BLOGS

Being the current lust object of decrepitly old directors like Woody Allen and Brian DePalma isn't enough for Scarlett Johansson. America's fakest femme fatale (see Match Point and The Black Dahlia if you think I am in jest) has now decided she wants to sing. Perhaps this decade's Diane Keaton took a cue from Woody's Everyone Says I Love You, a musical he cast with actors so tone deaf the THX speakers shut down in protest. Whatever the excuse, the star of the Woodman's upcoming Vicky Cristina Barcelona has become the latest actor to try burning up the Billboard charts. I bet William Shatner is laughing on the set of Boston Legal right now.

Johansson is counting on the J. Lo Factor to push sales of her album. The J. Lo Factor is a simple equation: Hot chick + No Singing Talent = Horny Guys Buying Her Record. Miz Scarlett certainly arouses the, um, interest of men from ages "Wow, I'm Just Learning Self-Abuse" to "One Foot In The Grave, Thank God for Viagra," so she's in good shape there. Toss in the recent rumors that there's a lesbian sex scene between Johansson and Penelope Cruz in Vicky, and you have a perfect storm for the release of Johansson's album of Tom Waits covers, Anywhere I Lay My Head. Guys are marking their calendars and panting in wait for the May 20th release date, despite the fact that Johansson's singing sounds like she's on the toilet. Granted, this is the way to sing a Tom Waits song -- by pretending one is taking a crap -- but it can literally backfire if one tries too hard.

In addition to giving men eargasms, S. Jo is also arousing the ire of people who don't listen to music with their penises. Variety is running her video here, and right underneath it is a chart of voters, 73percent of whom say she should "keep her day job." The video is eye candy, but the audio is ear poison. Therein lies my problem with the J. Lo Factor: I can't see J. Lo's ass on the CD. It doesn't come jutting out of my speakers in the car, but her voice does. S. Jo is no J. Lo, and that's not a compliment. At least I can dance to Mrs. Marc Antony's dreck.

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