Peckerwood Manor

Welcome, fellow trollops, to the latest edition of "Who's This Week's Thirstiest Ho?" Today's trio are drier than all those nasty couch cushion crumbs you've yet to vacuum up, so they need all the moisture they can get. First up, someone forgot to tell me that April was Clam Bumping Month™, because this week, not one, but two, female tarlets proudly announced that they're Lawrence Welk fans, if'n you get me drift. The first, Sophia Bush, a 40-ish actress formerly married to someone named Chad Michael Murray, and someone else named Grant Hughes, made headlines by announcing that her new lesbean lover is retired soccer star, Ashlyn Harris.  "Sophia Bush Hard-Launches New Relationship!" announced The Daily Beast  in a boner-shock headline that missed the ham wallet point by a mile. But whatevs. Welcome to the alphabet club, Sophia. Is Sophia thirsty? I don't think so, since she's not simultaneously promoting a new book, album, or sex toy

"Scarface" is now 40 years old, and if you saw it in a movie theatre during its original 1983 run, then, oh, my, you're getting up there, aren't you? Me? I wasn't even a stye in my mother's eye yet (just go with me on this) (because you know it's true). As you're likely aware, "Scarface" was a remake of the 1932 original directed by Howard Hawks and headlined by Paul Muni. But this wasn't just any remake. Though it was released in 1983, having been kicked around in development in the late 1970s, I've always looked upon it as a late-1970s movie which predicted the 1980s-era of unshackled greed, or the coke-snorting, bloody reality of Reaganomics.  This isn't a stretch on my part. Though the script was written by Oliver Stone, there was a reason De Palma famously kicked Stone off the set once shooting commenced, since De Palma, though excited by Stone's dialogue - which is gloriously obscene - was far more interested in creating

It's almost Halloween, the season of slasher movie pajama parties, or if we're to believe Gen Z gays, they're strictly gay slasher movie pajama parties. Why? Because "slasher movies are gay AF!" Which, I have to say, I find both adorable - oh, you cute li'l gays - and mildly annoying, if only because slashers have historically been openly misogynist and vaguely Republican with respect to sex, or rather, punishing anyone who was sexual, or had sex, particularly women, with deaths both gruesome and titillating. The prime example of this is arguably the first slasher, Alfred Hitchcock's "Psycho," the slashing death of Janet Leigh in the shower a  tour de force of masterful savagery and peek-a-boo nudity, and, yes, there's a cross-dressing villain played by Anthony Perkins, a closeted gay actor.  Low-budget mavens took Hitch's template and ran with it, creating a series of crude, slapped-together slashers which scant craftsmanship, much less