Go Big or Go Home
TUTTLE MODE
by James Tuttle
Tuttle attends the season finale of American Idol and then dives headlong into the Cannes red carpet.
TUTTLE MODE
by James Tuttle
Tuttle attends the season finale of American Idol and then dives headlong into the Cannes red carpet.
by James Tuttle
Gentle reader,
My friend BJ’s birthday party on Saturday night left me in a rather delicate condition on Sunday. The signature cocktail of the evening, The Godfather, was two parts scotch, one part Amaretto and an ice cube and sounded like a really good idea at the time. The next morning, with my clothes spread across my closet floor and the bedroom door inexplicably propped against a wall, I realized that it clearly wasn’t. After managing a hike in record heat and splitting a cheeseburger and onion rings with Scott, I wasn’t in any condition to do much but cradle my head on the sofa in front of the TV.
I had a choice between Teen Mom 2 and watching the Sex and the City movie again, but I scrolled down a bit more and chose the E! True Hollywood Story on illusionist Criss Angel. I guess they ran out of celebrities and are doing magicians now. I remembered his show Mindfreak, where he would take off his shirt and do things like jump into a wood chipper yet emerge totally unscathed. He also did some tricks with his shirt on but I don’t really recall any of those.
by James Tuttle
Gentle reader,
The 84th Annual Academy Awards went down a few short blocks from here the other day, distracting me from important cultural happenings like Mob Wives and RuPaul’s Drag Race. The Oscar experience is a bit different when one lives in Hollywood because, while you might get together with some friends over cocktails in Manhattan or watch it wrapped in a Snuggie (please don’t) in Iowa while snow falls silently outside your window, it becomes fucking Kosovo up in here!
Police cars heavily patrol any streets that haven’t been barricaded, helicopters buzz buildings and tow trucks descend upon unsuspecting cars parked in the way of the limo routes that will be whisking celebrities to the Theatre Formerly Known As Kodak. The constant hum of the Goodyear blimp hanging overhead makes even running to the local market for an onion into a surreal experience.
by James Tuttle @TuttleMode
Gentle reader,
If you’re like me, you’ve been so busy this past week that even RuPaul’s Drag Race sits unwatched on your DVR. There was no way I was going to miss one of the biggest events in television history on Sunday, though. After months of anticipation, no-fly zones over Indianapolis and nationwide stockpiling of chicken wings and tortilla chips, Madonna Bowl finally arrived!
Scott and I popped over to our friends Michael and Joel’s Madonna Bowl party, which they kept referring to as a “Super Bowl” party, late in the afternoon. We may have missed most of the first half of the football game that they were playing as a lead-in to the performance, but we were comfortably seated with a stiff cocktail when an army of guys dressed like Roman gladiators in Calvin Klein underwear led an enormous chariot onto the field.
TUTTLE MODE
by James Tuttle
Gentle reader,
The year 2012, much maligned by the ancient Mayans, has finally arrived and right along with it the highly anticipated second season of VH1’s Mob Wives. Maybe the Mayans’ idea of the end of civilization was that Mob Wives would get another season so, even though the Earth hasn’t imploded, they might have been right on track.
Unfortunately, this first episode was less of an earth-shattering event and more of a bunch of tough talking, no-class tramps looking for things to get upset about. First off, linebacker/drama queen Renee is offended that Carla didn’t come visit her in the hospital after her liposuction surgery had gone horribly wrong.
by James Tuttle
Gentle reader,
Everyone’s favorite anorexic superstar stylist is back for season four of Bravo’s Rachel Zoe Project and I don’t know how we made it so long without her stupid exclamations and her passion for fashion. The big news is that Rachel is finally pregnant but, when we’re informed that her parents confiscated her dog because she and her husband Rodger were insufficiently nurturing pet-owners, this doesn’t seem like an ideal situation.
Stephen Bamber: This guy can’t steam either, but Rachel should, like, totally hire him. (Photo: R. Day)
She also says that she cried for two or three weeks when she discovered she was having a boy because she’d always dreamed of dressing up her daughter and sitting her on her knee at the Chanel show. Rodger informs her that the baby is not a doll but she’s not having it. “Yes. He is totally a doll,” she decides without a pause. At least she’s happy now because she’s found really cute tiny boy clothes to dress him in. Like, tiny leather jackets and tiny combat boots. Bananas, right?
by James Tuttle
Gentle reader,
It’s June in Los Angeles and that can mean only one thing. That’s right, it’s Gay Pool Party Season! This fascinating cultural phenomenon descends upon the city each year, raising funds for deserving charitable causes while providing an opportunity for fitness-obsessed homos to show off their abs when there are cameras around. The Equality California party went down a couple of weeks ago and the LAGLC’s sold out Poolwatch party in Bel Air is where you’ll find me on Saturday afternoon. As you probably know, this bunch is filled with early adopters so it’s a great time to witness the swimsuit trends that we covered a few weeks ago and to check out what the new ideal body looks like.
Yes, you heard that right. The body that we’re all working for has officially changed and, if you don’t believe it, just ask me. We’ve now moved decidedly away from the bulky bodybuilder physique that still holds most of the fitness industry in its grasp. It might seem odd that a stocky, bulging fireplug remains their ideal of male and even female fitness but the billions of dollars raked in each year by all the supplements, products, events and competitions that surround the bodybuilding business must make it hard for them to move on. Recently, even popular fitness model Max Wettstein came out in a courageous interview about the steroids and fakery that his industry continues to encourage.
by James Tuttle
Gentle reader,
Hello from the gentle winds of Palm Springs. When I say “gentle winds,” I mean there should’ve been a fucking storm warning issued for the 92264 tonight but, otherwise, it’s been quite lovely here. Even though the winter polo season is finished and I’m not hitting a little ball from a running horse up and down a big grassy field, I can still sit by the pool and have dinner at the Riviera Hotel with Scott and his mum.
I was on the fence about whether to write about this week’s Celebrity Apprentice or the action film Thor, which I’ve just seen at the Mary Pickford Multiplex in nearby Cathedral City. Multiplexes and Mary Pickford seem to go together about as much as Cathedral City and me, which is to say we don’t. The first time I remember being in Cathedral City —it was in the Target parking lot before we knew Target was chasing the gay dollar and then using it against us — I remarked how it seemed somehow different from Palm Springs. Scott’s mum said, quite matter-of-factly, “Well, James, you know that Cathedral City is where the help lives.” That made so much sense.
How do your nuts feel now, dude? Can you feel them at all? Hemsworth before (left) and after the Testosterone, Nandrolone Decanoate, Stanozolol, and Anastrozole, a.k.a. The Thunder Cocktail.
In the end, NeNe kind of scares me so I’m going to go with Thor. Aren’t you glad?