adhere. Newly-hunkified and notorious male-grooming-phobiaed Mitchell (although a lot of us have confessed to being attracted to him purely for his intelligence and beautiful personality. Yay girls for not being lookist!) has sounded the alarm on this front. In his Unusually Smart Soapbox rant, Mitchell pleads with the handsome men of the world to tone it down and stop being so gosh-darned stylish, because it makes it hard for duds like him to to impress people with their 'unusually smartness' when donning their socially-sanctioned tuxedos and bow ties.

"Black-tie is a gift to men! It requires no thought, and it makes any of us as good as it is possible for us to look! Why would you throw that away? . . . Whatever your twisted motivation is, for heaven's sakes, stop ruining it for the rest of us. If cool men continue to selfishly indulge their individuality, the convention will disappear and we'll all have to think about what we wear forever after. We'll be in the same situation as the poor women! . . . Men, in general, don't have to look as good as women. We should be clinging to that with all we're worth! Women have to fall back on make-up, botox and surgery. The cosmetic and sartorial yoke under which they labour is terrifying, and it looms for us if we, or indeed just a few of us, renounce the black-tie."

And yet, it is also quite possible that we should not get our hopes up. These anomalous male weight-loss jabs have been aimed at a group of unclassically handsome men, who, after all, make a living out of self-mockery. They are free to be self-aware and are generally smart enough to take shallow and superficial attack in their stride. The beautiful men of the big and small screens may not be as hardy. It might be just the women and the chubby comics who have the truest grit, after all.

La poste

"My Dearest Friend" --- letter from Abigail Adams to John Adams

Even as a small child I greatly admired the art of correspondence. Whether in nineteenth century novels, or in the dramatized excepts from primary sources in Ken Burns' PBS miniseries, the eloquence of the sentiment and precision of expression displayed in these 200+ year old documents are astonishing. I think most of us would agree that such writing is a long-lost art. But I have always felt it my duty as an admirer of the written word to at least do my bit to keep the practice of letter-writing alive. This has made me a loyal patron of the United States Postal Service. I appreciate its history and am glad to use it as my go-to mail service. However, the poor USPS seems to be striving to make this more and more difficult for me each year.

(1) As many letter-writers may know, the cost of the stamp has inflated over the years, often an additional cent every year. This makes the snail-mail corresponder's life most difficult as we juggle a jumble of 44 cent, 42 cent, 2 cent, 28 cent (postcard), 27 cent, and 1 cent stamps, fearful that if we get the wrong combo our messages to our dear and beloved will be lost somewhere out there in mail limbo.

And yes, I realize that we could buy the 'forever' stamps, but that would require surrendering to brown Liberty bell image blandness, versus the fun flower, fruit and furniture selection offered by the regular stamp. One should not have to compromise on aesthetics!

(2) Flat-rate boxes are an evil ruse. Sure you can ship anything you want in their cheapest box offered for just under $5. But the catch is that you can't actually fit anything in it. Unless you are planning on ship something relatively flat and rectangular-shaped like a stack of magazines, it's unlikly anything you actually want to mail will fit in their handy-dandy less than $5 box. Nope. Instead, you'd probably have to upgrade to the box that you can actually put things in. It only costs you $5 more.

I resent these shenanigans. I understand the ole postal system is in want of finances. But trying to pick-pocket me out of it with sneaky flat-rate box schemes shrouded by innocent tv ad facades and going all evil big-businessy on the general pop is not the way to go. Whatever happened to sticking to our founding principles, doing the right thing and being the better man? UPS and FedEx may have given up on ethics (or just be better, but we'll ignore that one for now), but who is the bigger mail system in the end? Oh, that logic actually does not work.

Well, I guess when the day comes that the homey USPS delivery trucks are running down pedestrians and joggers a la FedEx driver protocol, then we'll know we really have to worry.