Jessica Gomes Breasts

International Go‑Topless Day: 7 Celebrity Endorsements We’d Like to See

Today is International Go-Topless Day, where women around the world are expected to protest in favor of equality for all by removing their tops in public. As a supporter of women’s rights as well as a fan of boobies, who am I to criticize?

The event is being sponsored by the Raëlians, those kooky kids who believe the human race was created by super-advanced space aliens and who are trying to restore the swastika to its pre-Nazi association as a symbol of peace and harmony. Good luck with the second thing, Raëlians. You have a better shot at convincing people that women and men deserve the same rights. Even that will take another century, at least.

In a society dominated by the Abrahamic religions, where the second-class status of women is institutionalized, Raëlism is typically described as a cult. Although what Raëlists believe isn’t any less plausible than what your typical monotheist religion professes to be the truth, frankly, and it seems a lot less harmful to progress and modernity. Plus, they obviously aren’t hung up about the human body, so more power to them, as long as everyone is over 18 and signs a consent form.

Raelian Women Dancing Topless

Raëlian chicks demonstrate the benefits of a good diet and regular ab workout.

Tom Cruise Katie Holmes

The Tom Cruise Guide to Gay Sex in Your 50s

It’s my b’day today!!!  My 50th!  Hawaii Big Five-O!  Born on the Third of July!  Damn straight.  Seriously, I said straight, and I mean it.  I don’t have to explain.

I love my birthday!  It’s only one day away from being the best day an American can be born on.  But if you think about it, it was already the Forth of July in Australia when I was born, and I was married to an Australian once, which means it all depends on how you look at things, especially if you have embraced Scientology.  And you should.

I’m not gay, but a big thing happened yesterday: my man Anderson Cooper officially came out of his closet, which I think is a mighty brave thing for him to do, even though we Scientologists know that homosexualism is a toxin that can be cured with hours of saunas, massive doses of nyacin—like, till your eyes turn blue even though they are brown (its true, Ive seen it happen)—and running.  Yes, running.  Preferably in a huge dark indoor track around a beam of light.  That will make you see the light!  (Ha, ha!)  Running for 24 hrs straight (that magic word again!) will make you understand that homosexualism is nothing more than a toxin like any other that you can easily get yourself “clear” of.

The Elusive Eunuch—Part One

At some point during Shoot Your Heroes Week here at PFC, I had an exchange with Eric Baker in our incestuous comments section that led me to remember the time I crossed the Rann of Kutch in a rickety van in search of the secret temple sacred to the hijras, the notorious eunuchs of India.

Captain Sir Richard Francis Burton became the one and only hero I’d ever had around page one hundred of Edward Rice’s superlative best-selling biography of him, which I read when it first came out in the early 90s.  This is the kind of man I would have tried to become had I been a Victorian with the sort of linguistic and scholarly brilliance with which he was blessed.  Burton was a character far more extraordinary than his contemporary Rudyard Kipling in many respects; he didn’t just dream of the Indian subcontinent and the British Raj in poems and novels, he lived it, playing the Great Game to the very edge of brinksmanship with a level of chutzpah I aspire to.

Darling, You Look Marvel‑ous

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THE WEEK FROM MY VIEW | REVIEW

by Eric J Baker

So I’m sitting there for the first hour of The Avengers thinking, “Where the fuck is Patrick Macnee?” Then the Incredible Hulk showed up and I was like, “Ah… it’s those Avengers.” I ought to pay closer attention to the marketing for these things.

Hemsworth and Evans: Let the slash fiction begin.

Director Joss Whedon’s all-star, $220-million superhero mash-up opened this weekend to surprisingly good reviews for a summer popcorn movie, and has shattered all records with a $200-million-plus opening weekend to bring its global cume to close to $650 million in only twelve days.  In other words, it’ll be profitable, but never officially—Disney’s previous bomb John Carter will see to that.

Adam Von Rothfelder

Gym Class Heroes

TUTTLE MODE

by James Tuttle

Gentle reader,

I caught a few minutes of the Shahs of Sunset pilot when I was running on the treadmill last week, but sweat and subtitles didn’t really seem the correct fit for this show about Persian-Americans living the high life in Beverly Hills.  I thought my Persian friends would expect better so I DVR’d the latest, popped open a bottle of champagne and watched it over the weekend.

Thank god for the champagne because this thing starts with the typical reality series introduction of cast members in soft focus talking about how awesomely awesome they are.  It was interesting how they went in descending order of hotness, from delicate GG and muscular Mike on down to shlubby, balding Sammy, but you’d hope that if they just get one line to describe themselves, they’d be less stupid about it.

Supermarket Lagerfeld

Ten years or so ago in London, when I was even less self-aware than I am now, I was in the middle of some rant with my friend Ben Ingham when I referred to myself as “slightly eccentric.”  Ben guffawed in a remarkable way, which is saying a lot because he is a consummate hearty guffawer. “‘Slightly eccentric’?  Hah!  You’re barking mad, mate.”

This was the moment I realized that my fascination with mental illness is somewhat self-reverential; I am on a quest to find my own pathology, mainly because I have never been diagnosed with any disorder, but when close friends like Ben say there must be one, there must be one.  I am not a hypochondriac when it comes to physical illness, but I am forever testing myself online for mental ones, and begging passing shrinks for their opinions.  To no avail.

Karl Lagerfeld Sunglasses

Imagining Lagerfeld

Over drinks the other night with Dame Bea and Tyler Kimball, my roommate, the psychic medium Gil Alan, was asked if I disturbed his peace at all, seeing as we both work from home.  “Not at all,” Gil replied.  “Except sometimes I can’t tell if he’s talking to me and mumbling, or just talking to himself.”  The scary truth is I am becoming more of a Hollywood schizo every day and having lengthy conversations with myself, utterly oblivious as to who might be watching me.

As long as I am displaying the outward signs of incipient mental illness, I’ve decided to embrace it.  In true American post-Oprah fashion, I refuse to be the victim and want to take charge of what’s left of my destiny by choosing my hallucinations before they choose me.  Therefore, I have decided that my inner muse, my mentor, my political advisor, that invisible large white bunny who shall stand beside me for a chat in the condiments section of Ralphs supermarket shall be none other than fashion kingpin Karl Lagerfeld.

Phoebe Cates Naked Breasts

The Lonely Death of My Gen‑X Identity

That’s a bloody cheerful way to start the New Year, eh?

Don’t worry. No bloggers were harmed in the writing of this story. We did feel a twinge of emotional pain, though, when we found out the local F.Y.E. is going out of business. With its broad range of CDs, trashy horror and sci-fi movies, rock T-shirts, posters, and other unnecessary music-related doodads, F.Y.E. was one of the last old-school record stores left. For a 40-something Generation X rocker, that’s a big part of my cultural identity dying right there.

The Boomers will always have the tumultuous 1960s and the Vietnam War to mark their place in pop history. The Generation Y gang has a shitty global economy to thank for their living up to the slacker label. And the Millennials – or, I prefer, the Helicopter Kids – will someday represent the age (now) when music and movies became truly disposable.