Jesus, will you look at that thing?!

Once in a while it's nice to still be surprised at the depths of such seemingly exhausted topics as celebrity culture and comic porn titles. The past twelve hours yielded two such delights. Last night's was a DVD captioned "Asian Cheerleader Cavity Search." I immediately pictured a wedding cake festooned with colorful icing rosettes, a large square base of "Asian" atop which sits a festive round of "Cheerleader," crowned by the formally attired twin figurines of "Cavity" and "Search" lovingly holding hands. An unexpected jolt of romance! Mostly, though, I was just pleased to see three humdrum tastes recombined to awaken in all of us a fresh sense of possibility, and who among us can fail to admire the economy of its telescoping fetishism? And while cavity searches of any stripe are a bit clinical for my tastes and cheerleader fantasies are beyond trite for anyone, I think we can all get behind the enterprise at least in spirit (I will deem all "behind" jokes to be already made, so kindly do not clutter the comments box).

Then this morning, AOL's headline -- the headline of a nation at war! -- read "'Are you crazy!?'," while showing a very demented Kelly Ripa driven herself to apparent madness by Regis' brazen -- nay, Copernican! -- assertion that he "does not see Cruise's appeal." And while the Ripan cosmology was so cruelly torn asunder and a dismayed nation sighed "Oh Rege!" as one -- glimpsing as they were, for the first time, the truly limitless gall of that wee heresiarch -- I for one saw the world as polished anew to a high gleam, and uttered in pure gratitude "This is the day the Lord hath made; re-Joy(ce) in it, and be glad." I urge you do the same.

Ugh. You would not believe how long it took me to write this piece of crap.

"So he said 'Well, it just totally insulted my manhood.' So I'm all, like, 'Hu-LOOO, you're a FAG. It's not doing you much good anyway'."

-- Overheard cellphone conversation, August 1, 2004, 1:45 a.m., 107th and West End.

I'm so sick of "Alpha male." It's a stand-alone rating that typifies our stultifyingly binary approach to masculinity. You're either top dog or a scrub. Arnold or Poindexter. Since when did we take Ayn Rand this seriously? We need a more finely calibrated notion of masculinity -- distinct sets of characteristics for Gamma Guys, Delta Dudes, Theta Thugs, or less cloyingly alliterative types -- so that the rest of us don't fall into some undifferentiated vat of Omeganess.

I'll cop to more than a bit of self-interest at work here. I keep a rough tally of Celebrities Whose Ass I Know I Can Kick -- so far, I've got Ben Stiller and Stephen Hawking (by the way, click here if you want to help out America's favorite time-space prophet). And maybe the Dalai Lama, if I sucker-punched him. But even so, short of "Oz," it isn't pure physicality that determines rank -- and even not there, if we reflect on the compartively withered guns of master schemer Ryan O'Reily. Charles Manson is a tiny guy (5'2"), but there was no doubting who was large and in charge on those hazy, orgiastic summer afternoons at Spahn's Ranch.

Besides, why all the focus on the top of the hierarchy? It's not just lonely at the top, but it's boring as all fuck for the spectators. How often is there a real challenge to an alpha-male, when the likelihood of failure is high and the consequences drastic -- "if you shoot at a king, you had better kill him" and all that; if they didn't stage that stuff on Discovery Channel, all those naturalists would have been ritually scarified and gone native long ago while waiting for some purple-assed mandrill to finally make his move. No, the really fun action is much further down the pack, here among the Zetas and the Etas, the Omicrons and Xis, as we claw out eyes and tear off ears for crumbs. Crumbs!! A manager's cubicle, primo parking spaces, the slightly-less-fat girl with slightly-less-acne. Yes, every day is a Bumfight Day here at the ass-end of the alphabet.

That's all. I have no good way to end this, and I need another cup of coffee.

So far I have only shared the contest responses from the freakish and angry. Today we lift the spirits with this delightful entry that definitely would have won had the demands of friendship not proved stronger than my desire to reward the adorable:

Her email was captioned "wood fish decoys (and rent) for your room" and read as follows:

"hello

since the first native american dangled a carved ivory fish in the icy water of the bering sea to attract an atlantic salmon a millennium ago, the use of decoys to attract fish for spearfishing has been well-known.

spear fishermen throughout the northern united states and canada have sent a virtual flotilla of wooden fish to work beneath the ice, but very few have survived. lost to broken lines, submerged for days in freezing water, nicked by spears, the little carvings were made to be used, not admired.

since very few of these wooden sea dwellers remain, i am doing my best to recreate some classic wood american fish decoys. using photographed models from the early twentieth century, one sharp chisel and a japanese saw, i am currently working on my third fish- this one a trout native to upstate new york.

once completed, these models can be filled with molten lead and metal fins to be used as decoys on a splendid spear fishing trip or carried in the front pouch of a hooded sweatshirt on rainy days for company."

In exchange for my place, she offered me all her subsquent "fishies." Ugh, it broke my heart to tell her I was giving it to a friend. I mean, there would have to be something very very wrong with you to not fall in love with that.