American Idol has been through a lot of trials and tribulations this season, but one thing will never change: Paula sure does like this show, doesn’t she? You can’t kill her enthusiasm, even when everybody else is getting that shellshocked despair in their eyes. Paula makes Idol soothing to watch — if the “Forever Your Girl” kid can put herself through this punishment, week after pitchy week, who are the rest of us to bail? For me, the most touching moment this season came when Carly Smithson sang “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” driving Randy to the edge of existential rage — the poor guy looked like he was about to bang his head on the judges’ table, Don Music-style, wondering how he can keep putting up with all the ridiculous vocal atrocities on this ridiculous show. It was scary to see him muttering to himself, “It wasn’t in tune!” But it took Paula to talk him down off the ledge (”I don’t know how you can say that!”). This season would definitely be scary without her. (more…)

Some people see “Celebrity Fit Club” and ask, “Why?” But I see it and ask, “Screech, again? Joanie from Happy Days? Sommore from The Queens of Comedy?” Even awesomer than the season with Willie Aames. Wait — who is this furry-headed angel that appears before me? Willie Aames! This is the best Celebrity Fit Club ever! It’s amazing that nothing can kill this show, and that after five seasons of mayhem, it keeps scaling new heights of Z-list agony. It looks like America can’t get enough of watching yesterday’s beloved TV stars don sweatsuits of redemption-scented Lycra and go to boot camp to regain the eye of the tiger. We, the viewers, play Paulie to their Rocky, watching ringside as they endure ridiculously pointless torments — obstacle courses, muddy stick-fights, listening to Toccara Jones scream “Kiss my ass!” at the judges — while following some dumb diet nobody really gives a vegan crap about. VH1 knows who’s watching, and how deeply we care about fitness, judging from all the ads for Oreo Cakesters and Taco Bell.

The key to appreciating Celebrity Fit Club? You have to understand, what seems like total humiliation to you or me is, for these people, the least humiliating part of their day. (more…)

What does it mean to be Girlicious? It means more than just singing and dancing. It means getting a makeover and crying because your orange hair makes you look like a white girl. It means taking Lil’ Kim’s advice on how to be a great singer. It means sharing a house full of teen girls who desperately want to look like the police lineup after a raid on a tranny-hooker crack den in Branson.

It means the best “not even trying” stupid TV show name of the year. See, the Pussycat Dolls had a reality show last year called The Search for the Next Doll (you missed it? for shame!), except the winner, the fabulously named Asia Nitollano, decided to ditch the Dolls and go for a solo career. So the sadder-but-wiser Dolls aren’t letting that happen again. This time, they’re forming a whole new girl group, and it’s going to be 100 percent girlicious. As Christian from Project Runway would say, this show is one big tranny mess. (more…)

I covered the Grammys the only honest way I could think of: I didn’t watch. Nobody did. It was the third-lowest-rated Grammy broadcast ever, despite the touching fact that people still want to care about the Grammys, with the ratio of live bloggers to actual viewers finally reaching 1:1. I thought about watching but got distracted by an emotionally needy half-empty bag of Utz Kettle Classic Smokin’ Sweet that required immediate attention. Instead, I watched YouTube clips of those sad-gasmic total-humiliation moments to see what my friends were having crying jags about. As a result, I enjoyed it more than any Grammys ever. Thanks, Grammys! Hence I feel fully qualified to evaluate the biggest winners and losers.

Alicia Keys: She got stuck with the necro-duet with Sinatra, getting grotesquely excited (”Yeah, Frank. . . . Tell ‘em!”) since the Academy was out of merely old people for her to sing with. (more…)

Look what the cat dragged in: Bret Michaels, twenty lacquered groupies, one big party house and an apparently bottomless supply of jug-size Malibu-and-Crystal Light low-carb coladas. It’s another season of VH1’s blockbuster celebrity dating show Rock of Love, and it’s just like the first time around except better, because with one season’s worth of groupie roadkill already under his wheels, Bret still dares to believe in true romance. Jes from Season One rejected him in the reunion episode — harsh! But love is cheap and screen time is precious, so this year’s contenders are camera hogs who make last year’s Laceys and Rodeos look like the shy type. There isn’t a biodegradable breast in sight, just fine ladies like Ambre and Roxy and Destiney, slapping each other down for a shot at the rock stud of their dreams. They all take us on a stroll through the thorny rose garden of love, like the fallen angels Poison used to sing about, rolling the dice of their lives. It’s inspirational.

I can’t explain what makes this show so much better than the other celebrity dating shows. I think it must be Bret’s wig. (more…)

Thank god for steroids—finally, we have a rock & roll drug scandal that people can actually get excited about. Can you imagine how awesome it would have been if human growth hormone and anabolic steroids had existed in the Seventies? Crosby would have crushed Stills and Nash with his bare hands onstage in the middle of “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes.” John Bonham’s “Moby Dick” solo would have gone on for four days until he bit off John Paul Jones’ right arm and used it to club a few roadies to death. Elton John would have played “Bennie and the Jets” with one hand while using the other to win the bronze for the javelin throw in the 1976 Montreal Olympics.

Rock-star drug disasters aren’t what they used to be, which is why it was weird to see the Albany Times-Union report that Mary J. Blige, 50 Cent, Timbaland, Wyclef and others had been mentioned in a steroid investigation. Why should baseball players get to Bogart all the drug-controversy action? The juice can’t be good for the central nervous system, especially the brain—everybody remembers when alleged ‘roid-rager Roger Clemens threw a broken bat at an opposing player in the middle of a freaking World Series game, later claiming he thought it was a baseball. Let’s just say this may help to explain why 50 Cent thought the song about the candy store was a good idea. (more…)

Congratulations, Tila Tequila! Not long ago, you were just another L.A. celebu-nothing porn-droid on MySpace. But look at you now: the star of MTV’s A Shot at Love With Tila Tequila, the most friggindiculously soul-crushing dating show ever. I’m in awe.

They found sixteen men and sixteen women who want Tila — it’s like wanting to date the Hamburglar or yearning to bear Garfield’s kittens. But these kids have studied Flavor of Love and learned the Pumkin Principle: Mindless bitch-­slapping equals valuable camera time. So it’s like pro wrestling, with love-starved wretches trading scripted punches and chokeholds. Has there been a more stirring TV moment this fall than when Ashley stood outside the mansion, pounding on the door, screaming, “Tilaaaa! Tilaaaa!”?

Tila talks like a baby who’s been dropped on the head. Did she get her lines dubbed by Paula Abdul? Are we not supposed to notice she has the same house that’s in every other celebrity dating show? (more…)

Project Runway is back? Where the hell is my chiffon? It’s like fondling a shiny fresh pack of Dunhills after months of tobacco-free peace. Do I really want to do this to myself again? Every season, PR destroys my life. I have descended into pitiful levels of obsession I’m not proud of. I have started noticing faux bois and ruching;
I have been kicked off message boards for getting drawn into flame wars over former contestant Alison Kelly; I have peppered my conversation with phrases like “Comme des Garçons goes to Amish country” or “You better cry and cut.” I tried to fill the between-season void with Top Design and Shear Genius. Not even! Ah, Tim Gunn, you silver-haired succubus. You will bury me.

PR is the most addictive thing on TV, and Tim Gunn is the main reason — radiating kindness, intelligence, calm and other qualities normally verboten on the tube. (more…)

You know it’s a rough time in Britney World when Suge Knight expresses sympathy. “Any time a woman lose they kids it’s a sad, sad story,” the Death Row man recently declared. “If I need to do something for her, I definitely push with her.” Even Suge’s gangsta heart has been touched by the Britkitten’s travails. She’s been accused of binge tanning, asthma-inhaler abuse, stall-hopping and generally threatening Hollywood with a good time. Her ex-bodyguard hinted at her taste for the booger sugar as well as vanilla lattes. The Man would have us believe Britney has questionable child-raising habits, evidenced by the fact that they have rotting teeth, follow no sleep schedule and have learned no English other than, “Freshen up Mommy’s daiquiri, honey.”

Is Britney getting a raw deal? Of course she is! It’s Britney, bitch! For those of us who adore her, it sucks to have to keep saying, “She’s acting out” or “You mean the bad kind of atrocity?” We could all do without that. Especially Brit herself, since she remains one of the world’s most popular and beloved starlets, and she’d be even more popular and beloved if she only had the self-preservation instincts the good Lord gave a squirrel. Surprise, “Gimme More” is an actual hit, her first since “My Prerogative” three years ago. (more…)

You asked Pop Life columnist and Love is a Mix Tape author Rob Sheffield about his favorite dance songs, which TV sitcoms he’d love to re-air (Welcome Back, Kotter!)and who the most overrated and underrated bands are (watch out, Metallica fans). Click here to find out the Rolling Stone writer’s preferences (Paula Abdul or Britney Spears? Fave Bowie tracks? Artist who saved his life? Why does he love LCD Soundsystem?) and much more.

Act now! For a limited time you can submit your music and pop culture questions to Rolling Stone contributing editor and Love is a Mix Tape author Rob Sheffield. Email questions to asksheffield@rollingstone.com; the deadline is October 1.

With all the tenacity of a crusty-wig ho stalking fresh prey, R. Kelly has brought Trapped in the Closet back to the screen. For the past two years, we’ve all been wondering, “How are we supposed to go on, not knowing what happens next with Sylvester, Rufus, Gwendolyn, Tina, Twan and all the other batshit characters R.Kelly makes up while waiting for his assistant to get back with the Meximelts?” Now we know: More sex! More violence! More incontinent dwarf strippers hiding under the sink!

Kelly recently introduced the world premiere of Trapped in the Closet Chapters 13-22 on the Independent Film Channel, explaining that the song is dictated to him by “the musical visual aliens,” and describing the series as “musical opera.” (Combining music and opera? Brilliant!) When will it end? “Whenever the aliens decide to leave,” Kelly confides. The whole thing is, man, I don’t see Trapped in the Closet ending, because it’s about us all. It won’t end till we end.” Oh, shit!

As Trapped’s main character, Sylvester, would say, everything about this story is crazier than a fish with titties.The fact that Trapped comes out just in time for Kelly’s long-delayed child pornography trial makes you wonder if it was dreamed up by a legal team angling for an insanity defense. (”Your honor, Exhibit A: The defendant in his tacky old man beard!”) Kelly is definitely a director with his own vision of the world: Players gonna play, ballers gonna ball, rollers gonna roll with hookers and cops and gay pastors and tranny assassins and twin sisters who love some Waffle House. Kellz is striding tall in the footsteps of titans like Antonioni and Bergman, with a mise-en-scne that recalls Master P circa I’m Bout It. So what if it doesn’t make any sense? It’s the freakin’ weekend, he’s about to have him some fun!

Anybody who says Kelly isn’t being funny on purpose hasn’t been listening to him very long, since he never pretended there was nothing funny about “I Like the Crotch on You,” or the end of “Feelin’ on Yo Booty,” where he cracks up at his own falsetto. Now we get new characters like Pimp Lucious, Italian mobsters and lesbian waitresses. After an all-too-brief shot of Big Man’s exotic dance routine at Dixie’s, it ends with a tantalizing to be continued. How long will we have to wait for the next chapters? Probably fifteen to twenty years. Who’s up for Waffle House?

Last night, R. Kelly presented the New York big-screen premiere of “Trapped in the Closet: Chapters 13-22.” Spoiler alert: None of it makes any fucking sense, but you probably already guessed that. Kellz himself showed up, in a surprisingly jovial mood given his usual moody persona and legal troubles. “Nobody can explain this song, not even me,” he told the crowd. “I can explain some of my other songs, but not this one.” He went on to call the song “my alien” and said that when he starts writing, he has no idea what’s going to happen from line to line — when he brought the midget into the song, he thought it was all over, because he had no idea what to rhyme with “midget,” until a week later he realized he could name another character “Bridget.” Much better than Inside the Actor’s Studio, no doubt.

So what happens in the new chapters? A brief summary of the story so far (“oh shit!”) leads to Sylvester in the car with Twan (“you crazier than a fish with titties”), a rendezvous in a diner, a waitress with a tell-tale name tag, a church choir chanting “You can do it, Pimp Luscious,” and a blatantly Sopranos-styled sit-down with an Italian mobster who keeps saying “fuggedaboudit” while calling Twan “LL Fool J” and grunting, “Mama said knock you out the fuck outta here.” There’s typically over-the-tippity Kellyesque dialogue (“Do I look like En Vogue, because the way you got me holding on?”). There’s also a flashback to Twan’s drug bust three years earlier, when he was getting high in the car screaming, “I’m Rick James, bitch!” Which was the catchphrase of 2004, though come to think of it, isn’t this song taking place in 2005, which would mean Twan was saying “I’m Rick James, bitch!” before the Chappelle show even started? Or did we just flash ahead a couple years? Is this song all taking place on the same day?

There are still so many unanswered questions. Why does everybody in this song answer their phone, even if they’re, like, waving a gun in a four-way stand-off at the time? Why does Kelly’s old-man beard keep sliding off his face? Why does Kelly use the silly and insulting nineteenth-century circus term “midget,” not a cool thing to call a dwarf or anybody else? Especially when so many awesome words rhyme with “dwarf”? Why don’t either of the lesbian waitress tae-bo aficionados turn out to be dudes in disguise, instead of just one of them being pregnant with Twan’s baby? (Oh shit!)

Kelly himself plays a preacher, a church janitor, a white-suited omniscient narrator who comes and goes at random moments, and a stuttering pimp in purple shades who comes to church looking for the “ho-ho-ho-holy ghost.” I could have used more of Big Man, frankly, whose battles with asthma, intestinal distress, and the day-to-day struggle of life down at Dixie’s Strip Club demand further explication, whether or not he’s the daddy of Bridget’s baby. There’s too much church for my taste, and way too much of the nosy neighbors. The cliffhanger ending, which restyles the phone-tag “Goin’ Steady” number from Bye Bye Birdie, ends with the message, “To Be Continued.” But clearly, twenty-two chapters of “Trapped in the Closet” is nowhere near enough.

Lindsay! it’s been way too long. what are you up to, besides Page Three of your to-blow list for the day? I know, that crazy DUI thing. Wait — another one? Busted at the corner of Pico and Main? After allegedly flooring your Denali in pursuit of your assistant’s assistant’s grandma? Lindsaaaaaay! I’m in no mood! Don’t! Ever! We are not having this conversation. No! I’m disappointed. No product placement for American Apparel hoodies? No paparazzi shots of you reaching nirvana on the windshield? I expect a little more from a Lindsay bust. You’ve let me — all of us — down. Cocaine in your pants — why the hell were you wearing pants?

Can’t you get pinched for dogfighting or something? We’d like to see you busted for running Fyrecrotch Kennel, training bitchy Pekingeses for walk-offs against Britney’s Yorkiez of Doom.

Still, I have to hand it to you, and by “it,” I mean more drugs. You don’t waste any time, do you? Heck, you just turned twenty-one, right before you got out of fun-hab. That SCRAM ankle bracelet should be a Denver boot. Your knees haven’t been on speaking terms with each other in years. But nothing stops Lindsay. I love the e-mail you sent out the next day: “Did not do drugs they’re not mine” and “I appreciate everyone giving me my privacy.” Of course, the strain of sober writing might have jumbled your words — clearly, what you meant was “Did not do privacy” and “I appreciate everyone giving me my drugs.”

It’s been quite a year for the Big Three: Britney, Lindsay and Paris — the Beatles, Stones and Dylan of party-tardism. If shaving her head was Britney’s White Album, and Paris’ jail term was John Wesley Harding, Lindsay’s new bust is her back-to-basics “Jumpin’ Jack Flash.” Together, they’ve achieved whole new levels of probation-flouting, tabloid-humping and career-throttling, but I worry they’re not mentoring the next camera-whore generation. What about the new breed — who will be the Guess Who or Elton John? Who will inherit the torch? Hayden Panettiere? Kim Kardashian? Not likely. This troubles me. Brit, Lindz and Gay Paree need to start grooming protegees to crash tomorrow’s Denalis into tomorrow’s assistants. For the sake of the legacy, they need to reach out to freshly fallen child stars and daddy-punishing heiresses. It’s called giving back, ladies. It’s called the future.

Ever wonder what happened to that crying girl from American Idol? The one who sobbed hysterically while Sanjaya serenaded her with his braces-melting, pigtail-untangling rendition of “You Really Got Me”? For a couple of days there, she was the most famous crying girl in the universe. What happened? She in rehab yet? I think of her sometimes while watching So You Think You Can Dance. Now this is a TV talent show where losing your shit is the whole point. The dancers work so hard, suffer so much physical pain, putting their bodies through the most intricately choreographed forms of torture, believing all the while that America can tell a well-above-average Viennese waltz from a slightly-below-par pasodoble. It’s a swirl of fox-trot frottage and silly feathery costumes, yet underneath the vaguely creepy and indestructible yowsah-yowsah smiles, there’s a real whiff of emotional desperation that makes the show special. These flash dancers need to be loved so bad, it’s scary. What a feelin’!

So You Think You Can Dance comes on as a high-minded leap up the evolutionary ladder from other reality shows — on this one, you’re supposed to learn something, and the guest judges are fellow dance professionals rather than actual celebrities. (more…)