Peckerwood Manor

Justin Timberlake is still receiving lots of flak for his recent DUI. And even Merriam-Webster dictionary had to get in on the action by posting this to their instagram. HA!

Welcome, fellow trollops, to the latest edition of "Who's This Week's Thirstiest Ho?" Today's trio are drier than a crumbling wine cork between an overflowing Dumpster and a leased Chevy Trax behind an off-ramp 7-11, so they need all the moisture they can get. First, we have perpetual thirsty gal, Gwyneth Paltrow , who's an expert at gaining attention, what with her vagina-scented candles (did she ever say whose vagina it smelled like? Was it  Oprah's vagina? Justin Timberlake's ?  That Damn Judi Dench's ?). Then there's her instructions on how to yawn properly (yes, she insists, you're doing it wrong; I'm assuming it's all about opening wide-wide-wide, like giving a blowie to The Hammaconda ); how to speak kind words to water before drinking it (to encourage it's "good molecular structure") (huh?); and how to pump oxygen with a catheter up your b-hole, followed by a deep, spiritually-uplifting coffee enema (the latte...

Welcome, fellow trollops, to the latest edition of "Who's This Week's Thirstiest Ho?" Today's trio are drier than a forgotten cat dookie left behind the litter box,  so they need all the moisture they can get. First, behold one of many sobbing pictures recently posted to Instagram by Jennifer Garner , who   wants everyone to know that she's down-in-the-dumpity-doo. "Why?" you ask. "Does it matter?" I answer. In other words, isn't it enough that she's sharing her chopping onions face with all of us commoners and poors? But then with Jennifer, never doubt her stealth agenda, since she's made a very lucrative second career out of being The Good Mom who routinely alerts the paps when she's walking her kids to school and posts videos of herself cleaning her cat's butt, all while telling  People Magazine , "My favorite role is mommy! I make sure everyone has a note in their lunch box every day!"  Never mind that she...

Before anyone gets all up in their feelings about Britney and her issues, let's, as a collective nod, recognize that she has all sorts of problems and accept that we all know it and that it probably, regrettably, won't have a happily ever after. We already know the inevitable ending to these sorts of celebrity life stories. We knew it with Anna Nicole Smith. We knew this about numerous child stars who were irrevocably broken, like Brad Renfro or Amanda Bynes. We know the entertainment industry grinds and chews through tender innocence cruelly and mercilessly, then tosses the carcasses on a trash heap once they have bled the celebrity dry.  We acknowledge that Britney has been a victim of many things at the hands of a callous family, industry vultures, genetics, and enormous greed. We also know she can be self-centered, oblivious, mentally erratic, and lives absurdly untethered to reality. All that said, I find it surprising and remarkable that she did something sort of outrageo...

Welcome, my chickens, to the latest edition of "Who's The Thirstiest Ho?" First up, we have Mark Ruffalo, who's baring his man teats and arm pitties for all to see while posing like a bloated squid that's tranqued on benzos and ready for either a wee nap or a moment of lazy-I'll-just-flop-here-and-you-do-me sexytimes-while-my-tushy-burps-a-blaster. I s this thirsty? Oh, my goodness, yes it is.   Also, what is "Perfect" magazine? And do they really think this dead-eyed crusty moose-knuckle is "perfect" or "sexy?" This picture screams raunchy unwashed ball stank, it screams a desperate combover to hide a beachball-sized bald spot, it screams a filthy hairy back sprouting mushrooms and infested with gnats and fermented feta cheese, it screams crutch tips and house slippers and dried earwax specks dotting a black turtleneck and power walking at the mall and nipple-high pants and enough nose hair to knit a sweater.  "I'm 55 no...

I thought about writing about something else first, but it involves my girl (not really) Britney, and I seem to be the Peckerwood expert in residence.  I am no stranger to the problems associated with Hip Hop and its long history of misogyny. Some of the songs I love, or I have to accept it was a different time, or else I wouldn't like the genre. As a feminist, this always filled me with conflict because I am a Hip Hop Head. I would write about hip-hop gossip, but I don't think Peckerwood is much like 90s Vibe magazine.  This, however, deserves an airing because it goes straight to how some men really think about women but also the act of separating the artist from their art. How do you choose when to move on and when to cancel someone for good? I will shamefully watch old Miramax films, but I won't go near Woody Allen or Kevin Spacey. It is hypocritical in some aspects, but I think we all have our own lines in the sand. Timbaland, love or hate him, could make some bangers ...

Are stars "just like us?" Are actors their roles? And are they consistently playing out their own psycho-dramas on screen and in public? In the case of Charlize Theron, it's a fair question to ask. Or put it this way: throughout the years, there may be a reason we haven't seen her playing any of those cute, funny-bunny leading lady roles like Jennifer Lopez or Cameron Diaz (not that there's anything wrong with that), with the exception of a few "pretty girl" roles early in her career in forgettable movies like "Trial and Error" and "Sweet November."  First coming to critical notice in "Monster," in which she obliterated her "pretty girl" looks with weight gain and no make-up in order to portray true-life serial killer, Aileen Wuornos, for which she won a Best Actress Oscar, Charlize has become Hollywood's go-to actress for kicking ass - particularly male ass - either literally, or, in the case of "Bombshel...

The Woman In Me is explosive. It is like dynamite, and a grenade had a baby and was launched into the atmosphere, illuminating some things that filled in  some  holes that were question marks while leaving others totally unanswered. The childhood portion was too long, and I sped through it, pausing at the eyebrow-raising parts, skipping over some descriptive parts, and finally switching to the audiobook. If I won't read Ernest Hemingway because I hate how fucking long he takes to get to the main point, I am not going to read through her talking about lying on warm rocks. His books are torturous for me, so I finally stopped, hitting the big titles and skipping others, but this was easy and short to listen to while doing other things.  It is an example of her telling her story and me reading between the lines. I begged to differ; ma'am, in some sections, she can get dreamy and escapist sometimes in others, like someone who is never really in reality and spends time in fugue...