By Steve Weinstein
By Devon Maloney
By Tessa Stuart
By Alison Flowers
By Albert Samaha
By Jesse Jarnow
By Eric Tsetsi
By Raillan Brooks
The hottest buffet was served at a dinner for The Visitor, a well-meaning misfire that aims to show us that immigrants are A-OK! In fact, they probably served us the buffet. Alas, the film only proves that they're banality-spouting stick figures who primarily exist to shake up an equally blah white man's life and get him to let loose on some djembe drums (if not a triangle). Let's keep them out!
The totally hawt book I'm beating the drum for is The Secret Life of Siegfried and Roy, a dirtfest about the frozen-faced twosome whose biggest trick of all was keeping their homosexuality hidden from Middle America as if hiding a gerbil in a hat. Among the book's revelations, Siegfried once "swooned over a handsome and very young magician named Darren Romeo." Then again, he swooned over a lot of people. The authors contend: "Of the two, Siegfried had the bigger reputation for promiscuity. The staff joke was that he'd screw a doorknob if he thought it might respond." Siegfried even shockingly admitted he's slept with women, "which makes the 'baby Siegfried' (or 'Siegfrieda') rumor possible." If there is a child, I bet it looks almost as young as Siggy.
But wait, here's the best passage: "[Co-author] Jimmy Lavery discovered what a glory hole was when Roy Horn approached him one day and handed him a brass token . . . Roy told Jimmy he'd found the token in his car and figured Siegfried had dropped it there." It turned out to be a token that fit perfectly into a coin-operated glory hole! And I'm shocked—that Siegfried hadn't used it!
The most magical reality show is still National Geographic Channel's Dog Whisperer, but for me, the problem is that there just aren't that many different problems dogs can have. How many times can you sit through "The dog's rambunctious energy is proving to be a threat to the neighbors"? And while I'm hopelessly addicted to truTV's Forensic Files, all that painstaking evidence-gathering usually leads to the same unshocking conclusion: The husband who was cheating on the wife and just took out an insurance policy on her turns out to be the one who killed her!
The killer dessert place is still supposed to be Pinkberry, which I find sleekly nightclub-loungey, with ditsy but agreeable help. But while the green-tea and coffee-flavored "yogurt-styled" stuff they serve is self-evident, what, pray tell, is in the "original" flavored one? The shit is white, so that's no help whatsoever. It tastes vaguely lemony, but it's also mildly sour, like crème that's been left on the table a little too long, with a teensy hint of metal sprinkled in. Call me crazy, but I need a little more detailed description than "original" to know exactly what faux-flavor I'm pretending to enjoy. Until that happens, Pinkberry will sit in limbo on my "What?" list.