Are you sitting at home tonight with an ice pack to your head, trying to piece together shards of last night? Why not keep company with the American Music Awards? I mean yes, Jennifer Lopez is going to perform, but if anything can inspire you to spew up memories from last night, it'll be J.Lo trying to make the phrase "Fresh Out of the Oven" sound like some weird sexual euphemism. There's no warm glow more reassuring than the bland predictability of the AMAs. These award shows are not only uninspired in their pick of nominees, but they're even less inspired with who they choose to award. Basically, the same seven performers appear as nominees throughout five make-believe classifications of popular music. Also, Lady Gaga, currently enjoying a boom of critical and commercial fervor, is going to win everything. Favorite Male Country Performer? Lady Gaga. Favorite Latin Album? Lady Gaga. Favorite Rock Duo, Band, or Group? Lady Gaga. Duh. More importantly, within every category, there's always one nominee who's obviously kind of a red herring. That performer never stands a chance of winning but is placed there to demonstrate the AMAs' rebellious streak. A highlight of such obvious losers after the break. Though with Mercury in retrograde, upsets are always possible.

"OMG OMG OMG New Moon OMG OMG shatters records! OMG $140 million! OMG Precious?" Yes, that's what much of the blather about the box office this weekend sounds like. It's a film about lunar shifts or large men who turn into ghastly wolf-beasts or something. Somewhere in the nethers is Inglourious Basterds, still valiantly holding on. However, The September Issue has sunk out of sight. Also: Couples Retreat stays firmly within the Top 10. Basically it's a litany of old tales: print's dead, tweens have cash to burn, and Vince Vaughn has as much post-apocalyptic staying power as cockroaches.

A wretchedly campy thing trending overseas is Jedward. As Americans, we tend to be suspicious of kitschy gimmicks burgeoning abroad. Maybe too many of us still feel burned by past instances of British kistch. Beats me! It's an instinct that the latest act to spiral into international prominence through X-Factor--Britain's answer to American Idol--will pummel through, eventually garnering anywhere between one and three top ten hits here in a quiet time when Beyoncé and Gaga are both enjoying much-needed sabbaticals. If only because X-Factor alum Leona Lewis has fared so well on both sides of the Atlantic. According to Wikipedia, "are an Irish music act. Known for their distinctive blonde hairstyles and unique performances." A unique performance that doesn't necessarily stir SiCo's loins like Leona could. Comprised of people named John and Edward and totally unrelated to our 2004 Democratic VP candidiate, they've won praise from Jay-Z mentee Cheryl Cole and are finding fast fans in Susan Boyle and The Jonas Brothers. They're already tipped to win the talent show.

• Good morning! People who are responsible with money have purchased some rhinestone-studded glove that Michael Jackson wore once for about $350,000. [BBC]
• John Mayer has made the claim that celebrity musicians typically make bad records. Stones and a glass house, honey. [DigitalSpy]
• Along those lines: Jennifer Lopez has a new music video out. It is about the thrills of preparing lattice pie crusts, but features close-ups of her lips for no particular reason. [D-Listed]

Who does Sarah Palin think she is, not logging face time with the weirds who vaulted her into the elusive echelon of celebrity from where she sneers down at the gotcha media? I mean, if not for them, we wouldn't be brinking on a new class of insurgence, one who conflates the Bible with Going Rogue and possesses a distinct fear of words. At a recent book signing, Palin was all like, "Whatever, bitch. I do what I want. I'll go to Ann Taylor and buy a smart pantsuit. What-everr." And then she sashayed away, signing no more books. Which is when that booing ensued. Video follows.

As Courtney Alice Shayne once said in Jawbreaker, "Life's a bitch, then you die." Today of all days find that maxim to ring so loud as to dig irreversibly into our ears so that we may never be able to shake the truth of the statement from our heads. Take this horrible juxtaposition of two facts. Fact: Marriage equality is dead in most of the country! Fact: Spencer Pratt and Heidi Montag have just celebrated their first anniversary of splashing around in the straights-only marriage pool. It's an epic occasion. So momentous for the pair that they're celebrating it apart from one another. Huh?

Back in August 1995, Type O Negative frontman Peter Steele did a Playgirl cover. And man, he did it right. Readers from that dusty era may remember Steele's unflinching verve--and how he saw the NSFW centerfold role for what it was: A smart way to drum up publicity. Also, he didn't half-ass it (har har!) In fact, he unabashedly pushed Canadian decency laws. Sure the trade-off for showing the full monty meant that Steele would age into a cultish camp figure instead of an immortal goth rock dreamboat. But fundamentally, he'll be remembered for having the cojones to showcase his, well, cojones. In the 14 years of delightful moral erosion following Steele's Playgirl glory, we can't say the same for the first man of Wasilla. Playgirl's new best: a tame monochromatic Levi propped up against a bathroom wall at a Taco Bell somewhere. Blah.

• Hello World! Meet Heidi Samuel. She's just like Heidi Klum, but upgraded: She's fierce! She's real! Sometimes, she even has a fugly misstep. But dammit, she sure loves that guy who was Frenched by a flower. [DigitalSpy]
• I don't know who Justin Bieber is either! Is he that Balloon Boy some people were bantering about weeks ago? Whoever he is, his fans are more unhinged than New Moon hordes, apparently. [ABC News]
• Sigh, I don't know why either as this is the perfect time for her to star in any Age of Innocence remake. (RE: Megan Fox won't be killed off in Transformers 3.) [DigitalSpy]

Unless you're one of the seven people in this country currently employed full-time and therefore far away from a television set, you've probably been lounging around your apartment during the day, desultory and shiftless. Busying about in your housecoat with curlers in your hair, day-drinking lukewarm zinfandel, smoking clove cigarettes, and peripherally watching your stories, you've got the makings of a 21st century Edie Beale. You may even take a little time out to periodically prod the cat with a yard stick to get her to stop mewling. That is until yesterday. Yesterday presented a glimpse of Franco on General Hospital. That's when you busted out the catnip. So you could have a 60-minute slice of you-and-James Franco special alone time. Perhaps you even opted to heckle your TV when the camera panned away to the blonde. After a bombastic debut, the actor's reasoning for coming onto the soap suddenly seems unimportant. His arc on the soap means that you can stop feeling bad about being a shut-in and can stop seeking out more enriching pursuits. Sometimes, it's enriching enough to simply support the arts. Franco's first few moments on GH after the break.

Today, Robert Pattinson runs to Dover cliffs, the wind whipping his unruly mane. He looks out across the Strait of Dover, unwraps a tasty chocolate New Moon bar. In between delicate nibbles of this candy morsel, he asks the world, "Why!" As in "Why does New Moon have to suck so much!?" Because despite record projections, the actor is still itching for "serious roles" that "showcase" his "talents" as an "actor." To which end, his native Britain is barren. Even for such an accomplished player like him.