I don’t watch a lot of television because it’s a worm hole of lost time when I should be writing or sleeping or working out or replacing the low battery in my fire alarm (sorry baby, I promise I’ll get to it this weekend). However, I did manage to watch House of Cards when Netflix released it earlier this year – lost a whole weekend – and that’s why I’m pleasantly surprised to see it recognized for the badass political drama it is. From Variety: “House of Cards” had nine nominations overall. Lead acting nominations for the series went to Kevin Spacey and Robin Wright, and David Fincher was nominated for directing the opening episode. I don’t know if anyone else noticed, but Joel Schumacher directed a few of the episodes and I never would’ve known had they not mentioned him in the credits. It’s too bad they didn’t let him make creative decisions, the only thing missing in House of Cards is visible Spacey nipples. Disappointed fans like myself will just have to check behind the bushes of London Park to see those. Along with Arrested Development, Netflix broke the platform mold for digitally distributed programming by receiving a total of 14 nominations. Which is weird because I haven’t not watched a series on Netflix for some time now. Netflix, like Google, is a verb at this point – as in, “You haven’t seen Breaking Bad? Netflix that shit before I punch you in the face.” “American Horror Story” had 17 nominations for the second year in a row, leading all programs. “Game of Thrones” had 16 to lead all series. Woah, woah, hold on. American Horror Story had 17 nominations last year? I caught the first half of that POS and stopped watching when it became abundantly clear the writers had no idea where they were going with that story. “Here Piggy Piggy” was the single dumbest subplot of the last decade. Congrats to you Game of Thrones fans. Except for “House of Cards” replacing “Boardwalk Empire,” the drama series nominations remained the same as last year: were 2012 winner “Homeland,” “Breaking Bad,” “Downton Abbey,” “Game of Thrones” and “Mad Men.” In comedy series, five of six nominees also returned: “30 Rock,” “The Big Bang Theory,” “Girls,” “Modern Family” and “Veep,” with “Louie” replacing “Curb Your Enthusiasm.” I don’t understand the love for Big Bang Theory but a lot of my friends with quality taste in programming (quality being similar to mine of course) seem to enjoy it. Every time I stumble on the Aspy Fun Hour it looks like this to me: The good news here is that Louie picked up a rightful nominatioon for best comedy series. It could’ve also been nominated for best drama series and I don’t think anyone would’ve complained. Since it was 30 Rock‘s last season I’m going to assume the voters will toss the Emmy their direction. Fine by me, it’s been one of the most consistently well-written comedies since it first aired. Nominations for reality-competition series went to longtime behemoth “The Amazing Race,” “Dancing with the Stars,” “Project Runway,” “So You Think You Can Dance,” “Top Chef” and “The Voice.” In reality program, the noms were “Antiques Roadshow,” “Deadliest Catch,” “Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives,” “MythBusters,” “Shark Tank” and “Undercover Boss.” No Chopped? “Hello, police, I’d like to report a robbery. Can I describe the suspect? Yes, he’s got spiked, frosted blond hair with dark roots. An obnoxious van dyke…uh huh, right, the kind that fat guys wear to hide their chin. Stupid sunglasses, shorts, faux-rockabilly style shirt. Is he the lead singer of Smash Mouth? I don’t think so. You know what, let me text you his picture.” Lead drama actor nominations went to defending champ Damian Lewis of “Homeland,” Hugh Bonneville (“Downton Abbey”), Bryan Cranston (“Breaking Bad”), Jeff Daniels (“The Newsroom”), Jon Hamm (“Mad Men”) and Spacey. My...

Furthering his agenda of resurrecting everything he loved growing up, Jimmy Fallon will flick your 90s’ bean this Friday night by featuring a performance by John Stamos’ awesomely terrible television band Jesse and the Rippers. Will Danny play rhythm guitar even though he’s totally not cool enough? Will they change the band name to The Vulture at the last minute to capitalize on a more robust heavy metal market? Will Jesse miss the gig by driving his motorcycle over a building ledge to prove to his old gang he’s still hard? Will Dave Coulier implore Jimmy to cut-it-out with the 90s reunions? Nah, but we might get a shitty Beach Boys...

Hey guys, it’s Tuesday and you know what that means! No, not $5 margaritas and $1 tacos (I’m so sorry) – it’s time to take a look at four new films to keep on your radar. SALINGER During summer vacation, my father forced me to spend at least an hour reading every day. As if reruns of Diff’rent Stokes were going to watch themselves. Gah dad, I hate you! Since I was subject to whatever we had in the house, I read a lot of dense material I couldn’t yet process. Novels like Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury went right over my sixth grade head but I remember being rather taken by J.D. Salinger’s Nine Stories. Given my limited life experience, I didn’t understand any of its thematic elements, but something about the writing style and mood stuck with me on a visceral level. This and Steinbeck’s Tortilla Flat were my favorite substitutions for Gary Coleman’s attitude that summer. I wouldn’t read The Catcher in the Rye for many years later and even though I was the right age at that time, it didn’t strike me the same way. Perhaps I was too smitten with Weird Al at that point to take it in. I didn’t start brooding professionally until my junior year. J.D. Salinger all but packed up his typewriter and went home following the success of Rye but he never stopped writing. Upon his death in 2010, the world learned that he had stockpiled volumes of unread, unreleased new material in vaults at his secluded home. The new documentary Salinger is an exploration of his enigmatic career, analysis of the cultural impact of his work and a mystery thriller surrounding the contents of the vault. Count me in.   SAVING MR. BANKS Mary Poppins and Bedknobs and Broomsticks were both a staple of my elementary school life. I got to watch them whenever my teachers had a hangover – back before I knew what “quiet time” really meant. Saving Mr. Banks is the based-on-a-true-story of Walt Disney trying to convince the original author of Mary Poppins, P.L. Travers, to let Dick Van Dyke sing with cartoons. Tom Hanks as Disney is about as perfect as casting gets and Emma Thompson is one of my favorite actresses. Considering Nanny McPhee uses magic to babysit rich brats, she should know a thing or two about screwing around with source material. Sometimes the behind-the-scenes of a project are just as interesting as the project itself. Sometimes not, but Finding Neverland worked so why not Saving Mr. Banks? I hope they spend a good portion of the film with Jason Schwartzman and Blow Job Novak arguing back and forth about Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. “Godammit! It’s SupercalifragilisticexpialidAcious – docious doesn’t make any fucking sense!” Is it too much to hope for a gentleman knife fight? What a minute? B.J. Novak? There’s goes the “true story” element. No way Walt willingly employed a jew.   LOVELACE No one has benefited more from Dina and Michael Lohan’s abject failure as parents than Amanda Seyfried. She assumed the career that everyone figured Lindsay would have post-Mean Girls. In fact, Lindsay was at one time attached to a similar project, one without funding of course. Seyfried, not Lohan, plays Linda Lovelace, Woodward and Bernstein’s anonymous Watergate source. Much like the flippant shaving habits of 70’s porn stars, it’ll either be a pleasant surprise or completely unwatchable, depending on your preference for mustaches and bush. The original Deep Throat, made back when we had to pretend that sex needed a plot – “Her clitoris is located in her throat, this is a serious issue you guys” – was wildly successful. Some of that due to mob money laundering via theater receipts but either way, it’s one of the most famous pornographic films ever produced. Lovelace eventually went on to denounce pornography and I wonder if they’ll include that...

When I was single, I thought that maybe dating a heterosexual couple would be a good idea (I’m attracted to both sexes). They could do boring things like game night and going to Ikea with each other, then call me when it was time for dinner in nice restaurants and sex afterwards. Everybody would win! I could be my restless, commitment-phobic self and have all the benefits of a real relationship. Unfortunately, my brilliant dating-a-couple idea was never put into action, because I met J. He shared my hatred of Monopoly and Ikea, and seemed unperturbed by my tumultuous life. “I don’t want to be anyone’s wife,” I told J on more than one occasion. “I belong to myself!” I insisted. I was desperately afraid that to marry J would lessen my commitment to myself, to my personal growth and desires. What if I woke up one morning and wanted to move to Peru? What if I couldn’t be monogamous for a lifetime? As my relationship with J deepened and grew, I pondered these questions. The word “wife” had never been a term I wanted applied to me. It seemed submissive and weak, like to use that label was to lay down for the patriarchy. After all, women have a history of being chattel, of not being able to vote, of even being legally raped by their husbands. In the United States, those things have changed, but the terminology has not. I didn’t realize that to be a feminist and a wife can be a radical act, one that helps change the institution of marriage. For me, being a married feminist has been an education. I have learned that I have a bad case of righteous indignation when it comes to cleaning up after I’ve cooked, even if J literally has no time to clean. To me, it’s okay to do the cooking or the cleaning, but if I do both I’m being treated like that traditional “wife” I so dread being. Early in our relationship, we ended up hiring a housekeeper to come every two weeks, because J was so busy and I am both messy and not about to do all the cleaning, particularly for a male partner. These are small things, but to me they have felt big. Our apartment has been my personal feminist battleground, our relationship the one piece of the world I can really change (so far!). I’ve also learned that I can be kind and tender without losing ground. I can be vulnerable and let J take care of me, show weakness and not be judged. Ultimately, it was J who changed my mind about marriage. Despite being a highly masculine man, he is as passionate about women’s rights and status in the world as I am. He owns his masculinity in the best possible way; he is strong but gentle, and always has his own thoughts and opinions. J isn’t afraid to stand up to me, to treat me like a true equal who is worthy of both respect and honesty. He never brought marriage up unless I did, but the way J treated me made me realize that commitment to him could be about love, instead of a loss of self. When it took six months of hell to stabilize my bipolar disorder, J was steadfast and positive, but never condescending. When my beloved horse died, he kept me supplied with tequila and listened to countless stories about her. He saw my flaws and weaknesses and loved me for them, instead of trying to change or shackle me. Two years into my relationship with J, I found myself looking at rings online. I wanted a symbol that I was his, even if I still didn’t want to marry him. He saved up and bought me a beautiful silver band. When he put it on my ring finger one windy night...

Friend of the blog Marc Hampson debuts the first episode of his new animated web series Cheese Ink. If you’ve ever stayed up all night wrestling with the question of what a tattoo parlor run by mice would be like, relax, you can finally get some sleep.

First off, I want to recognize two things: 1. Pointing out the rampant devaluing of women in popular music (and rap specifically) borders on Lloyd Christmas’ moon landing announcement; and 2. Comparing Kanye West to D.W. Griffith is somewhat outlandish but if he gets to declare himself a “new slave” I get to engage in a little hyperbole too. Mr. West’s new record Yeezus is daring in both genre and convention, a technical marvel of studio prowess and song construction. It’s also such an unintentional masterpiece of egotism and cartoonish arrogance that it’s damn near impossible to take seriously. From track one, Yeezus ventures deep into the wormhole of clownish self-importance. I know I’m iconoclastic by nature but I can’t be the only one to regard West as a magnificent buffoon can I? What to make of lyrics like: I keep it 300 like the Romans 300 bitches, where’s the Trojans? “Greek” doesn’t rhyme with “Trojans” so fair enough but you would think a “close high” to the “most high” would do a little research anyway? Nope. Kanye has evolved (or rather, was created) beyond a mere mortal’s historical record. George Carlin once said, and I’m paraphrasing, that when you don’t go to college you spend the rest of your life trying to prove you’re smart. From one college dropout to another, please Kanye, you’re not helping. Cheap shots aside, what I’m really interested in here is the second line of that verse. “300 bitches, where’s the Trojans?” I understand the word “bitch” has or can be applied in a positive, respectful manner. Words change their meaning over time, I’m not going to focus on that. What I am questioning, and indeed, what I would like to point out is that time and time again, women (or bitches) on Yeezus are reduced to the possessions of men. To be fornicated upon as an aggressive act of retaliation. From New Slaves: Fuck you and your Hampton house I’ll fuck your Hampton spouse Came on her Hampton blouse And in her Hampton mouth Godhead Incarnate Kanye isn’t going to take his aggression out sexually on a man because, as he implied earlier in New Slaves, “I’d rather be a dick than a swallower” – that would be super gay. He is, however, going to ravish their wives without a second thought. To Kanye, Peace Be Unto Him, making the sex with a record exec’s wife is little more than keying his car or breaking his watch. Since women are interchangeable with possessions, let’s switch them: Fuck you and your brand new Porsche I’ll shit on your Hampton Porch And light the doo-doo torch Then run while the bag gets scorched Okay so it lacks the emotional gravitas of borderline rape but you get the point. When women aren’t simply avatars for retribution or metaphors for weaker men than His Holiness, Kanye Of West, they’re points on a score board. Collective reinforcements of The Supreme Leader’s transcendent awesomeness. From I’m In It: Black girl sipping on white wine Put my fist in her like the civil rights sign I get that flagrant woman-hating is endemic in much of the genre’s culture (I say much because there are many, many artists who keep a strong distance from it) but I don’t think that’s reason enough to utterly dismiss the overt chauvinism on display here. The reviews for Yeezus are overwhelmingly positive; nay, glowing. Pitchfork gives it a 9.5 out of 10. Rolling Stone 4.5 out of 5. SPIN an 8 out of 10. All treat its views on women as a fairly innocuous component of Kanye’s character. Their job is to review an album, not necessarily to condemn an Artist’s misogyny, but it’s interesting how little anyone is moved by the vitriol. Are we so tone deaf to the denigration of women that we don’t hear it? Do we not care? Or do...

We’re a third of the way through Hollywood’s summer movie slate. So far, there are clear winners like Iron Man 3, retched garbage like The Hangover 3 and some middling-to-decent efforts worthy of a watch like Star Trek Into Darkness and Man of Steel. Given that it’s still only June, I thought it pertinent enough to preview five upcoming offerings that twinge my cinematic prostate to the point of excitement:   1. Elysium Neill Blomkamp’s long awaited follow up to 2009’s District 9, Elysium has the makings of a science fiction classic. Though I enjoyed the first half of District 9, I ended up shrugging through the second half when it eschewed its entire conceit and turned into a first person shooter. Elysium picks up Matt Damon who knows a thing or two about story and throws in the kind of class warfare hyperbole I’m a sucker for. The trailer kind of kicks ass too. We’ll see. Until then, my curlys are cautiously crossed in optimism.   2. The Wolf Of Wall Street Outside of a few documentaries, there hasn’t really been the definitive story of the 2008 financial crash. Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps was, for lack of a better phrase, fucking stupid and Margin Call was too low key to garner wide recognition. When Martin Scorsese is on point, no director can match him and Leonardo DiCaprio embodies the nature of afflicted privilege better than anyone. Let’s hope The Wolf Of Wall Street captures the rampant greed and the careless pursuit thereof better than Oliver Stone’s cartoonish misfire.   3. Pacific Rim It’s Robot Jox with a bigger budget and normally I’d roll my eyes at this production but it’s directed by Guillermo Del Toro. Everything Del Toro touches turns to gold and although the idea seems ridiculous to the point of farce, I’m on board anyway. Damn you Guillermo, on your reputation alone, you’ve got me interested in a movie with the tag line, “Go Big or Go Extinct.”   4. Fruitvale Station Oh man, I’m so in on this flick. Even if it didn’t star Vince from Friday Night Lights, the execution, mood and style of this movie stands the independent hairs up on the back of my neck. I hope, hope, hope it’s not another unintentional comedy like Precious: Based On The Novel Push By Sapphire. Liberal reviewers have a tendency to elevate socially relevant, yet artistically lacking productions to a much higher level than they deserve. Given the subject matter, I have faith this won’t be the case.   5. The Way, Way Back You ever have those movies you look forward to so strongly that if they don’t live up to your expectation you’re almost angry at them? Yeah, The Way, Way Back is like that for me. It runs the risk of being too quirky for its own good, but I trust the writers (including Jim Rash – Dean Pelton from Community) and the cast to deliver a top notch, memorable coming-of-age tale. Please don’t let this suck. That’s my list, what are you looking forward...

My uterus has become the subject of invasive questions and a controversy on a political level. As politicians battle to limit or eliminate reproductive rights in the United States, my patience for frequent inquiries as to my plans for childbearing grows thin. Everyone from friends to my hairdresser seems to be enthralled by the Most Important Question In My Life: When will I have children? Ever since I got married, thereby inducting myself into the Presumed Heterosexuals Who Can Reproduce Without Disapproval Club, the questions have not stopped. At a dinner with friends, soon after my wedding, the same woman asked me twice when we would have children. The second time, I simply said I didn’t want children and it was as if I’d loudly passed gas. The table fell deathly silent before awkwardly beginning small talk again. The looks on people’s faces were confused, suspicious even, but I wasn’t embarrassed. I was actually fairly appalled by her shameless prying, and was not yet used to getting The Question. I have many personal reasons for not reproducing. First and foremost, I have never wanted to be a mother. I hate the sound of children’s laughter, their high pitched voices and sticky hands. I have never felt that I am less of a woman if I stay childless, just as I don’t feel mothers are “less feminist” because of their choices. I deliberately chose a partner who doesn’t want children either; I have always had a plan that did not include babies. Still, sometimes I see my partner do something particularly tender and I feel a little ache because this man would be an incredible father… and he never will be. Perhaps that feeling is hypocritical, because he too is childless by choice. Like me, he has never felt that urge to parent and pass on his genes. Part of what binds us is that absence – the knowledge that instead we will be each other’s family. My lack of desire for children is easy to communicate when asked rude questions. My health issues are not. I was diagnosed with Type 1 Bipolar Disorder in 2009. I take a cocktail of three medications, all of which are contraindicated for pregnancy. Without the medications, I am suicidal, manic, or both at once. My gynecologist has informed me that should I become pregnant, my medications will most likely cause fetal defects before I even know I was pregnant. If I chose to go off my medications for nine months and incubate a fetus, I would be more resistant to the medications when I went back on them, leaving my child with a less than a sane mother. A mother with rage fits and spending sprees, a mother with suicidal urges and panic attacks. As if that weren’t enough of a deterrent, I also have Polycystic Ovary Syndrome, which makes it nearly impossible to conceive. I feel no grief over my reproductive challenges; instead, I feel lucky. My body seems to agree with me on this issue and many women cannot say the same. Asking me when I will have children is annoying, but to another woman it may be vastly hurtful, even cruel. Many women have struggled with reproductive challenges, have miscarried, or are otherwise sensitive to this type of badgering. The assumption that all women want children goes hand-in-hand with the assumption that all women are fertile and healthy. My choice to be childless is no more anyone’s business than another woman’s fertility issues, nor is it something to apologize for. In a recent job interview with a department of three women – all mothers – I was asked my plans for having children. Because I wanted the job badly, I did not point out the illegality of the question, but answered with a demure “not right now.” I got the job, but I know I will tiptoe around the “childless”...

As the ravages of aging drag my butt ever closer to the ground I’ve learned an appreciation for music that fulfills a need. Being a white male with the figure of a three-day-old hard boiled egg I had no use for dance music of any kind and thus dubbed it all “crap.” Now that I spend so much of my time on a treadmill (humble brag alert unless you’ve seen a picture of me) it turns out that Tom Waits doesn’t keep my thighs pumping (I apologize for the image). No, I need something with a quick tempo, a simple melody and preferably, over-produced harmonies. This isn’t necessarily true for lifting weights, any ol’ angry, screaming group like Strike Anywhere, Red City Radio or Polar Bear Club will do. For cardio though, I’ve found myself turning to music I would never listen to in the car, while I’m writing or anywhere else. Music like the five on this list. Below are the top five guilty pleasures (which is really just a shorthand for “songs I don’t want to take shit for liking”) on my gym playlist. Go ahead and laugh, but what’s on yours? 1. Rihanna – We Found Love I downloaded this song at 3am to keep a party going after a friend suggested it. She realized my iTunes collection was sorely lacking in what would be called “party music.” Everything about it suggests something I’d instantly turn off. The beat is simple enough to make Fat Boy Slim roll his eyes. The lyrics are trite and simplistic. It really only does two things and yet, I spin this puppy at least once every three days. I’ve tried other Rihanna songs hoping to duplicate the adrenaline rush this one provides but alas, nothing. What is it about this one? You would think with the amount of sweat I manufacture, Umbrella would be the…watch the shirt, I was leaving anyway. 2. Kelly Clarkson – Because Of You I HATED this song when it first came out. HATED it. One night my wife was listening to it while doing homework (grad school jerks) and I secretly decided to give it a shot. Sadly, it really works. The chorus is just big enough to push me through. Normally swelling strings in a pop song like this is a shortcut to emotional resonance and here it totally is…and that’s okay. When I’m trying my best not to collapse, jettisoning myself into the front of the person behind me, I don’t need to connect with a song on a deeper level. Synthetic emotional weight is good enough for me. No Kelly, because of you. 3. B.o.B. – Airplanes This song is dumb. The opening piano riff sounds like it’s going into that Backstreet Boy snoozer I Want It That Way. The rhymes are barely acceptable for anyone calling themselves a rapper and Hayley Williams mails in her chorus contribution. But damned if B.o.B.’s travelogue meets bad high school poetry doesn’t work under the right circumstances. Those circumstances happen to be when there’s very little oxygen in my brain but I’ll take it. 4. All American Rejects – Move Along The vocals here approach annoying and the second half of the chorus makes me want to yell, “Come on, come on, love me for the money, Come on, Come on, listen to the money talk!” but Move Along succeeds in moving me along so I play it often. Is it the on-the-nose pleading? The encouraging, “you can do it” vibe? Nope, it’s the silly choral arrangement in the bridge. I am such a friggin’ sucker for that (see: The Killers – All These Things That I’ve Done). 5. Blink 182 – Feelin’ This This one isn’t fair because I actually kind of love this song. It’s a guilty pleasure because the lyrics are so goddamned awful, so absurdly embarrassing that I refuse to sing...

Today is supposed to be my day off but this video has inspired me so much I’m thinking – screw it. It’s time to dust off my old arm weights, spandex and lack of shame. To the park! “It’s better to be punching into space, than in your face!”

Only the staunchest Shyamalanian apologist can deny that the quality of M. Night’s work has dropped into the Marianas Trench. His name used to be a quick selling point. “From Director M. Night Shyamalan” guaranteed instant audience interest. Throw in a popular leading man, say a Mel Gibson or a Bruce Willis, and the studio knew they had a hit.   The Sixth Sense is a quality entertainment through and through. Sure you can nitpick the plot holes in the [Spoiler Alert – but get bent if this still applies to you] “he was dead the whole time” gimmick but it totally works because the characters and story are so solidly written you could throw it out and still have a fantastic movie. I’m not in love with Unbreakable because it feels like the first half of a better movie, but I willingly recognize it’s my own opinion as opposed to genuine criticism. It’s slower than a turtle with gout but it’s a build that, from a craft perspective, totally works. I’ll defend these films any given day but when it comes to the five on this list, I’m at a loss to offer even the most modest of defenses. My theory is that M. Night stopped developing his scripts and rushed to shoot them as concepts before they were fleshed out and realized. The Sixth Sense went through multiple drafts until it was perfect. That Bruce Willis’ character was actually dead the whole time wasn’t even a part of the story until halfway into revisions. Basically, he started smelling his own celluloid farts. If you’re not careful, the enormous success of your earlier work has the tendency to blow your ego into a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade float-sized version of its former self. Add that to the fact that no one who wants a job with the emperor is going to point out the nudity of his script and you’ve got a recipe for the five stinkers below. Also, I should preface this by admitting that I’m not including Wide Awake and Praying With Anger as they were made prior to M. Night being M. Night. I know you could say that about The Sixth Sense but that’s the movie that launched the persona we all grew to love – and then hate.   5. SIGNS Actually, I take it back. I will defend Signs despite having the single dumbest villain weakness in the history of cinema. “Look guys, I know water kills us but I say we invade a planet made up almost entirely of H20 – and don’t worry about water vapor either, we’re not trying that hard.” Oh and the whole “swing away” thing is a good old fashioned eye roller. The thing is, Signs tells an effective story without the narrative chicanery. I’m including it here as #5 because it was the first entry in the M. Night oeuvre where the burden of having a plot twist started to weigh heavily on the film itself. The aliens were such a ridiculous add-on that it was clear Shyamalan got to the end and said, “screw it, it’s freakin’ water.” That’s where another draft would’ve come in useful. Had he taken the time to include the invaders as an integrated element instead of a gimmick, Signs would be an inarguable victory. As it stands, when discussing it, you’re forced to qualify your affection with “but the aliens totally sucked.”   4. Lady In The Water I know people who like this movie and though I don’t share their sentiment, I can at least agree that, for what it’s worth, Lady in the Water is internally consistent. That being said, boy is this dumb. Based on a bed time story that should’ve stayed in his ass, Lady in the Water tells an absurd story that’s not only hard to follow, but exceedingly difficult to care about. The...