It's snowing! EVERYBODY RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!!! 2

The Blizzard of '05 II (which is basically the snow version of drizzling) is calling it a day for us. C-ya.

If you haven't seen 'Million Dollar Baby' and plan to don't rea...........................

The pro-handicapped, anti-euthanasia group, Not Dead Yet, is responsible for the most troubling post-Oscar press release. "Kill the Cripple" was also the theme of my prom, but no one seemed to mind then, so it's interesting that Hollywood is getting blamed for this. Anyway, it's hard to take anything pro-cripple seriously from a group that has this logo:


As well, if you'd like to join the crusade against movies that are obviously responsible for advocating life-and-death issues and not simply telling a story, you can download this flyer and hand it out at your local swap meet or chili cookoff.

In other same news, LifeNews.com published a story with the lede,"Euthanasia Movie "Million Dollar Baby" Tops Abortion Drama At Oscars." Damn, LifeNews! You trippin'!

The NB is on the fence about this because, while we love us some euthanasia, we have to agree with Not Dead Yet spokesperson and occasional movie critic Stephen Drake when he says, "There are many films with great acting, better scripts and better direction. They don't get awards." Well, perhaps they'll learn their lesson this year and start writing better euthanasia and abortion movies, because we, too, thought Million Dollar Baby kinda sucked. (And, no, readers, we didn't actually GO to the movie theater. We watched a screener copy. Do not worry.)

Oscar coverage 2, and then we're done. Promise.

Oh, oh, oh. We would just like to thank the Academy for bringing us back to the Debbie Allen-infused Oscars of yore during the performance of "Learn to Be Lonely," when a constantly moving Beyonce was escorted around the stage by some Unnamed Actor dressed as the Phantom. One word: sublime.

The Virgin Mary? Stoked.

Yesterday, Brian Welch, formerly of something called Korn, testified in front of 10,000 churchgoers in a sort of Christian coming-out ceremony. "This is the best thing that's ever happened to me," Welch said, obviously ignoring 10,000 other responses. Pastor Ron Vietti claims Brian is now "stoked" since finding God. So are we, because Dyan Cannon has stopped leading her God's Party celebrations, and Welch is a perfect replacement. Jesus, God must be stoked.

Oscar coverage.

After managing to stay awake for most of the Oscars last night, we have just one question: who hates Hilary Swank more?

...or...

We report. You decide.

David Hurst: critic, lover, heartbreaker

It's true. The NB was created as a forum for pithy commentary on the world of pop culture. It is not supposed to be about its author. Usually, when its author speaks, the passive voice and the royal "we" are utilized, so as to create the illusion of disconnectedness and unselfishness.

The thing is I get it: no one wants to read my journal. I know that. I understand that. It's fine.

However, my heart was torn to shreds this weekend, and I just need a moment to cry. Please understand that things will return to normal once this is done.

What happened was, David Hurst, a reviewer for such NYC publications as Show Business Weekly, Theatermania and NEXT magazine, decided to write this this week.

Moving from the sublime to the ridiculous, Michael Conley's musical revue "hello, boys!", with original songs written by Conley and Matthew Loren Cohen, returned to Don't Tell Mama this month for another short run. Conley's talent is undeniable, but the music in "hello boys!" is beyond banal-a frustrating mix of smart lyrics and dreadful music, severely undercutting Conley and his often hysterical delivery is Cohen, who bangs on the piano with a relentless intensity that's as exhausting as it is mind-numbing. It's funny for 15 or 20 minutes, but an hour of pounding will try anyone's patience, regardless of the star's talents.

Now, I'm all for being able to take it because I sure love to dole it out. But, David Hurst, what happened? We were once in love, Hursty. Don't you remember writing this?

All the performers are savvy comics who are quick on their feet and ingenious with a turn of phrase or rhyming scheme. Their efforts would be impossible without a magician behind the piano and "TNBBM" has a genius in Matthew Loren Cohen who keeps the underscoring going constantly and then, miraculously, composes the songs effortlessly. You don’t have to be a musician to be impressed with his inventiveness but, if you are, his versatility is all the more amazing.

Apparently you never got all the Harry & David fruit baskets I sent every Christmas since we kindled our relationship. And, David, I was serious when I made reservations for us at Spice Market before Lauren Ezersky ruined it all. You never showed up, but I never gave up hoping. Alas, it was not to be. I just wish I knew what I did to hurt you. I never meant to, Davey. You have to believe me when I say I never meant to.

Subs.

Have a very nice weekend. And New Yorkers, you may want to get extra cushions for that Oscar party because it's once again time to bend over! Don't fret. That money will immediately go to making the subway a safer, cleaner, more efficient experience for all New York. Let's hold hands.

The NB may blog the pre-Oscar crap. If we're drunk enough. We'll see. Otherwise, you're on your own for the sub-mediocre quips.

Oscar Fiasco #8.

(Because comedy comes in eights, we'll leave you with one last small Oscar fiasco before the giant one on Sunday night.)

Time: March 26, 1958, 30th annual Academy Awards
Fiasco: Because the show is running six minutes late, most national NBC affiliates go ahead with their local programming, thus failing to show a six-minute honorary Oscar presentation emceed by Bette Davis. An earlier "History of Hollywood" segment, narrated by Donald Duck, contributed to the overlong show. Of the incident, Miss Davis said, "My segment was six minutes in length. Unfortunately that was also the length of Mr. Duck's bit of film, and they chose Donald Duck."

Memo to target audience.

Some people are up in arms over the way contestants were harshly eliminated on Wednesday night's "American Idol." People, if you ruin this for me, I'll send my attack bird to peck your eyes out. If you want boring, tedious, sleep-inducing television, watch the competition portions of the show, K? The Abu Ghraib-style Wednesday evening show was television at its finest, and FOX knows it. If we make them stop, no way will it ever progress into on-air executions, and that's the goal. Obviously. So just shut up. Please.

Oscar fiasco #7.

Time: March 16, 1934, 6th annual Academy Awards
Fiasco: Host Will Rogers announces the winner for Best Director by joyously shouting, "Come and get it, Frank!" Frank Capra jumps to his feet, rushes to the stage, and realizes Rogers was talking about Cavalcade director Frank Lloyd. Fiasco? Frank Lloyd, right!*

*What Bob Hope would have said had he been hosting.

Today's best Web site ever.

Oscar fiasco #6.

Time: February 29, 1940, the 12th annual Academy Awards
Fiasco: The Los Angeles Times publishes the list of winners two hours before the awards are handed out. The Academy instructs Price Waterhouse to keep the results a secret to prevent further leaks. Fiasco? Bob Hope hosted, so yes.

When my baby smiles at me, I go to Vegas!

Aussie, aussie, aussie!

Gay, gay, gay!

Pleeeeeeze.

Please let Jude Law become a has-been and need instant publicity. Please let Jude Law become a has-been and need instant publicity. Please let Jude Law become a has-been and need instant publicity.

Oscar fiasco #5.

(Note: the obvious Sacheen Littlefeather fiasco will be bypassed for something more trivial (and amusing). Had we not wanted to seem so unlearned, this post would have been about Sacheen Littlefeather. Thank you.)

Time: April 11, 1983, the 55th annual Academy Awards
Fiasco: Polish director Zbigniew Rybczynski wins the Oscar for Best Animated Short and gives an acceptance speech even with his limited knowledge of English. After talking with reporters in the press room, Mr. R. steps outside to have a smoke. When he tries to re-enter the ceremony (glutton!), a security guard prohibits him from doing so. Using his limited English again, Mr. R. insists repeatedly, "I have Oscar! I have Oscar!" which doesn't sway the guard. Mr. R. becomes so annoyed, he kicks the guard who has him immediately arrested and jailed. The director is eventually sprung from the slammer by divorce attorney Marvin Mitchelson, the only attorney Mr. R. knows in Hollywood. Fiasco? That this happened the same year that Gandhi won the Best Picture award certainly qualifies it, and it's most assuredly a fiasco for Mr. R. and the guard, who prove themselves both way funnier than Bob Hope.

Jessica L'anger.

So, earlier this week, Dallas Roberts was suddenly replaced by Christian Slater in the upcoming Broadway revival of The Glass Menagerie. No word was initially given for the switch, but, according to Playbill.com, it was generally understood to be a creative decision on the part of director David Leveaux and producer Bill Kenwright.

Howevah...

Word on the street is that star Jessica Lange was none-too-pleased by Roberts's performance. One version has it that he was acting Lange out of the stratosphere. Another version, according to today's NY Post, has it that Roberts was playing around with his part in a way that "shocked and offended" Lange. We're going to go with the former, as we've heard that Lange's turn in a Broadway revival of A Streetcar Named Desire was...no so good. As well, Christian Slater was hired, which seems to make it clear that Lange was worried about being out-acted, not being onstage with a crazy person.

Cross referenced.

We just have to take a moment to congratulate the Advocate and Marcia Cross for their BRILLIANT rumor-starting, article-covering, meta-headachey scheme. Breathtaking. Utterly breathtaking.

Oscar fiasco #4.

Time: March 24, 1997, the 69th annual Academy Awards
Fiasco: The English Patient is named Best Picture. Perhaps the grandest Oscar, and general, fiasco of all time.

Non-Oscar-fiasco stuffs.

Tori Amos's new record, The Beekeeper, was released this week. NB, first to officially declare Conor Oberst over, would like to officially declare Tori Amos over. Track #9 on the cd is called "Ribbons Undone" and it's Amos's Song About My Child. When a recording artist pens a Song About My Child, by default, his or her career has ended. We'll miss you, Tori. Little Earthquakes spoke to us in special ways.

Jamie Foxx surely will be first choice to play this guy in the upcoming movie.

Julian McMahon may play James Bond in the upcoming Casino Royale remake. We don't really know what a Julian McMahon is, but the last time we posted about him, some site linked us, and the hits went up. Julian McMahon, Julian McMahon, Julian McMahon.

Please go here and click on 'Angela Muto,' then 'videos,' then 'Shecky as Mrs. Bin Laden.' Shecky is a good friend of the NB, and her Mrs. Bin Laden is a classic comedic creation.

The Superficial reports on Catherine-Zeta-Jones-Douglas-Jones receiving the Hasty Pudding award this week from the Harvard Lampoon. The importance of this link has to do with the wonderful deconstruction of why the Harvard Lampoon is criminally unfunny. Thank you, Superficial! Now, can you get them to stop coming to New York after they graduate?

Oscar fiasco #3.

Time: April 2, 1974, the 46th annual Academy Awards
Fiasco: Co-host David Niven (the others were John Huston, Burt Reynolds and Diana Ross—a veritable fiasco-in-numbers!) is making an introduction when a streaker dashes across the stage and disappears into the wings. Niven then delivers what is called the most famous ad-lib in Oscar history: "Isn't it fascinating to think that probably the only laugh that man will ever get in his life is by stripping off his clothes and showing his shortcomings?" The ad-lib is so good that some people think the whole thing is staged, and the Academy's decision to clothe the streaker and bring him to the press area only adds to the controversy. Producer Jack Haley, Jr. denies the whole thing was planned, and, even if it were, David Niven would still be funnier than Bob Hope. The streaker, Robert Opal, tries to become a stand-up comedian in the years following his performance but only manages to get murdered in a San Francisco sex shop. Robert Opal? Ultimately funnier than Bob Hope. Fiasco? Lukewarm to middling, though had Diana Ross been involved, the potential for full-out fiasco would have been much higher.

Oscar fiasco #2.

Time: April 9,1962, the 34th annual Academy Awards
Fiasco: Host Bob Hope and presenter Shelley Winters are about to present the award for best cinematography, when, out of nowhere, a man rushes the podium and commandeers the mike. He's Stan Berman, and he says, "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm the world's greatest gatecrasher, and I just came here to present Bob Hope with his 1938 trophy." Mr. Berman then proceeds to hand a small, homemade statuette to Shelley Winters and runs. "We'll give it to him," Winters deadpans. Hope later says, "Who needs Price Waterhouse? All we need is a doorman," proving that even Shelley Winters was funnier than Bob Hope. Fiasco? Anything with Bob Hope is already a fiasco, so this a fiasco of giant magnitude!

Oscar the slouch.

In honor of the upcoming snoozefest extravaganza, the 77th annual Academy Awards, today's Nervous Breakdown will be an all-Oscar edition! Before you take out that gun, keep reading! Today's all-Oscar edition will be devoted to Oscar fiascos. Much better, right? You can save that bullet for tomorrow, when you're home waiting for that special someone to call and ending up, yet again, drinking an entire bottle of Pinot Grigio all alone while watching "Showtime at the Apollo." Sorry.

On with the show...

Time: March, 1989, the 61st annual Academy Awards.
Fiasco: The all-too-well-remembered Rob Lowe/Snow White duet of "Proud Mary." The producers, for some reason, thinkit a wonderful idea to have the pioneer of home porn and a classic Disney character sing together to open the show. They are wrong. It is awkward, painful and utterly puzzling (read: FAN-tastic!). Rob Lowe is ridiculed for days after for his poor, poor singing, and Disney sues the Academy for unauthorized use of its beloved character. A fiasco of epic proportions!

One more for the road.

Damn you, Popbitch, always comin' in at 5.30 in the afternoons and messin' up the whole schedules.

Hanyway, dear Popbitch asks this question...

   Which squeaky clean American Idol star has
a penchant for sex with African-American
male prostitutes? So far the velvet-tongued
crooner has managed to conceal his
proclivities from his middle-of-the-road
female fanbase, but unfortunately one of
his favourite bits of rent is threatening
to go public.

Yes, yes, yes, obviously this refers to the whole Clay Aiken-likes-African-American-male-prostitutes,-one-of-whom-is-
threatening-to-go-public story of yore.

Or does it?

It's snowing! EVERYBODY RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!!!

The Great Blizzard of '05® is sending people home in droves, so we might as well join them. Have a very enjoyable evening, perhaps venture to 46th Street to see a show, and we'll see you tomorrow, even if it is a snow day, because we needs the cash.

NB out.

But Whitney always looks like that.

E! Online wins the classiest-line-of-the-day award with this lede:



Meanwhile, we learn from the article that her publicist has claimed gastroenteritis as the cause of the "greatest barf of all." Marcus Errico, the creator of the above "greatest barf of all," assists by letting us know that gastroenteritis is "doctorspeak for food poisoning." "Doctorspeak" is a new word for us, but we're assuming it's crazyspeak for "covering up the crack-addled truth." Anyway, who cares already.

Bad, BAD vibrations.

Mad genius Brian Wilson was subjected to Broadway horror Good Vibrations this week. The show is a revue of Beach Boys songs built around a surf plot and is the work of the theatrical ops branch of Al Qaeda. After the performance, Wilson was forced to take pictures with the cast. Dude, had we known this was going to happen, we would have done anything in our power to stop it. So, so sorry.

Dharma and Web.

NB loves the celebrity Web sites because celebrities who need more attention than just from being on TV, in movies and in US Weekly are totally awesome. Today we bring you someone called Jenna Elfman and her own Web site, which she personally updated just three days ago!



Some highlights:

Her letter, which includes such interjectory outbursts as "I also moved into my dream house at the beginning of this year. Finally! It took forever to remodel but it was worth it" and "Okay, I'm gonna sit by my new swimming pool, eat brownies and laugh at my pugs." The latter, of course, follows her endorsement of a new law "protecting every child in America."

Her "faves," which include Janice [sic] Joplin, Redken Cat Protein Reconstructioning Treatment and, courtesy of L. Ron Hubbard, this quote: "A culture is only as great as its dreams, and its dreams are dreamed by artists."

And her bio, which includes this gem: "Jenna Elfman brings a distinctive method of performing to her varied film and television roles, aptly combining a heightened sense of wit and liveliness with beauty and intelligence."

Oh, the humanity. Okay, NB is going to sit by a pool of vomit, eat pot brownies and laugh at Scientology. Later!

"Idol" sweeps the world.

Who's jumping on the Fedorov bandwagon...?



...JP II is. And don't you forget it.

Captain Jack Osbourne.

The UK Sun is reporting that Jack Osbourne, son of Sharon and Ozzy, had $382,000 worth of gems stolen from his suitcase on a flight from LA to London. Perhaps the person from whom Jack stole them stole them back. In any case, we were intrigued by the story...



...for about 2 seconds before this popped up to take the graphic's place...



Obviously, this took precedence, and we discovered our boobs are Maraschino cherries. Well, one is. The other we lost to cancer. Donations can be made to the tsunami victims.

One shilling.

Not that NB has anything to do with this, but tonight in NYC marks the final performance of "Hello, Boys!" an original and rilly gay revue starring one Michael Conley. It's at 8.30pm at Don't Tell Mama on 46th Street between 8 and 9 Avenues, and it's only $10, plus two drinks, so, really, how can you pass that shit up? If you decide to gay it up, why not buy the piano player a drink after? He'll love you forever.

American Idol: The Magazine: The Web Site.

So we found the Web site for American Idol: The Magazine, which was a little exciting because we're dying to read Diana Degarmo's Dediary. However, the site is utterly useless. There's only a sneak peek of an interview with someone called Ryan Seacrest, some subscriber nonsense and a place called "The Blog," for which we had to register (for fuck's sake) to gain access. After wasting one minute of our obviously valuable time, "The Blog" didn't even work, leaving us nowhere to post entries about Clay fisting Ruben while Fantasia does the Bobo.

I am William Wallace crap!

Empire magazine, a UK rag dedicated to movies, has made a list of the 10 worst movies to ever win a Best Picture Oscar. Because NB revels in the act of naming the "worst" of anything, here's the article, via the Scotsman. The list is at the bottom, where it belongs.

AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

You're getting my medical bills, Bonnie Fuller!

Gatesgatesgates...still...gates...wind...cold...gatesgates...

Today's Gates post covers what will happen to the Gates after February 28. Courtesy of Newsday, the relevant article includes such grand quotes as "The aluminum corners and base sleeves are to be recycled into such products as gutters and aluminum sheeting" and "The ripstop nylon curtains are to revert to nylon thread." However, NB took the step of running the article through the Gates-to-English online translator, and basically New Yorkers are to pretend not to see tons of orange crap being dumped in the East River on March 1.

Good night, Baltimore.

Word has it that this...



...has the inside track on playing Edna Turnblad in the upcoming movie musical of the musical of the movie of Hairspray. Courtesy of Ellen Travolta, we have a general idea of what this would look like...

Vatican on High Alert®.

Told you not to fuck with mah bird.

K.I.T.!

Usually we don't post now because we're drinking/drunk/passed out, but "American Idol" reminded us again tonight why it's television heroin. So...

Congratulations to...



Melinda Lira, for having a silent nervous breakdown onstage. You made us feel not so alone, girl! Holla!

...and...



Christina Ricci Sarah Mather, for 1)having to sing "Get Ready (Here I Come)" after being given the gong and 2)doing so in the most uncomfortably detached manner ever captured on video. Girl, you made millions of people feel good about their shitty lives for two minutes! You go, girl! Stay sweet over the summer! Call me! XOXO!

The jury has reached a jury.

The 12 jurors for the upcoming Michael Jackson trial have been selected. No names have been released, but NB has gotten a hold of some leaked pictures. Here they are for your exclusive enjoyment!

Pope that coochie.

According to CNN, reporting on the Pope's new novel:



Stupid asshole. All marriage is evil. Not just the gay kind. And because it seems like you want to fight, how do you like my attack bird? Don't fuck with my bird, bitch.

You'll never eat in this town again.

Bon appetit, New Yorkers! Here's the site where you can find the official New York City Department of Health and Mental Hygiene report on your favorite restaurants in the five boroughs. Luckily, we usually just drink, so there's no...wait...mental hygiene? What the hell does that mean? Damn you, Giuliani!

Madge gets tired of hiring babysitters.

Courtesy of ThisIsLondon...

Funny, it looks gay.

Apparently "American Idol"'s "jock geek" Anthony Fedorov has a girlfriend, as seen here.



However, he throws us a curve by taking one of the gayest pictures ever, here.