What doesn't happen in a movie is often as important as what does. And there's a certain type of scene I was waiting for in The Heat.

It never came. And that was a great thing.

I'll explain. The Heat, opening today, comes from director Paul Feig (Bridesmaids) and filmed in Boston last summer. Its premise pairs an uptight, by-the-books FBI agent, Sarah, (Sandra Bullock) with a loudmouth, loose cannon Boston police detective, Shannon (Melissa McCarthy). Sarah wears her bulletproof vest over impeccably laundered suits; Shannon keeps a weeks-old sandwich in her fridge as a midnight snack. Sarah can recite legal procedure like the alphabet and owns the brain of a CSI script fact-checker; Shannon is pure passion and gut instinct, barking and strong arming her way around. And now they're going to have to work together? Why, these gals couldn't be more different! SHEEPISH FACEPALM!

So here's what I thought would happen. Sarah is yin and Shannon is yang, and in movies like this, there's supposed to be a telling scene where they stumble over their respective Achilles' heels: Shannon's rashness blows the big case and Sarah's rigidity inadvertently betrays a best friend or something. And in that expected moment, yin learns she needs a little more yang while yang learns she needs a little more yin. Then, ta-da! It's the Goldilocks Effect: they re-calibrate their personalities to be not too hot, not too cold, just right ladies! In female-focused movies, this is typically accompanied by some insinuated mansplaining about what it means to be a whole woman, not just some harpy careerist or disheveled oaf who doesn't even care 'bout lipgloss much.

But this scene never happens. The personal evolution is purely unidirectional. Sarah comes to realize she should crib more from Shannon's work style: hilariously badass, butch, and take-no-prisoners. (Unless it's to smack their forehead on the interrogation table and deliver an outstandingly funny, Katie Dippold-scripted insult.) Sure, Sarah is cool, collected, brilliant and eminently qualified for Everything: "the best," her boss reminds her. But she botches promotions and pushes away her FBI colleagues, who find her frustrating and unlikable. (Even her cat ran away.) It's obvious that she cares too much what others think of her, because every time she over-talks about her experience or diagrams her decisions like an intellectual autopsy, it comes across like an apology: It's not that I'm a natural, I just memorize a lot of things! It's a situation that may be relatable to a lot of professional women who have felt like they need to undermine their exceptionalness to be "likable," and rely strictly on patience and quiet competence to lift them to the top. (OW! Was that a glass ceiling?)

"Throwback Thursday." It's all over Twitter and Facebook: a chance to dust off old Polaroids (or just run your digital photos through a vintage-y Instagram filter) and show off the Ghosts of Bad Hairstyles Past. Ok. I dig. So I thought, why not bring that concept to "Media Remix" each week? The entertainment world is littered with pop culture artifacts that give telling glimpses at "where we were" (as a culture, I mean) at any given time. Just like your old junior high snapshots are evidence of your "I'm angry at mom!" or "I'm angry at Society!" or "I'm soooo into the Smashing Pumpkins right now" phase. AH, THE MOMENTS THAT SHAPED US.

Yesterday's big headlines were about the Supreme Court's repeal of the Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA), which means same-sex couples legally married in their home state will also have their relationship (and the legal entitlements associated with it) recognized by the federal government. The Supreme Court also dismissed a case relative to California's Prop 8, allowing same-sex marriage to resume in the Golden State. Shorter version: it's 2013, can we stop arguing about this?

But years before DOMA, TV was already reflecting evolving attitudes toward the issue. So, what prime-time show has the distinction of showing TV's first gay wedding? That would be the Fox sitcom Roc, with its episode "Can't Help Loving That Man" in October 1991.

Holy... That opening credits sequence looked like my every pair of parachute pants and package of sidewalk chalk exploded at once. Heart. I used to love this show, though I completely forgot it existed until right about now. In its Very Special Episode, titular everyman Roc (played by Charles S. Dutton) discovers his uncle is gay and partnered. After learning and growing, the family hosts a ceremony for the couple at their home. What shows came next?

Welcome back from the weekend, Boston. Hope yours was a great one. I spent mine checking out my hometown drive-in to see Man of Steel (boo!) and World War Z (ooh!). And last night I saw my favorite prototype-hipsters, The B-52s, at Bank of America Pavilion. 'Twas a sweet, breezy summer night for some "Rock Lobster." Also for frozen margaritas that glowed an unnatural shade of green, and yellow mustard sandwiches served with a side of hot dog. Yesss. How'd you spend yours?

Whatever you did this weekend, it was hard to avoid the main entertainment world story that saturated social media like a tub of melted butter on a biscuit, baby doll: Paula Deen. The celebrity chef is seeing her one-woman-empire crumble after accusations of racist comments, revealed through a lawsuit filed by a former employee. Deen admitted to telling certain jokes and using inflammatory racial language in a recorded deposition, so there's no longer much debate over whether the allegations are true. Now the question is: is she sincerely sorry in the painfully awkward apology videos Deen released on Friday, after skipping a Today Show interview due to stress-induced illness? (She rescheduled her interview for this Wednesday.) And was the Food Network right to decide, as it announced Friday afternoon, that it would not renew Deen's contract when it expires at the end of June? (Shorter: She's fired.) There's also the distinct possibility she'll lose her cookware partnership with QVC; more on that at "Pop Radar."

There are two other shorter apology videos Deen released on Friday, but there's only so much schadenfreude one blog post can handle.

She does certainly seem very distraught, like she's one angry YouTube comment away from biting into a pan of arsenic- and shrapnel-laced muffins baking in the oven. Of course, whether she's sorry about her actions or the fact that it's costing her a career remains open to interpretation. I have mine, but I'll save it for later. For now I want to throw it out there to you hungry media-pundit wolves: what do you think about Deen's comments and the reaction to them?

Great relationships are about learning from one another. Like how to appreciate a new type of music, understand a new sport, or maybe make a killer souffle. Unless you're Rihanna and on-again, off-again (ex?-) boyfriend Chris Brown. In that case, I guess, you teach each other that when you get really frustrated with someone, you should probably just hit them.

According to reports, that's what Rihanna did last night during a concert in the UK. When an overzealous fan refused to let go of her arm, she whacked him (or her, it's unclear) with a microphone. And I'm talking a full-on, puts-some-bicep-in-that SMACK. The pop star forgot we live in 2013, when everyone has a phone with video capabilities.

You can hear someone in the crowd screaming, "Oh my God!" afterward. Rihanna, you'll notice, storms away immediately without continuing down the fan line. I'm sure she knows immediately, that was a horrible thing to do bad PR move.

How disappointing. As if you haven't already suffered enough by being subjected to a Rihanna concert, where she typically makes you wait three hours before phoning in her performance with, as this Boston.com review from last month describes, a smug and listless sleepwalk set to karaoke tracks, she has the audacity to smack an over-enthusiastic fan. Even when she's invited contact with one of those queenly "now-let's-shake-hands-with-the-serfs" strolls by the stage.

Cue: the predictable defense from fans. Plenty of die-hards will jump to her defense, just like Chris Brown "stans" did to his. Cause that's normal. So let me cut you off at the pass: no, I don't know what it's like to be famous and have people invade your personal space, but I do know that if this is how you react, being famous probably isn't the profession for you. Especially when you make a point to get physical with fans, and you're being trailed by a big, burly bouncer whose job it is to intervene if stuff truly gets out of hand.

A few other points.

1) You don't hit people.
2) You don't hit people who pay to see you perform.
3) You don't hit people who reward your marginal talent with millions of dollars.
4) You don't hit people.

The end.

At Sunday night's Miss USA pageant, Miss Utah Marissa Powell, who will never Google her own name again, gave the latest flubbed response to an "interview" question. (These seem to have become more common ever since YouTube was invented.) The question, posed by Real Housewife and brave feminist crusader NeNe Leakes, was: "A recent report shows that in 40 percent of American families with children, women are the primary earners, yet they continue to earn less than men. What does this say about society?" Here's Powell's response:

“I think we can relate this back to education, and how we are continuing to try to strive to figure out how to create jobs right now. That is the biggest problem. And I think especially the men are seen as the leaders of this, and so we need to try to figure out how to create education better so that we can solve this problem.” - Miss Utah Marissa Powell, who can we agree is foxy in a vicious kind of way? She sort of resembles Megan Fox, if Megan Fox ate Megan Fox.

There's a lot of commentary about this. I think my favorite response was this halting defense from Linda Holmes, who reminds us these questions are moronic to begin with, and that the only "correct" answer would be something like: "That's an unfocused question about a complex social issue that can't be properly explained within the time constraints of a verbal tweet, especially while I'm unnaturally self-conscious about whether I seem likable and if my gums are showing." That honesty doesn't get you Miss Congeniality. But I won't talk about whether she could have given a smarter, more articulate answer. She could have. Duh.

But if there’s one thing women don’t need, it’s people assuming that they must be idiots if they’re pretty. Miss Utah may not have helped their case, but neither are many people laughing at her. Not if they're laughing, as I'm coming to sense many are, out of sadistic satisfaction that an attractive and/or looks-conscious woman was "caught out," with some kind of coulda-seen-this-coming predictability, as being dim.

Ironically, many armchair hecklers fancy themselves feminists because, hey, they think beauty pageants are bad. Now, there’s a whole separate conversation to be had about whether these shows are outmoded and dehumanizing. There’s certainly an argument to be made that contests like Miss USA are dog shows with baton twirling: evaluating actual humans by the luster of their coat, whiteness of their teeth, and refinement of their skeletal structure as though they are prized Collies. I have complicated feelings about them, and I certainly think you can have meaningful, important debates about whether they are on some level anti-woman.

But it’s not exactly pro-woman to relish, like it's some revenge-on-the-cheerleaders dream come true, being proven “correct” that some beautiful women are not very bright. (Guess what? Neither are some unattractive women, attractive men, and unattractive men.) I’m not saying, don’t laugh. Laugh. I did. It’s funny to watch anyone vomit a word jumble of refrigerator magnet poetry blended with the sleepy-time murmurings of someone running for public office.

I’m just saying, don’t get on a high horse about the chauvinism of beauty pageants if you’re also primarily getting your hoots from the tired stereotype that when it comes to women, pretty must mean dumb. That’s not progressivism. That’s also sexist, and not even self-aware.

Like, such as the Iraq. World peace.

Thank you.

#NeverForget

When I was growing up, my brother had a big, framed Garfield illustration in his bedroom. He was covered in the contents of an exploded toothpaste tube - Garfield, that is, not my brother - and wearing a grouchy expression of "Harumph!" Across the illustration was written: "I Hate Mondays." Every seventh day, that's basically how I experience the morning. Well, until I finish my first cup of coffee. Then my tail's wagging again.

But for my fellow grouchy Garfields out there, I thought it might it be nice to ease into the workweek with a new little tradition. Hopefully you spent the weekend far, far away from a computer: beaching, hiking, horseback riding, hang gliding, or another favorite activity often featured in commercials for feminine hygiene products and male enhancement formulas. So I figured I'd pull together a quick roundup of Friday-through-Sunday entertainment world highlights. We'll call it, "While You Were Weekending" - at least, until I come up with something better.

The Rolling Stones rocked Boston.
On Friday night, Jagger and Co. played the final Boston date of their 50 & Counting... tour. Shout-out to the Boston University Marsh Chapel Choir (including my bud Graham Wright, founder of the Opus Affair, an awesome social group for people who like booze and art), which accompanied the Stones on "You Can't Always Get What You Want." Also, shout-out to modern technology for allowing a YouTube user to achieve this super clear documentation.

Disclaimer: this video is actually from Wednesday's Boston show, but it was the clearest version I could find. And I'm pretty sure that, after 45 years, they didn't decide to change the lyrics on Friday.

People like Melissa McCarthy. But they probably don't want to be reminded what she looks like.

That's not my philosophy. But that seems to be the thought process that guided the disastrous design of movie posters for The Heat, which opens June 28. Ever since Bridesmaids, McCarthy has emerged as pop culture's well-liked, go-to Big Girl for Laffs. And her popularity is presumably why she was picked to star in this buddy cop comedy, which filmed in Boston last summer, opposite the conventionally svelte Sandra Bullock. But I guess filmmakers got nervous you'd take one more look at that big, round face of hers and go screaming to see a different movie, like Skinny Girls Eating Salad. Because McCarthy is virtually unrecognizable on the US and UK movie posters. Her face and neck have been slimmed to the point where she doesn't even look like herself. Apparently, if she's plus-size, it is less desirable to have a highly recognizable comic actress on your movie poster than a half-moon with eyes floating on a bed of Charles Manson hair. Got it.

The US (left) and UK (right) posters for "The Heat."

It's not exactly uncommon for Hollywood or Madison Avenue to put famous women on a Photoshop Diet. Just the other week, Beyonce gave the bizness to H&M, insisting that the retailer use her full, bootylicious body in its summer swimsuit campaign. And of course, there's always plenty of dialogue out there about the appropriateness (or not) of such dramatic touch-ups. Does it cultivate unrealistic images of beauty for women to live up to? Is it dishonest? Is it sexist? Generally speaking, I tend to answer "yes" to these. I mean, do you think anyone working on the marketing campaign for Tommy Boy asked if they should give Chris Farley a tummy tuck, so he'd look more petite alongside David Spade?

This situation is extra odd, though, since McCarthy's larger body type, unique by silver screen standards, is part of her appeal and what makes her distinct.

What do you think, did The Heat misfire with its poster?

When Michael Jackson died in 2009, I thought it might signal a turning point. For the first time in twenty years, conversations about MJ were actually focusing on his talent. A generation that only knew him as a Halloween costume and/or ethereal, Casper-like Pied Piper learned that he was, at one point, a groundbreaking musician and live entertainer. I dare say there was almost a whiff of guilt in the air, at least among entertainment writers and pop culture pundits: Sure, he was weird, but we probably didn't help. Too bad he wound up hiding his gifts from the world. After a decade spent embracing new, crueler ways of reveling in celebrity downfalls, either goading stars toward self-destruction with exceptional bloodlust (Britney Spears) or tacitly rewarding them for it until they reached an early grave (Anna Nicole Smith), it actually felt good to be talking well of someone's legitimate talent, whatever specters of scandal loomed nearby. Maybe the Era of Mean was becoming passe.

Nope. This week, Jackson's 15-year old daughter was rushed to the hospital after attempting suicide, her mother confirmed. It's too soon to know why she did it, but it is quickly becoming apparent that Paris Jackson was dealing with a slew of issues, including malicious cyber-bullying often aimed at her over her father. She's destined to inherit plenty of her dad's money, but it seems as a teenager she's inherited his problems too.

Just a smattering of the loving and affectionate message tweeted to Paris, both before and after her suicide attempt.

Just to be clear, it's not important (to this conversation, that is) whether you believe that Michael Jackson spent the early '90s playing video games or spin the bottle with Macauley Culkin. Whether or not his inappropriately intimate relationships with kids ever became abusive is a separate discussion. The more relevant question is: why would people so outraged at the notion of child abuse take to Twitter to abuse a child?

The irony is, this online animosity is levied at someone who, despite sharing DNA with one of history's bona fide global superstars, seems pretty eager to come across as a normal teenage girl. (She gets excited over the end of school, she shows off new haircuts, she communicates her emotions via song lyrics.) On the other side of the Twitter-verse you have someone like Amanda Bynes, whose outrageousness is exalted by her fans. It's sad to think Paris might be more popular with her peers if she only stopped trying to stay well-adjusted.

This weekend viewers and critics fell head over heels for Michael Douglas and Matt Damon as make-believe lovers. But what if their gay romance had been portrayed by actual gay actors? Would it be a different, less-seen story?

Here's the deal: the ratings are in, and the much buzzed-about Liberace movie Behind the Candelabra is a big winner. The biopic nabbed 2.4 million viewers, HBO's highest ratings for an original movie in nearly a decade. It's not entirely surprising. You had A-list actors doing plenty of promo. You had a juicy story: a look at the loving but difficult relationship between a dramatic showman and his younger lover. And the Twitter-verse was tiring of talking about the new Daft Punk album, so the options were basically to gorge on the new Netflix-produced season of Arrested Development or watch Candelabra and come up with clever hashtags like #GoodWillManhunting. (I just made that up! RT IF U LIKEY!)

The success must have been vindicating for director Steven Soderbegh, who took his blockbuster-made cast to HBO after movie studios balked that the film was "too gay." The record-setting ratings (and even a cursory glance at social media) confirm that lots of straight eyeballs wanted to see the flick - so "too gay" it was not. But could it have been?

Watching noted heterosexuals Michael Douglas and Matt Damon playact being a couple is one thing. But what if these gay roles were played by actors who are actually gay? Would 2 million people still be willing to watch them smooch? That seems worth asking, before we become too self-congratulatory about living in an age where a movie like Candelabra can be a success.

Not to digress by a couple decades, but I somehow found myself reminded of a scene from the '80s movie Heathers, which starred Winona Ryder and Christian Slater as a Bonnie & Clyde-esque high school couple. (Life would be grand if all roads led back to that movie.) They accidentally kill two sexist football jocks, then stage it to look like a double-suicide brought on by tortured gay love. At the funeral, a mourning father comically wails, "I love my dead gay son!"

Christian Slater's character snickers to Winona's: "Wonder how he'd react if his son had a limp wrist with a pulse?"

For a brand accused of bullying, Abercrombie & Fitch took a lot of punches over the last week. And I don't mean the kind that land on your shoulder, bro, and are followed by somebody passing you a cold brewski while a Dave Matthews Band fiddle solo plays on the frat living room's stereo. ("It's a boss system, man. Graduation present. My dad owned a Tweeter.")

Here's the skinny (ZING!): a 2006 Salon interview was recently excavated in which Abercombie CEO-slash-Catman Mike Jeffries seemed to suggest that the reason his clothing stores don't carry XL- and XXL-sized women's clothing is because larger gals don't fit into the "cool kid" image he wants his brand to cultivate. (This during the same week that Abercrombie became only the second American company to sign on to a landmark factory safety plan in Bangladesh. Bummer, said A&F's PR department.) The social media consensus was swift and immediate, positing a two-point backlash. One, that Jeffries is a shallow, gross jerk. Two, that Abercrombie is discriminatory.

On the first matter, I concur. On the second, at the risk of inviting hate-tweets, I don't.

First, feast your eyes on this viral video by Greg Karber, Internet Guy. In response to Jeffries' remarks, and reports that Abercrombie disposes of unsold clothes rather than donate them to the needy, Karber passes out secondhand A&F threads on Skid Row. He dubs it a #FitchTheHomeless campaign, and encourages viewers to do the same.

This is the kind of misguided, kneejerk response video that has become infuriatingly common to scandals du jour. In his cavalierly launched quest to seize online infamy as an enlightened millennial who stands against marginalizing people, Karber manages to marginalize people: homeless people. His way of sticking it to the A&F Establishment is to incense Jeffries by associating his brand with the homeless, which actually cops to the idea that the homeless are sullying and embarrassing. The video misdirects us with tinkly piano music of the I-Am-Beautiful-No-Matter-What-They-Saaaay variety. But take it out, and you're left with a visual WAH-WAH horn. Karber thumbs his nose at square-jawed A&F preps, but his poor people-as-props exploitation bespeaks a mentality of similar privilege and even less self-awareness. (Karber has said he's glad the backlash to his video will "start a dialogue," which is Sanctimonious Hipster for, "I guess I didn't think of it that way.")

Sigh. They grow up so fast.

It seems like just yesterday that actress Amanda Bynes was cheek-pinching cuteness personified as the star of All That and The Amanda Show, Nickelodeon sketch comedy series that were popular with millennial tweens.

Then in late March, only a couple months after emerging from semi-retirement, she fired the tweet heard round the world: "I want @drake to murder my vagina." From that point on, it's been a 90-day spiral (seemingly) downward through concentric circles of young Hollywood hell. Her Twitter account has become the C-SPAN of erratic behavior. Everything happening in real time.

But stuff got really real last night. After Bynes tweeted topless pics looking strung-out in a bathroom, Jonathan Jaxson, her friend and a Hollywood publicist, announced via Twitter that he had spoken to her on the phone. That she was drunk and in self-harm mode. That he had called the NYPD to check on her. (Some of his tweets have since been deleted.)

Bynes became angry, denying that she received a police visit and lashing out at former co-star Jenny McCarthy, who has been vocal about her concern for the younger actress.

Jenny McCarthy: "Police are at @AmandaBynes house. I hope they get her help. Enough of this circus. She needs help."

Amanda Bynes: "@JennyMcCarthy you're ugly! Police weren't at my house old lady! Shut the f--k up!"

"@jennymccarthy I need help? What are u talking about? Aren't u 50 years old? I'm 27, u look 80 compared to me! Why are you talking about me?"

Over the last month and a half, Bynes has also been tweeting allusions to an eating disorder, demanding - USUALLY IN ALL CAPS - that tabloids only publish the flattering photos she provides, threatening to sue same tabloids over various "lies!," shaving her head (okay, just one side), macking on Drake some more, and modeling via selfie photos her new look. Imagine a backup dancer from a Sisqo video started gargling with Drano and turning tricks by the overpass behind a K-Mart. Add eyelash extensions. Ta-da.

The whole affair has led to comparisons with Britney Spears' similar saga. It wasn't that long ago when Spears, originally a squeaky-clean Mouseketeer (subsequently molded, perhaps to greater detriment than we realized at the time, into a panting Lolita pop star), was shaving her head. And attacking paparazzi with an umbrella. And stumbling, catatonic, through a VMA performance. And getting wheeled out of her home on a gurney after a several-hours standoff with cops.

The difference is that in 2007, only early adopters were on Twitter - even among celebrities. So while the broadcasting of Britney's breakdown was jarring in its invasiveness, it was still filtered to some degree by the limits of traditional media; we saw only what the paparazzi did, when the tabloids allowed. But through Twitter, Bynes has removed the middleman. She's giving unrestricted, backstage access to the demons in her head. She has her smartphone in one hand and the steering wheel in the other.

We're not rubbernecking at this accident. We're being invited, by a crash victim with a gaping head wound, to please, please watch her bleed.

Somehow, that feels even more profoundly disturbing. And you have to ask: do we have a responsibility? To deny her, for her own good, the attention she's so desperately seeking? After all, she seems more popular than ever right now. Sure, she's lost some disenchanted All That viewers, but there a growing cult of fans that have emerged because of - not in spite of - her recent antics. They tell her she's gorgeous. They demand new selfies. She does something crazy. They call her "queen." She retweets them.

In fact, there's a vocal minority that thinks it's all premeditated kookiness. That Bynes is only crazy like a fox, and actually enacting a Hollywood starlet's version of performance art: digital age-style. Social media is her soapbox and 953,000 (and growing) followers are the curious passerby standing agape on the street corner, watching as Nickelodeon's answer to Karen Finley stands there bathing in honey, or smashing eggs with a hammer over a soundtrack of spoken word poetry - or, you know, taking selfies to show off her new cheek piercings. Whatever.

An act. Hey, why not? Remember when Joaquin Phoenix faked a midlife crisis to promote his movie, I'm Still Here, about having a midlife crisis? (Which was actually a mockumentary about, basically, how easily duped we all are.)

Is this supposed to be Bynes' version? Commentary on obsessions with sex, body image and tabloid culture, coming from some crafty, self-aware starlet? Part of me laughs, and thinks that's ridiculous: "Amanda Bynes. Performance artist. Riiiight." Then I stop laughing. Well, why not? What the hell do I know about Amanda Bynes?

Aside from, by now, more than I ever needed to.

And there you have it. Now I know about her. Now I'm talking about her. That's certainly her point.

But her motivation? That's more mysterious. And whether it's illness, addiction, fame whoring or commentary, I suspect it would require more than 140 characters for her to explain it.

As the coverage of NBA player Jason Collins has shown, reactions to coming out stories are no longer (necessarily) full of tears, bile, and/or venom. Sure, Collins has received occasional gay name-calling and stirred up predictable anxiety about locker room politics: that quirky, tummy-twitching little nervousness born of internalized homo-eroticism. (Inserted: Truth.) But for the most part he's been lauded for breaking down a barrier of silence and shame in the sports world, America's game preserve of masculinity.

Of course, the idea that male gayness should be immediately conflated with femininity is a uniquely modern notion anyway. I doubt Spartan warriors would have taken kindly to Drag Race-esque suggestions to "Sissy that walk, hunty!" (Although wouldn't 300 have been way better if the Spartans and Persians settled the war by lip syncing... for... their... liiiiiiives?) But that's a subject for another day.

Point is, telling people you're gay in 2013 doesn't always result in the type of angst and turmoil depicted in 1950s melodramas inspired by the work of Tennessee Williams. ("You're a - a queer sort?" GASPS, CLUTCHES PEARLS.) That's great. But can tolerance, when misguided, go so far that it inadvertently becomes insulting? Can overenthusiastic acceptance jump the proverbial shark and become patronizing? Those are the questions asked by G.B.F. (Gay Best Friend), a new comedy flick screening at the Museum of Fine Arts on Friday as part of the Boston LGBT Film Festival.

Synopsis: Gay teen Tanner comes out to his totally-hip-with-it mom (Will & Grace alum Megan Mullally) and high school classmates. He immediately becomes the Most Popular Boy at Skewl, where all the girls compete for the cache of super-fabulous coolness that comes with having a real-life G.B.F. at your side! ("Our very own homosexual!" Squeal!) Tanner even finds himself subjected to a 'mo makeover at their hands, since he disappointingly, "doesn't even sound like the ones on Bravo."

LOL :-(

Just to be clear, the open (if condescending) arms that await Tanner does not represent the experience of all, or even most, gay teenagers. There's a reason why certain statistics show that LGBT youth are up to four times more likely to attempt suicide than their heterosexual peers, and are three times more likely to report feeling unsafe at school. (And yes, being harassed because you're gay is different than being harassed for other reasons - which, at the risk of shilling my own writing, I attempt to explain here.)

But lawd, there's no doubt that a subset of young women exists that views gay pals in strictly self-serving terms like "shopping partner!" and "my bestest girlfriend - but better." To these Debra Messing in the Makings, sweet though their intentions may be, it's not always about wanting a friend with his own rounded identity. It's about wanting an accessory that, like a designer belt, makes them look fashionable by association. It's about wanting a lapdog to fawn over. It's about wanting an on-call therapist and sycophant. ("My G.B.F. is just waiting to come out of the closet and tell me how fierce I am!" yelps JoJo in the film trailer.)

It's refreshing to see a flick take that condescension to task.

G.B.F. director Darren Stein is the guy behind Jawbreakers, an undeservedly overlooked '90s teen comedy about praying mantis mean girls. Stein had said that the dark comedy and high camp of Jawbreakers was partly inspired by the '80s high school classic Heathers, but it seems like G.B.F. might be a closer thematic cousin: in both films, a previously ignoble condition (in Heathers it's teen depression) suddenly becomes a badge of trendiness.

The rightful celebration of Collins' coming-out aside, it'll be nice when being gay is a matter of ordinariness, too.

Words I never thought I'd say: I'm starting to feel bad for Kim Kardashian.

First she got pregnant, and tabloids - violating a social contract dictating that we don't make expectant mothers feel bad about their bodies, but maybe that's just me - started depicting her as a Lovecraftian devourer of worlds, inhaling all planets that come within the grasp of her bedazzled, faux alligator-skin tentacles. (Available now at DASH!) The woman is growing a new human being inside her, yet she's treated like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Woman of Beverly Hills, toppling over taco trucks as she feeds the insatiable demon-child within. Seriously, world. Shut up.

Now Ray J, a rapper whose name is almost always preceded by the phrase "singer Brandy's little brother" (a qualifier that tells you a lot about his level of fame), has released a new single. Titled "I Hit it First," this elegant, autobiographical work of art references Ray J's most notable role to date: as Kim Kardashian's "co-star" in the sex tape that rocketed her to fame, and rocketed him to a slightly longer Wikipedia entry. Ray J is clearly concerned that you forgot he was in that tape. Ray J is clearly concerned you forgot about him. Ray J was right.

The grossest part? Everyone is talking about this track as though Kanye West, Kim's current boyfriend and baby-daddy, is the one who should be offended. Not Kim, I guess. Even though she's the one discussed like she's a bong that got passed around the college dorm room.

Though the single artwork appears to be a highly pixelized version of a well-known photo of Kim on the beach, Ray J is playing it kinda coy about who the song is really about. But the lyrics make it clear that this is basically three minutes of Ray J screaming "FIRST!" in the comments section of Kim Kardashian's sexual history. (Which is, uh, a pretty rosy delusion you've got going on there, tiger.)

Bitten by the “spring cleaning” bug, I found myself exploring the dustier corners of my cable’s On Demand menu this weekend. (Way more fun than a closet-cleanse.) And lo and behold, I unearthed something pretty spectacular to share.

When you have copious time to kill, check out The ‘80s: The Decade That Made Us, a six-part series from the National Geographic Channel. If you love looking at pop culture through a political lens – and you’re reading this blog, so I hope you do – then this is a gold mine stuffed with leg warmers, shoulder pads, and brick-sized cell phones. But it’s not one of those I Love the ‘80s-type specials found on VH1, where b-list comedians just narrate nostalgia-inducing music videos. (Uh, thanks for the intellectual closed captioning, guys.) The ‘80s: The Decade That Made Us not only does a great job narrowing down some of the watershed moments in politics, tech, economics and entertainment, but it offers up some interesting perspectives on how those events shaped our current cultural climate.

Yes, we are far enough removed from the ‘80s that we can now observe the lasting effects of that decade's entertainment milestones – which, funny enough, often seemed insignificant at the time. I jotted down eight observations featured in The ‘80s that jumped out at me. (Find more about the full series, including the episode schedule, here.)

#1. Run-D.M.C. and Aerosmith establish racial harmony.
Okay, we're still working on this. But musically we've come a long way, and this collaboration played a part. In the early- and mid-80s, rap music was associated almost exclusively with urban black youth and struggled to find broader support. Then in 1986, Run-D.M.C. covered Aerosmith's '75 hit "Walk This Way." By layering rapid-fire rhymes over Joe Perry's unmistakable guitar lick, and with an assist from Steven Tyler's trademark wails, they created a hit that was more successful than the original - and made rap seem accessible to suburbanites. The music video shows the bands literally tearing down walls between rock and rap, "white" and "black" music: Aerosmith peers its head into Run-D.M.C.'s underground recording studio, and Run-D.M.C. storms Aerosmith's arena concert full of fist-pumping white kids. Makes you wanna buy the world a (New) Coke.

It was only Monday. But by now you have already been inundated with opinions. You have been deluged with pontification on the nature of tragedy. You have been scolded with commentary on the right and wrong way to grieve. You're still just trying to make sense of it all. Me too.

Why did it happen? What can we do? Where is this world going? I don't know that I can add any wisdom to the conversations that surround those questions.

But media, images, photographs, video. These are things that I can at least try to talk about, and try to make sense of. And as TV crews and news reporters descend on us, telling the world what has happened and sharing with it a glimpse of Boston - its streets, its people, its character - I thought it was worth taking a moment to talk about how I hope others will see us. And how I hope we will continue to see ourselves.

Many commentators have been unable to resist the temptation to see Boston only through a particular lens: one that makes us look a lot like The Departed or The Town. There has been a lot of talk about how Boston is a tough and gritty city. That we're scrappy fighters. That we're resilient. That we're unafraid of anyone who tries to compromise our identity, and unwilling to accept any affront on our home.

This is true. All of it.

But it's only part of who we are. And that's a good thing. Because right now, tough is not enough.

If you're a cable news reporter from out of state, or even a fellow New Englander with great affection for Boston but little regular exposure to its daily heartbeat, it would be easy to correlate the city with a one-note character generated by Hollywood. The type played by Ben Affleck, maybe. Or a Wahlberg.

After all, media images do create personalities out of cities. They can turn a metropolis into a stock character: Portland becomes a hipster college kid, Vegas a permanent bachelor, New York a sassy best friend who still manages to splurge on designer clothes with her entry-level salary. But these are simplifications: constructs we consume. Partly reality, but mainly media-cultivated shorthand for some collective urban identity.

So if, when waxing sentimental about Boston, your main point of reference is Gone Baby Gone, late-night sketch shows that goof on our attitudinal accent, or that cartoonish graphic of retaliatory sports mascots making the rounds on Facebook, you might have a narrow view of what makes Boston - well, Boston. You are identifying us through caricature, and overlooking ten thousand shades of our true nature.

Boston is a tough city. It is a lot of other things too: many things that don't lend as well to movies or memes, but are sources of incredible pride. Please know these things about us, to really know us at all.

We are a smart city. Our historic buildings reverberate with the lingering presence of young America's great thinkers, leaders, speakers. Our streets are lined with schools, some of the best universities in the world. We prize them. Communities are built around them. Beautiful minds are born here - if not in maternity wards, in classrooms. Students come, learn, create, leave, like tides. Their energy refreshes us, keeps us vital and bursting.

We are a committed city. All work is duty, and dedication is sacrosanct. Over the last two days we have rightly heralded the first responders who rushed toward billowing smoke and danger - not necessarily without fear, but certainly in spite of it - in order to aid victims. That they did so instinctively, unflinchingly, is certain. I know it. Because to Bostonians, the abdication of responsibility is not an option. Here loyalty to an ideal - of behavior, or of the way things "should" be - ranks second in importance only to fidelity to family.

We are a city with a tremendous sense of humor. Okay, that you know. And you're welcome.

We are a creative city. You don't see much of it in the movies, but Boston's tremendous respect for history has always been coupled with a great appreciation for art. We see beauty in the bricks of a well-preserved brownstone. Our orchestra soundtracks the Fourth of July, and our music clubs teem with talent. Yesterday, in the wake of the tragedy, two of Boston's major museums provided free admission: the Museum of Fine Arts, a palatial refuge, and the Institute of Contemporary Art, with its inspiring views of the harbor horizon. We craved their comfort and offer of escape. And annual Sox games aren't the only family tradition: just as parents buy their kids matching Sox caps during summer nights at Fenway, they dress them to the nines for "The Nutcracker" once Christmas comes.

We are a compassionate city. We show this often. Sometimes it makes us a political punching bag, a target for eye rolls about cultural liberalism. But it is also why, even at our most afraid, we opened our homes to perfect strangers by the thousands. If that makes us soft, we will never be embarrassed by it.

I could go on.

But my point is, we are more than tough - and we will need to be. This is not a movie. But it is a chance for the world to see Boston's true character. And we will need to call on every part of it.

Because healing is far, far ahead. But we will get there, one step after another. Through heartbreak. To the finish line.

I don't mean to brag, but sometimes when I travel it causes an international incident. Maybe you've heard, but there was this one time when I tried to get a too-big bottle of contact lens solution through security. It caused quite a kerfuffle. TMZ? Everywhere. I'd elaborate, but I'm trying to forget that era in my career. So if you'd like to learn more, visit my Wikipedia page. It's described under the subheading, "Artistic Legacy and Controversies."

This week, though, I was totally upstaged by two separate celebrity travel scandals. First Madonna went to Africa to build schools for the poor, was accused of being high-maintenance, and got into a war of words with the president of Malawi. Then Jay-Z and Beyonce went to Cuba on vacation, which upset people because the US government has imposed certain sanctions on travel to Cuba ever since the 2004 release of Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights. (Wait. That's why we're still not into them, right?)

Yesterday Jay-Z even released a new song, "Open Letter," defending the trip. But also suggesting that he got special "clearance" from President Obama, which the White House denies. (Note: naughty language ahead.)

The general media narrative can be summarized thusly: "HEADLINE: Rich and Famous People Are Self-Entitled and Think They Deserve Special Treatment. Be Reminded You are Ordinary." Fair? Not? Which star, if any, deserves criticism for refusing to stow their ego in an overhead compartment?

Dear Robin Thicke,

How are you? I hope you're having a good day. What are you up to? Are you in the recording studio, working on new music? (Is there a duet with your Duets co-judge Kelly Clarkson in our future? That would be swell.) Are you penning some slick new soul songs? Are you riding a bicycle built for two with Justin Timberlake in the French countryside? I hope so. Don't leave the baguette at the hotel this time.

Anyway, I'm sorry to meet you under these circumstances. Because, well - it's about to get a little awkward.

Here's the thing: I checked out the music video for your new single, "Blurred Lines." The Internet told me it was controversial, NSFW, and just banned by YouTube. So obviously, CLICK.

I guess you anticipated that reaction, because you simultaneously recorded this less-provocative version. (I can't post the uncensored one here, but grown-up viewers can watch the explicit, unclothed and non-work appropriate version elsewhere.)

Hmm. I see why the video was banned. The uncensored clip features you (alongside rapper/producers Pharrell and T.I.) frolicking in a bare studio with a bevy of nude female models. Not scantily clad, but nude - well, topless, and bouncing around in flesh-colored thongs. That's the whole shebang. There are some funny props (raise your hand if you're jealous of that banjo), and some jokey dance moves, and a whole lot of willya-get-a-loadda-dem-ta-tas pointing and mugging for the camera. And then at the end, a bunch of silver balloons spell out a bold declaration:

"Robin Thicke has a big [you-know.]."

Which leads me to the challenge I issue. Ready? Okay.

Let's see it.

Cue: the gulp heard round the world.

Hear ye, hear ye, Queen Bey. Your castle is showing some cracks.

Beyoncé is still working on her next album, but she recently dropped an anticipation-building "buzz track" on her website - "Bow Down" - that has some critics beseeching her highness to take her ego down a peg. The song is a jumbled whoosh of chopped and screwed beats over which Beyoncé pays tribute to her hometown of Houston - and to herself. "Bow down, [rhymes-with-witches]," she commands serf-like listeners over and over again.

This hasn't gone over well. The backlash has it that Beyoncé sounds cocky, arrogant, self-celebratory. So basically "Bow Down" sounds like every song that, say, her rapper husband has recorded (to great acclaim). Except Beyoncé has baby-making parts best suited for modesty and convents. Got it. Just wanted to make sure we're all on the same page.

First, take a listen:

It's not a very good song. But it got people talking. Keyshia Cole found it anti-woman. Wendy Williams thought it was an undignified ego trip. Brandy just doesn't like it.

Bear in mind that I'm no die-hard Beyoncé fan. I loved her in the Destiny's Child days ("Jumpin' Jumpin' = JAM), but her solo career? Meh. She's hugely talented, but has started to embody just how boring overstimulation can be. And that one National Anthem debacle aside, she tends to coast on toadying, too-generous reviews: like the boot-licking media afterglow of her sloppy, farcical Super Bowl halftime show. (There, I said it. You'll find my Twitter handle in the upper-right corner of your window; please use proper spelling in all death threats.)

But I have to defend Beyoncé over "Bow Down." For two reasons.

Just in case you missed her driving by your house wearing night vision goggles last night, which she wouldn't have done if you hadn't made her love you so much, Taylor Swift has popped up on the cover of the April issue of Vanity Fair. In her feature interview, Swift rebukes critics who say she is a serial dating crazy-pants who exploits all her ex-boyfriends by writing poison pen songs about them.

VALERY HACHE/AFP/Getty Images

In fact, she thinks that criticism is somewhat sexist. I never thought I'd say this, but Taylor Swift has a point.

From Vanity Fair:

"For a female to write about her feelings," she said, "and then be portrayed as some clingy, insane, desperate girlfriend in need of making you marry her and have kids with her, I think that's taking something that potentially should be celebrated - a woman writing about her feelings in a confessional way - that's taking it and turning it and twisting it into something that is frankly a little sexist."

This is mostly true. So Taylor Swift has dated every boy with his driver's license: so what? We don't generally tsk-tsk young male celebrities when they jump from starlet to starlet. And so she writes about her relationships: so what? Isn't every song on the radio some variation on a theme of love, sex, making up or breaking up?

Swift was also miffed that other famous ladies don't have her back. She told Vanity Fair she did not appreciate it when Golden Globes hosts Tina Fey and Amy Poehler ribbed her about her relationships from the stage:

When we were discussing that moment at the Golden Globes, and mean girls in general, Swift just smiled and said, "You know, Katie Couric is one of my favorite people because she said to me she had heard a quote that she loved" - from former secretary of state Madeleine Albright - "that said, 'There's a special place in hell for women who don't help other women.'"

Did Taylor Swift just passive aggressively tell Tina Fey and Amy Poehler to go to hell? Because Taylor Swift just got way more interesting. I mean, I don't entirely agree with her choice of target. (Tina Fey quoting Penthouse Forum would still be a greater feminist statement than Taylor Swift quoting Katie Couric quoting Madeleine Albright.) But I appreciate the general sentiment about sisters sticking together.

But as soon as Swift earns some minor You Go, Girl bonus points, she loses them by saying stuff like this:

If, like me, you were out on Saturday night doing something way cool that definitely did not involve watching videos on the Internet (WINK FACE), you may have missed that Madonna showed up to the Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation (GLAAD) Media Awards in New York City. She gave a two-minute speech honoring Anderson Cooper for his work as an out journalist. She preceded it with an eight-minute speech honoring herself for being the most awesomely supportive gay icon of all time, and if you dare disagree she will cut you with the Swiss Army knife hidden under the brim of her Smokey the Bear hat.

Oh yeah, that. Madonna was dressed as a Cub Scout to publicly repudiate the Boy Scouts of America’s increasingly maligned no-gays-allowed policy. It was the latest bold move in an ongoing war among singing stars for gay hearts, loyalties, and (enter cynicism) consumer dollars. In recent years the LGBT demographic community has become a coveted prize for those peddling pop music. But when determining the difference between "support" and "exploitation," there's important evidence to consider: history. Unlike bush-league performers who warble paint-by-numbers Message Songs about being born this way like perfect fireworks or whatever, Madonna has been sticking up for the gay community since the days when it was a potential career-killer. That earns her a pass – and good faith in her sincerity – even when she pulls off gimmicky PR stunts that would seem patronizing coming from others.

Synopsis: Madonna tells off-color jokes, banters with audience, blasts Boy Scouts, plugs concert, says “love thy neighbor,” hates Internet, plugs concert, hates bullying, hates Russia, toots own horn, says “Not to toot my own horn,” winks a lot, plugs concert, delivers thinly-veiled death threat to Lady Gaga, plugs concert, flirts with Anderson Cooper. Fini.

Madonna’s appearance at the GLAAD awards earned a lot of pre-press, for obvious reasons. Madonna speaking at a gala of affluent gay power brokers is sort of like the Queen Mother making a transatlantic voyage to address the colonies. It’s a special moment.

But the announcement of her appearance elicited backlash from a contingent of Lady Gaga fans, AKA “Little Monsters,” AKA the online fan world’s equivalent of a fringe militia. Totally not trying to be funny, they petitioned GLAAD to rescind its invitation on the grounds that Madonna does not care about gay people and probably tried to give them AIDS. Sigh.

The original petition (since removed from the website where it was posted):

Dear GLAAD:

It has come to the attention to Little Monsters everywhere that you are letting Madonna give an award to Anderson Cooper. Not only is this an insult to a true gay rights activist like Lady Gaga, but it insults every gay man and woman on this planet.

Madonna is one of the major reasons for AIDS. Back in the 1980’s, she encouraged gay men to have unprotected sex. While she certainly didn’t start the disease, she and her lack of morals helped it spread.

Please rethink your choice of having Madonna as a presenter. If you don’t, we Little Monsters will strike back in a way you won’t like.

Sincerely,
Lady Gaga’s Little Monsters

This letter is tragic. Not just because, ironically, it exhumes from the 1980s the homophobic insinuation that gay men’s sexual proclivities wrought the AIDS epidemic.

It’s tragic because it shows a lack of knowledge of pop music history. And in this case, pop music history is linked to political history. Lady Gaga arrived on the scene about half a decade after same-sex marriage did. (Massachusetts became the first state to allow it in 2004.) To suggest the bravery of her social justice contributions somehow surpasses that of Madonna, whose biography is drenched in gay culture, is to reveal oneself as an LGBT “activist” with no grasp of LGBT media history. And anyone with a supposed passion for something has a responsibility to understand its roots, whether that requires tracing back a music sample from a song or appreciating the sentiment behind a political statement.

Left: Madonna posted a photo from backstage at the GLAAD awards on her Instagram account. (And we know, Ms. Ciccone. We've seen the "Sex" book.)

So for those just joining the program, here's the super-condensed version of Madonna's connections to the gay world: Christopher Flynn, her ballet instructor and oft-cited mentor, immersed a teenage Madonna in the arts – and the gay discos of Detroit, where she honed her street moves and an attitude one MAC makeup shade away from that of a boa-whipping Motor City drag queen. At Flynn’s suggestion Madonna moved to NYC to become a professional dancer; she became a first-rate couch-surfer, living off popcorn and the kindness of strangers while she eked out a living through nude modeling and gigs with ragtag punk bands. She spent her days shacking up with edgy artists like good pal Keith Haring. She spent her nights at gay clubs, shopping her pop-dance demo tapes from DJ to DJ. Often in tow was her gay younger brother, Christopher, who eventually became her tour designer.

Madonna’s pavement pounding paid off, and she used her newfound notoriety to achieve greater visibility for the LGBT community that fostered her fame. At the height of ‘80s-era homophobia, she actually celebrated the effeminacies of her most flamboyant dancers in her music videos, live shows and movies: particularly her tour documentary Truth or Dare, which in typically histrionic fashion depicted her as a messianic mama rescuing gay crew, like stray cats, from familial abandonment and a cruel, hostile world. She specifically engaged queer people of color; “Vogue” was inspired by a dance movement derived from the African- and Latino-American gay club scene. And after watching friends like Haring and Flynn succumb to the epidemic, Madonna became an early and outspoken AIDS activist, using benefit concerts and television PSAs to educate about the disease and its stigma. Her Like a Prayer album came packaged with a fact sheet about AIDS and safe sex guidelines, and she used a pro-condom message to open her famous Sex book, which depicted her engaged with (and/or assisting) every combination of genders in various states of titillating tomfoolery.

The public outcry over Sex, her album Erotica and its accompanying MTV-banned music videos, all heavily influenced by the leather and fetish clubs of the NYC underground, marked the end of Madonna's most overtly sexual oeuvre. By extension, her more obvious tributes to gay culture grew tamer: think guest spots on Will & Grace and her painful "best pal comedy" with Rupert Everett, The Next Best Thing. No matter. The commitment was clear.

And that is why what's good for the goose isn't always good for the Gaga. It's sweet when younger pop stars stick up for gay rights, but in an age that requires little moxie to do so, it can also smack of condescension.

Madonna's recent appearance is not unimpugnable either. Like everything she does, it was mostly about herself. It's obvious she is as much interested in wresting back the gay icon crown from younger stars as she is in furthering any particular cause. As always, whether you find her unique brand of childlike narcissism to be more charming than offensive is a matter of taste.

And her speech about bullying and Boy Scouts sort of meandered between pro-gay bullet points strung together by blown kisses. It was heartfelt, but heavy-handed. Madonna knows that in the age of Twitter, subtlety doesn't work. "Express Yourself" needs to become "Born This Way."

By Madonna’s standards, Saturday's appearance was a touch... reductive. But hey, at least by now she’s earned the right to steal from her own catalogue.

Celebrity feuds are a bloodsport we love to cheer on. When they're between women, anyway. Between guys? Whatever, pass the chips. We have far less interest in watching two men tear each other down.

Exhibit A: the abbreviated argument between Kanye West and Justin Timberlake, already being put to bed just when things were starting to get good.

If you blinked and missed its humble beginnings, the spat started last month when Kanye dissed Justin at a London concert. "I got love for Hov, but I ain't [bleeping] with that 'Suit & Tie,'" said Kanye, referring to Timberlake's latest single-slash-1960s game show jingle.

Then, in a recent performance on Saturday Night Live, Justin changed a line in the song to spike one back in Kanye's direction. "My hit's so sick got rappers acting dramatic," he sang.

Break out the popcorn, it's about to go down!

Wrong. In the most boring backtrack ever, Justin appeared on Late Night with Jimmy Fallon the other night, claiming temporary amnesia and sending Kanye a big, sloppy make-up smooch. This was the brief exchange.

Jimmy: "It felt like to me you changed one of the lyrics in 'Suit & Tie.'"

Justin: "Did it seem that way? I don't remember that."

More talking, more talking, more talking.

Justin: "You know, really everyone, keep calm. ... For the record, I absolutely love Kanye."

[Crickets.] That's it? That's the end of that?

I want my money back!

Look, let's be honest. Everyone loves a good celebrity feud. We even love the hyperbole of the word "feud." It's gratifyingly loaded with the notion of deep-rooted resentments. We imagine two celebrities, chomping hay in rocking chairs on the porches of their Beverly Hills estates, grumbling about that time twenty years ago when the other gave a side-eye on the red carpet or brought an irresponsible drunk to the dinner party at the Old Vanderpump Place.

It's fun to pretend rich people are miserable.

Plus, we get to pick sides. That's fun too. In a complicated world, there's something nice about the black-and-whiteness of declaring without reservation that you "ABSOLUTELY HATE!" or are "completely obsessed with" someone you have never met, not once. In certain settings, that would be pathological. When idling time by reading tabloids with a friend on a long T ride, it's a bonding experience.

So we declare our allegiance: Team Jennifer or Team Angelina. Team Nicki or Team Mariah. Team Madonna or Team Gaga. Notice something? Most of the high-profile feuds, those that really make gossip blogs run wild, are between women. I doubt that's because Hollywood is some utopian fraternity where men just always get along, all the time. I think it has more to do with the fact that we love to pit women against each other. To pretend that they are locked in some eternal competition over who is better and cooler and prettier, because heaven forbid we allow more than one at a time to be really successful at the same general kind of thing. That's just crazy. Soon they'll be wearing slacks and voting.

On the other hand, the minute a juicy feud between guys gets started, we're totally willing to let them bury the hatchet. ("Here, let me sharpen that," we say to women.)

Ferdy Damman/EPA; Theo Wargo/Getty Images

Look at the reactions to the lame pretense of amnesty between Kanye and Justin.

"Justin Timberlake Loves Kanye After All," reported ABC News. "Justin Timberlake Squashes Beef Buzz," said MTV.com. "I am neutered and boring," said Justin Timberlake with his eyes.

Don't tell me we'd let two women get off the hook this easy. If Mariah Carey suddenly said she definitely didn't remember saying something about Nicki Minaj that she very definitely said on live TV two nights ago, no one would interpret her denial as an olive branch. We'd all make a "meow" sound and evaluate the effectiveness of her "shade." (Definition: artful sassing.) And when Madonna commended Lady Gaga's "good voice" on The Ellen DeGeneres Show in November, no one stopped the presses to throw in the morning headline, "Breaking! Madonna Actually Not Bitter, Horrible." No, they're women. We want to keep those catfights purring in the press.

Sure, sometimes famous guys "fight." They may even "beef." (Cause, you know, meat.) But these are typically short-lived conflicts over a parking space or an acting role. We read about it for a week and then, ho-hum, we move on, because no one wants to belittle Alec Baldwin by pretending that he's sitting at home throwing darts at a poster of Shia LaBeouf. But if Madonna never again mentioned Lady's Gaga name until the day she died, there would still be gossip that her evil, vein-y claws were found wrapped around a voodoo doll.

Chicks, man. They can't give it up. Or maybe that's just us.

Be forewarned: I talk during movies.

Not in the theater, of course. You won't hear me blabbing to my neighbor, answering a call on my cell phone, or yelling back to the screen ("Don't go in there!" "That's the wrong door!" "I loved you in Fried Green Tomatoes!") while in a public place. Heck, I choose my concession candy based partly on what can be unwrapped most quietly, without drawing undue attention to the box of food coloring and birdbath-sized cup of corn syrup sitting in my (rapidly expanding) lap.

My mother raised me right. You know, to feel appropriate levels of self-consciousness.

But at home? I'm a chatterbox. If you want to watch TV at my place, be prepared for ongoing audio commentary. I also tend to offer an opinion on every song on the radio, insert verbal footnotes when sharing the latest tabloid scandal, and read every celebrity tweet backwards to double-check for satanic messages. (Just kidding on that last one. Everything Chris Brown writes is horrible enough when read as intended.)

Why? Because entertainment isn't just - uh, entertainment. It's important stuff. Really. Everything we watch on television, listen to on an iPod, read on celebrity blogs and share on social media is (for better or worse) a reflection of the world that created it. Our society's values, priorities, prides, prejudices, greatest dreams and dirty little secrets are all encoded there: waiting to be discovered, and discussed. Sometimes you just need an equally pop culture-obsessed friend to help you unscramble the static and get the conversation started.

That, I hope, is where Media Remix comes in. Yeah, I want us to talk about the hallucinogenic eye candy in the latest Lady Gaga video, but I'm more interested in critiquing how she condescends to the gay community (ooh, how contrary!) than in discussing how super-chic her new Moldy Cheese dress is. Sure, I want to chat about last night's verdict on American Idol, but I'm also intrigued by the way those contrived contestant interviews and selective editing choices promoted certain American Values at the expense of others. And I'm totally happy to ride the current wave of '90s nostalgia by revisiting favorite movies, music, and pop culture moments from yesteryear. (Who can quote Kevin Williamson and Kevin Smith scripts like scripture? This guy right here, thank you very much.) But I want us to discuss all the interesting ways in which older stuff has influenced current entertainment, not revel in the newly retro just for the sake of it.

No matter what your favorite show, celebrity fixation, or political party, I bet you'll agree with me that media plays an important role in influencing how people think, feel, and act. After all, as a wise prophet once said, "Pop culture is the politics of the 21st century." Okay, that wasn't a prophet; it was a short-lived character in the slasher sequel Scream 3. But it's pretty brilliant, right?

If that made you roll your eyes, feel free to change the channel. But if it made you feel like talking, join me on the couch. I saved you a seat.

[Pictured: Author on the couch from Will & Grace. The set is now enshrined in a library at Emerson College, show creator Max Mutchnick's alma mater. Note: Objects in this photo may appear several years younger and thinner than they are.]