We love vuvuzela-zela-zela, aye, aye, aye

Promoters have tried to get Americans interested in soccer for decades, only to fail in so many ways. First, they tried Pele, and while he sparked some mild interest, he soon became little more than a side note in our country's sports history. Then they tried Beckham, but his arrival was overshadowed by tabloids, fragrance deals and an 80-pound distraction with a reality show named Victoria. After their efforts, the best they could garner was being listed as "Something That White People Like" (or, at least, like the concept of). With the US making a name for themselves at the World Cup in South Africa, and its citizens actually cheering the team on at sports bars around the country, everyone was sure that soccer would take its rightful place in our hearts just as it has in every other country on the planet. And that may well have happened, if not for a little phenomenon called vuvuzela. And what is vuvuzela? It's a cheap, plastic, extremely loud horn that South Africans play at matches, so loud, in fact, that it drowns out commentators by producing the insane buzzing sound you hear over televised games.

Even babies can't resist the lure of vuvuzela.

And Americans freaking love them! We love them so much, we have completely forgotten about old what's their faces out there kicking that ball around. After getting involved with the most exciting, all inclusive world sports event known to man, all we care about is an overgrown kazoo. We're like a toddler who just received a new, state-of-the art toy, except we want to play with the box.

So why have we become entranced by this novelty's siren song? Well, Americans like loud and obnoxious - how else would you describe the success of Bill O'Reilly, Limp Bizkit and Sam Kinison? The vuvuzela only caters to our collective need to drown one another out, like we've done through our political punditry, morning DJs and video games. Go into any bar in a college town on any given weekend and you'll find a bunch of drunk meatheads screaming the lyrics to "Sweet Caroline" as it plays on the jukebox. Even our books are loud, as anyone who has ever read beat poetry would attest to. We are a nation that rewards unyielding, abrasive assholes, and when we see that others have found a newer, better way to be loud as hell, we embrace it. It's happened before - look at how popular anime and Roberto Benigni became. All I can say is, thank god I'm not a sports fan, because I pity the fools that have to sit in front of the jerks that manage to sneak a vuvuzela into the game as they try to eat their hot dogs and $8 beers in peace. You don't think it's gonna happen? Give it another month.

No werewolf sex? Seriously?

Monster movies like the original Wolf Man put Universal Studios on the map, and now that vampires and lycanthropes are big again, the studio has decided to cash in.

In Lon Chaney Jr.'s place is Benicio Del Toro, because, well, if anyone is going to play a wolf man, it's him - he doesn't act much, but his sexually charged, animalistic gaze and shaggy crop of dark hair are all that he needs. In this version, he returns to his family's dilapidated estate on the news that his brother has been killed in a most "unnatural" way. (They use this term a few times in the movie, which, for some reason, made me laugh). During his investigation, he tries to make sense of his insane father, played by Anthony Hopkins, and comfort his brother's fiancee Gwen, played by Emily Blunt, who does well, but is upstaged by her eye-catching post-Victorian outfits. When he is attacked by a mysterious beast and the next full moon makes him a howling white hot ball of canine terror, Gwen goes on a search to find a cure to hopefully save Lawrence before it's too late.

Hopkins shines, as to be expected, and he seems like he's having a good time with a very non-serious role. Here he's a raving loon surrounded by the taxidermied trophies from his days as a big game hunter (displayed animals are a big theme here, especially one scene where, during a flashback, a young Lawrence runs through a garden full of creepy topiary creatures). I also have to give props to Hugo Weaving as a Scotland Yard detective, as he has again proven himself as one of the greatest character actors working today-he doesn't have many lines here, but I could watch him twist his little mustache and look inquisitively past the camera all day.

But what struck me was how Wolfman borrows from all the movies that were inspired by the werewolf legend, including, in a very strange and round about way, Teen Wolf. When Lawrence changes, I was reminded of the innovative graphics of the transformation scenes in Werewolf In London, and the over-the-top art design harkens back to the original Wolf Man of the 1940s. Everything is appropriately dark, wet and foggy, and CGI is forsaken for the use of patchy fur and fake teeth. It may look a little cheesy, but once one realizes that it's a purposeful homage to the style-heavy ways things used to be done, you begin to appreciate it more.

My companion said that what he really enjoyed was the lack of emphasis on the repressed sexuality that the werewolf represents. For once, I actually felt like the movie needed more sex. And when I say more sex, I mean ANY sex. I understand that Twilight's uncomfortably long stares and unfulfilled frustrated teen libidos appeal to young people in the throes of sexual awkwardness. I'm an adult - if I know I'm going to see a movie with sexy Benicio Del Toro playing some kind of half man-half beast and there's a love interest involved, I expect some unbridled, hot wereDel Toro action. I'm talking bodice ripping, barely contained, dirty-romance-novel-that-your-mother-hides-in-her-nightstand-drawer kind of sex. No explicit nudity required, just a little tasteful skin. And what do I get? A kiss?! One kiss?! You've got to be kidding me. I'm docking two stars for giving me the lady version of blue balls.

A Little Too Late, I Love Lady Gaga!

I admit, I hated on Lady Gaga. After the radio beat "Just Dance" and "Pokerface" into the ground, all I wanted her to do was take her leotards and stupid cartoon hats and hit the road.

But then I watched her music videos. The moment I saw her dancing on those crutches in "Paparazzi", I was hooked. How can I describe her twisted brilliance? It's like she walked out of a homoerotic nightmare as envisioned by Federico Fellini. She is an enigma wrapped in glam, wrapped in dance pop, that is further wrapped in shock rock. She can sing and dance, and she does it all while covered in fake blood.

And then there is the wardrobe, a collection the likes of which no one has ever seen. Writer and Barneys creative director Simon Doonan called it "fashion crack", and it's the topic of many an article on GoFugYourself.com. It is an orgy of sparkles, metal bustiers, and ass-hugging bodysuits, a veritable pastiche of modern couture (Chanel high-heels) and what looks to be the costumes from a futuristic space porn. I love it because no young woman in her right mind would try to copy it. While other pop stars market their styles, Gaga seems content to keep it within the confines of the crazy Euro wet dream she has created. Besides, you can't wear a disco mirrored bra and top hat to work, and I don't see my 14-year-old niece trying to get into school dressed liked she just killed and skinned a Muppet.

But what I admire most is the anonymity this whole persona affords her. She's one of the most popular artists working right now, but if you saw her walking down the street without all her make-up and fake hair and hoo-has and what-not, you'd have no idea it was her. And that's what I like most, that she's smart enough to find a way to have both an successful career and private life. While other celebrities are ducking out of pictures, she'll be sipping a macchiato at Starbucks in peace, and no one will be the wiser. For now anyway - only time will tell when either she or someone else bursts her bubble of mystery.

The Camletoe That Blighted My Life

Maybe it's because I live in a city with a large hipster population, or maybe it's because I work at a place where a lot of these tragically hip young people shop. Or it could be that I've been reading a lot of GoFugYourself lately. No matter what the reason, I've noticed a disturbing trend. And that's why I say now, ladies, please, I beseech you, stop wearing leggings/footless tights as if they're pants.

I thought the hippie headband was bad. Now I wanna take every Pochahontas looking, Mischa Barton wannabe jackass and kiss her on the sweaty braid indent left on her forehead. Even those girls who tuck sweatpants into their Ugg boots every winter don't upset me as much. And do you know why? Because I can't see their LABIAS!

I don't care how much of a skinny clothes hanger you think you are, you still have equipment down there that needs strapped in, preferably with something that isn't made of 99% spandex. Sure, stars like Lindsay Lohan parade around with their asses barely coverd by a thin layer of material so flimsy, a hang nail could destroy it. But it makes you look like you've lost your mind, and your pants left with it. And don't think you're going to fool anyone by trying to disguise them as a pair of jeans . . .

Exhibit A: Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Jeggings.



And those starlets photographed wearing them may seem glamorous at first, but you don't see them when they succumb to droopy crotch syndrome, the time of day when the elastic stretches out and your naughty bits start to look like jowls . . .
Exhibit B: This is exaggerated (on purpose, no less), but I think it illustrates my point.



What's more unsettling is the possibility of fashion to come after this. What will the youth of today be sporting when they can no longer stand cold genitalia? Coon skin caps? Eye patches? Shoulder pads are already starting to make a come back.
Actually, with that said, eye patches don't sound so bad now.