I'm Going to Need To See More Explicit Photos Before I'm Comfortable Saying That Anderson Cooper's Boyfriend Has Been Caught Cheating

Oh, Coop. See, this is why you should have been sitting on my lap at the gym during those weekend workouts instead of lifting, squatting, sweating, and etcetera, all over the place, with your hot boyfriend Ben Maisani, who has allegedly now been busted with his hands all up in the gay cookie jar by the queerballs over at the Daily Mail, even though these photos look incredibly staged, for whatever reason.

I, for one, refuse to believe that someone could do this to America's Silver Fox. And especially with such a dumb-looking meathead. There's a time and a place for dumb meatheads, and that time and place is not in Central Park, during the daylight, where any idjit with a camera phone can record your love. (The time for dumb meatheads is pretty much any other time besides the time I just mentioned.)

Poor Andy, he's in a tough place. I mean, his boyfriend clearly deserves a spanking, but at the same time, he doesn't deserve one from our Anderson, you know?

In conclusion, Kathy Griffin will step in to beat Ben with a standing rib roast, which Ben will never recover from because it will be televised on the 15th season of My Life on the D List.

Remembrance: Kirsty MacColl, Killed 11 Years Ago Today

Many folks who know me know that I'm a freak about this Kirsty MacColl lady that they've never heard of. I am! And if you are a fan of classic British pop, you should be one, too. Kirsty is best known in this country for her duet with the Pogues on their gorgeous Christmas song "Fairytale of New York" from 1987. She should have been famous for much more, but she never got her due, then she was killed in the year 2000 in a freak/horrific boating accident in Mexico. It's a sad, sad story that will never make sense. She was only 41. 41! Senseless.

But you can console me by exploring Kirsty's back catalog. I recommend, first and foremost, that you check out her final album, the sunny and celebratory Tropical Brainstorm, which she made with Cuban musicians. She was in saucy form, singing songs about sex and making love and doing it and shagging and f**king and other things like that. (My favorite track: "Us Amazonians") You should also get her album Kite, which is a great collection of British jangle pop that includes a great cover of "You Just Haven't Earned It Yet, Baby." Also, get Galore, her hits collection, which includes all the greats, plus spectacular early single "He's On the Beach," as well as a cover of Lou Reed's "Perfect Day," which she sings with Evan Dando of the Lemonheads, as well as "Caroline," a song she described as "Jolene's reply" to Dolly Parton. Also, here is a great BBC2 documentary about her life in music.

RIP, Kirsty. You are missed more as the years troll on toward oblivion, especially looking at how many dumb/tedious/idiotic/talentless pop stars are still alive.

Here she is with the Pogues in better days. Look for the cameo by Matt Dillon!

Oh, Miss Winehouse

Jeez, this is depressing. Not a huge surprise, no, but just so freaking sad. Amy Winehouse was a force of freaking nature. One listen to any one of her songs--or a viewing of, say, the videos for the swinging high-drama "Back to Black" or the trampy, stomping "My Tears Dry On Their Own"--and you knew there was no denying that this lady was, in PJ Harvey's system of measurement, a 50-ft Queenie. Her hair alone could have had a fabulous career. Huge bummer.

Above is footage of her last public appearance, dancing on stage on July 20 while her god-daughter, Dionne Bromfeld, sang. Amy looks, yes, a little fucked up, but she also looks happy.

RIP, Miss Amy.

Also, here is a delightful interview by Jonathan Ross from 2003 or so when her first album came out.

Today in Disappointing Cracker Jack Prizes

It's been absolutely forever since I bought a box of Cracker Jack treats, but I did a few days ago when I had one of my patented diabetic low blood sugar attacks. I was wandering around the store going down the line of the sugar-packed options on the shelf and saying to myself, "boring," "boring," "gross," "not gross enough," "boring," "too gooey," "gross," "not gooey enough," etc. Then I came upon the Cracker Jack boxes and paused. Hadn't had that in a while. And there's a prize inside!

So I picked up a box, bought it, and tore into it as I walked back to my office. (The food-type substance inside, by the way, will now be filed under "gross.") When I got back I was all set to throw the box into the trash and out of my life when a tiny slip of glossy paper (above) emerged from the box and onto my desk. Oh shit, I'd forgotten about the prize.

There was Cracker Jack himself, saluting me and urging me to "guess what's inside." Since I tend to follow whatever orders I'm given by a uniformed sailor, especially if his orders are that alluring, I wasted no time in opening along the perforation and embracing my destiny. And you know what? As usual, my destiny was lame.



I don't even know what to say about this. A "pencil topper"? What does that even mean? Who uses pencils in this day and age? I remember the days of yore when a Cracker Jack prize was something useful like a recipe or a cock ring. But this?

Harm and Devastation: Sarah Palin Resigns, NOOOOO!!

Both of you who follow this blog know that I am a big Sarah Palin fan. How could I not be, when she gave me her first on-the-record interview as Vice Presidential candidate of America? I'm loyal, y'all, and even though I hate her guts, I will stand by her in whatever decision she makes, even if that decision involves RESIGNING AS GOVERNOR OF ALASKA, boooooooooooh!!

It's the librul media what did it, course. (Has Michele Bachman's head exploded yet? Note to self: check on that.)

Join hands with me, folks, and let's travel down memory lane with the See Tim Blog anthology of manic autumn '08 Palin blogging. It'll be like one of those Golden Girls episodes when they just sit, eat cheesecake, and reminisce about their past antics so as not to have to come up with a new episode idea. A clip show, yes! Enjoy.

Well This is Just Awful

Awful. Horrific. Grim. And sad. David Carradine, dead in Bangkok. When I went to Bangkok I got a blissful yet excruciatingly painful Thai massage and had to spend the rest of the evening in the hotel bar recovering. When David Carradine went to Bangkok he ended up dead and naked in a hotel closet with rope tied around his junk. (What different lives people lead.)

Now, we really don't know what happened to Mr. Carradine. But all signs point to that whole auto-erotic death jerk-off that Oprah warned us about back in the early 90s. And that's just a shame, because, let's face it: anyone who dies of auto-erotic asphyxiation is going to be remembered for that first. Or maybe second. Whenever "Don't Change" or "Johnson's Aeroplane" by INXS pops up on my iPod, my first thought is: I love this song. My second thought? It's such a shame Michael Hutchins masturbated himself to death.

God knows, we all love to spank it. It's fun! Personally, I would never go in for the whole tying a rope around my neck and such for extra pleasure because I'm far too much of a klutz, and it's pretty much a scientific certainty that I would die and, eventually, my cat Stella would eat my face. But yes, masturbation is fun and a totally normal activity. Nobody wants to be found dead after indulging, though. I would be horrified to discover that my dead body was found naked, underwear on my head, half-eaten Little Debbie snack cake in my hand, back arched over a yoga balance ball, bare feet soaking in a bowl of Canola oil. That would be so embarrassing! And it would end up being the second thing I was remembered for.

To conclude, I really hope there's a perfectly good alternative explanation for why the dead body of David Carradine—Kung Fu legend, remember that first!—was found in such a state that we just haven't thought of yet.