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.

Journalism is a venerable institution with a shrewd eye towards breaking news stories and trends. Cutting-edge coverage like pumpkin shortages and sad Santa stories. Who knows why, with such breakthrough coverage, this towering industry tipped over so easily, shaking out a class of journalists who now wriggle around for SEO traction. Or maybe they've just reached their limit of Miley Cyrus' unlikely chokehold on headlines. Also unknown is how the minutiae of this popsicle's life continues meriting front-page attention. Like pretending to be a Big Apple princess or hatin' on Twilight or fake-dying last week. On that last disturbing note, it seems that many mass media outlets really want to marry Miley Cyrus off to the Grim Reaper. Especially with their awkward coverage of a tour bus of Cyrus' entourage that tragically overturned, killing a single person. Who was not decidedly not Cyrus. Awkward headlines and keyword positioning after the break.

Most reasonable people shouldn't have to be dissuaded from engaging in horrific acts of domestic violence by treats and high praise. Typically one doesn't have to make a fist, pretend to dangle some beef jerky above his nose, and yell, "Sit, Chris Brown, sit! Good boy!" in an attempt to keep the pop singer or any similar-minded dude from succumbing to whatever chemical imbalance makes them predisposed to senseless acts of brutality. But the idea of Chris Brown as a reasonable man kind of flew out the window in February and never really made its way back in the house. There were a few lame attempts. Like this, well, misguided apology. More recently there was this irksome tweet that reads, "Good NEWS: my album date has changed .. December 8. Graffiti. If u love me get it twice and if u hate me still get it." Which demonstrated how Brown still remains clueless. If not about his actions, then the waves his actions created in the world around him. Still, the man's gone a number of days without black-eyeing someone and he deserves a judge-approved gold star and a free dinner at Red Lobster, right? Right.

Oh, look! Another flailing pop queen in distress. They're all the rage aren't they? What with their Brazilian boy-toying and their creative multitasking. Get too close and they may burn you with their fiery vitriol! Stay far away and they get needy. Yes these flailing pop queens are a fickle breed. But they, too have feelings. Like Janet Jackson, for instance -- who, between staring down some harsh truths about her late great brother and forthcoming obligations at some asinine awards ceremony, is having the worst week ever.

Well, I guess that almost resolves one of the thousands of outstanding feuds that Perez Hilton Inc. (comprised of Mario and sister Barbara Lavandeira) is waging with the world. Recall some bang-up one of them -- Mario, obviously -- had with a member of Black Eyed Peas in Toronto earlier this year. Yes, because if you're going to get into an argument with a member of the only band to hold the American charts hostage, it's best to do it on Canadian astroturf. But you know, water, bridge, "under the", and so forth. It's humbling, though not unsurprising given Hilton's petty tendencies, to see the Black Eyed Peas' manager take the higher road.

Eh, it's unlikely, but the songbird has become otherwise adept at putting up walls and keeping prying eyes from getting too close. Ideally, she'd know better than to stir up a tempest outside of a nightclub. Still, this crack in her steely foundation becomes makes us wonder what sort of fire-and-brimstone brand of madness could be swirling beneath that head of perfectly coiffed hair. Recently, perhaps after her Nokia-sponsored live gig in London, Rihanna threw a tantrum when her driver was minutes late in picking her up. Some reports indicate that she was slinging thunderbolts with no mercy, threatening to get bouncers and valets at the club fired. Others say they saw her head do a complete 360 on her neck á la The Exorcist. Some, still scarred from that night, may even say that in her eyes, they could see the smug countenance of Madonna, grinning away. The truth, while peppered with colorful quips by Rihanna, is decidedly duller.

For the uninitiated, New Moon is the second chapter in a heart-stopping series that explores the range and breadth of the human condition. A series that, for all intents and purposes, asks us to be so bold as to carve open our hearts and mindfully pick out emotions encrusted around the ventricles. Such calcified collections of rage and sorrow they are, inhibiting blood flow to the brain, moving us to consequently make poor life choices like this. Yes, New Moon casts a modern-day Marlowe-esque light on The Way We Are. Its protagonists are constantly torn with having to make shady business deals to get their True Heart's Desire. There is Bella, the intrepid, lower lip-biting everygirl, who would throw all the money away if she could just be in Edward's arms forever. Then there is Edward, who would give all the money in the world if he could make trash angels. But twist! There's also Jacob, whose end-game may be the most easily attainable: To strike a deal with the devil to procure a limitless supply Crest white-strips. But sadly, people whose jobs it is to sit down and critique films, but never to actually slap some celluloid together, have decided that New Moon is nothing more a pile of steaming bat poo.

This should serve as fair warning so next year when people are going on about, "How'd this shrill cockatoo land a record deal?" they can at least recall the moment when hip-hop king Jay-Z agreed to assist her in her bid to break America. Which is a past-time for many British pop artists. Perhaps Cheryl Cole, one-fifth of Britain's biggest girlband Girls Aloud, is more suited for American conquest as a solo performer than with the band which made her a tabloid fixture overseas. To her credit, Cole's already courted goodwill within the hip-hop scene, lending her tinny vocals to a will.i.am single -- who also executive produced her debut record. And unlike much of her band's material, Cole's solo work decidedly leans more towards a generic urban pop vibe. Which, given the success of acts like the Pussycat Dolls, shouldn't be a terribly tough sell for Jay-Z to make to the American public.

Once upon a time, well just months ago really, a small show premiered on Fox called Glee and it was just so darn promising. Fast forward about seven episodes and the once-promising musical dramedy has crumbled into a soppy morality play punctuated by embarrassing musical breaks (that you can fast forward through if you're the type who watches it online). Thankfully, there's Jane Lynch, who has been on every single television show, from Party of Five to Weeds, since time immemorial. Jane Lynch, who's really the only reason why any of us continue watching Glee. She's the only one on Glee who has yet to break into song, but as demonstrated on last night's chat with Conan O'Brien (and here, too!), she'd handle that with aplomb.