A gay actor / director / fundraiser / cabaret singer / lesbian-esque guitar player from the hills of East Tennessee, living in Chicago and looking for... wait... what is it I'm looking for again?
They just can't seem to catch a break. No matter how much money they throw at it or into it, they just can't seem to get this juggernaut off the ground.
The show is, of course, low hanging fruit (so to speak) for comedy writers. Hell, I've been making fun of it ever since it was announced. So, I love this SNL skit.
Mainly, the "Jersey Boys" line.
And the man-on-man, Spider-Man / MaryJane almost-kiss.
Homo fanboy Heaven. If that ever actually happened, that is...
It's been almost 50 years since "It's a Bird, It's a Plane, It's Superman" did to showtunes what "Catwoman" and "Judge Dredd" did to motion pictures, but for all my misgivings (and I have and have had SEVERAL), something makes me feel giddy inside and has me believing that Taymor might actually pull it off.
Or maybe I just want to wear this Swiss Miss costume. Yeah, that's really what's making me all tingly inside.
I've done it. I've found him. I've found my next boyfriend!
I haven't met him yet, have no idea where he lives, and there's the slight problem that he's straight, but I'm confident that a Google search and multiple shots of Grand Marnier will take care of those issues in no time.
This is Bo. Or as he has been nicknamed, "Bo the Bailer." I imagine / hope he's as young and dumb (and full of... well... you know...) as he seems in the video, because, when a foul ball came flying towards Bo and his girlfriend (his FORMER girlfriend, I might add), Bo bailed. And this lovely woman was hit by the ball.
But for me, the young and dumb part of Bo trumps any bailing he could ever do to me.
Besides, I don't have a problem with balls hitting me. Foul or otherwise.
Take the cast members from "The Kids in the Hall," dress them up like former child beauty pageant contestants a la "Toddlers & Tiaras" and have them join my boyfriend Joel McHale on "The Soup" and you have my idea of Heaven.
From what I can tell from this picture taken during the filming of "Giant," James Dean apparently thought that Rock Hudson needed a good cock-punching.
Now, to be sure, Rock probably enjoyed getting his cock punched by Jimmie Dean. Hell, Rock probably asked for it. Okay, begged for it. I know I would have. If that punch was aimed at my backside instead of my front, that is.
But most men probably doesn't appreciate a hard fist slamming into and around a bulging package. So, let's play a little game.
It's called "Who Do You Think Needs a Good Cock-Punching Right Now?"
So, tell me. Who would you push to the front of the line if someone was offering free and painful cannonballs to the cock?
Mel Gibson, Dick Cheney and every executive at BP start my list. But again, Darth Cheney would probably enjoy it. Seriously. He's probably laugh and start begging for a harder cock-punching.
The goofiness... The square-jawed, white-slits-for-eyes face in a Bat-cowl... The Batmobile with a Bat-face hood ornament bigger than the Boy Wonder...
The first Bat-Girl, a tennis pro turned superhero... The first Batwoman, who used cosmetic compacts to fight crime, and was introduced simply to make the relationship between Batman and Robin appear less like the NAMBLA love story that it actually is...
And of course, Ace the Bat-Hound. A dog. In a mask. With a Bat-symbol around his neck. Hung there to scare the bad guys, I suppose. Because, as Bruce Wayne said, "Criminals are a superstitious and cowardly lot."
Over the years, Ace has come and gone, but until today, I don't think we knew he could sing. I mean, really sing.
Here Ace as a pug singing the theme song to the 60's Batman TV show. If this doesn't cure what ails you, nothing will.
A couple of quick questions before I go put on all white (with no underwear) to stand and watch the parade in the rain:
A) Since the U.S. is a republic, not a democracy, why are laws being passed by ballot initiative? Oh, that's right. So that the majority can deny the minority their equal rights.
B) Huckabee reads the articles in those gay rags put out by The Edge?!? Does he "read" the Undergear catalog too?
Happy Pride, everyone.
While we enjoy today, take time to remember that it ain't over.
And also remember that, for the most part, it has been the drag queens, nellie fags and bull dykes who have pushed this movement forward from it's birth at Stonewall till this very day, so if anyone says anything about anyone flaunting it, camping it or bearing their breasts, tell them I said to fuck off and get in the back of the line. 'Nuff said.
I'm a Kinsey 6 (at least!) but for many, many years now, I have occasionally found myself cruising a cute, young gay boy that is actually a cute, young lesbian.
If my father reads this, he'll be thrilled. But this happens all the time, right?
Yet today, something happened. The game changed and the game, at least for me, is now SUPREMELY fucked up.
Okay, okay... Fine... "I" am now supremely fucked up...
Today, I was walking down the street and saw a couple walking towards me. They looked like the girl-on-girl version of Jack Sprat and his wife. No, they looked more like the HOT girl-on-girl version of Jack Sprat and his wife.
Sure, the lesbo-Jack Sprat of the couple was more "chubby Oprah" than lean. And yes, "Jack's wife" looked like she enjoyed eating pizzas topped with hot dogs (which, of course, made me mentally shout, "'Atta, girl!"), but whether it was spite of their size or because of it, they were both incredibly HOT! Probably because they were so into each other and enjoying a great summer day together. So, I kept staring at them. I couldn't help it.
But as I got closer, I realized... this... wasn't a lesbian couple... at all...
Oh, no... This was a straight couple. And that's not the Anne Heche part of the story.
The fucked up part is that the heavier member of what I thought was a lesbian couple was actually a man - - and that man looked exactly like Wilford Brimley.
Leaving just one question: Exactly how fucked up AM I now that my Daddy fantasies are transforming Wilford Brimley lookalikes into big-boned, happily married lesbians?
Or is there a very simple answer for all of this. Something like "If a fag sees Wilford Brimley and thinks it's Rosie O'Donnell, we all get 6 more weeks of summer."
If you've never quite understood why, when compared to the other decades of the 20th century, the 70's will forever be the redheaded, bastard child in the annual Christmas card family photo, just watch Liza Minnelli in the clip below. Singing "Bad Girls."
Yes, that "Bad Girls."
Of course, comparing Liza singing a Donna Sommer song to a redheaded, bastard child would also mean that the little illegitimate fire crotch arrived at the photo shoot for said family Christmas card loaded on God-knows-what and accompanied by a flaming homosexual she kept introducing as her new husband.
This clip is... Oy... Even with Liza's tremendous talent, this production of "Bad Girls" is a sea of bedazzled wrong.
Let's face it. Only in the 70's would someone have thought that Liza HAD to sing "Bad Girls." And only in the 70's would no one have stopped them!
Why? Well, also on 70's television, the dancers on Donny and Marie Osmond's variety show weren't really dancers. They were were ice skaters. Yeah... Donnie and Marie would start singing "I'm a little bit country...," and then there would be ice skating. Before, during and after the song. And, occasionally, Paul Lynde would do some comedy sketches. With children. Sounds like "La Cage aux Folles" directed by Fellini, doesn't it? Nope. It was worse.
But, it's not just the song choice. I'm sure the same showtune queen who put a disco beat behind "The Ballad of Sweeney Todd" pushed Liza to sing "Bad Girls," which lead some chorus boy with a dance belt and dream to choreograph what looks like Bob Fosse's version of the dream ballet from "Oklahoma," forcing Liza's new gay husband to suggest ending the song with an homage to "The Telephone Hour" from "Bye Bye Birdie."
It all leads me to one simple thought: WHERE IS THE REST OF THIS TELEVISION SPECIAL?!? For the love of all things Lorna, I need it!!!
P.S. I realize this special aired in 1980, but just like our former President and our current financial shit box, the blame for this lands squarely in the past.
Especially when you can sit in the Chicago Theatre and watch Liza Minnelli in concert.
That's where I'm going. Right now.
And she probably won't sing "Single Ladies" (which I LOVED in the movie, so let's start the gay debate... NOW). There's an even slimmer chance she'll sing this song from "Liza with a Z."
But if she does sing "I Gotcha!," you'll hear my gay squeal across the country.
I've been away for awhile. Two weeks in fact. Sorry about that.
I've been busy, I've been depressed, I've been straightening up my life.
No, let's say "organizing," not "straightening up." As an old and very dear friend of mine used to say, "Never the S word, dear."
But when a Golden Girl dies, attention must be paid. Which is why I urge everyone to do what I will be doing tonight, in honor of the passing of Ms. Rue McClanahan.
I can't wait to see his repulsor. (Yeah, yeah... You were thinking the same thing...)
But if he's Tony in this scene (and let's face it, he can be any damn thing he wants to if I'm involved or just in the room), that makes me Pepper Potts.
Not a problem. I've been much worse for much worse.
When it comes to my cluttered, filthy pigsty of an apartment, and the reason so few people have been allowed inside of it for longer than I care to admit, I've been repeating the same line to friends and family for months now...
"I watch 'Grey Gardens' and think, 'That house? That's nothing...'"
The person I'm talking to will laugh a little and then move on to another piece of conversation. I wonder, if they could actually SEE my apartment, would that line be funnier or infinitely sadder?
Or worse yet, would it be a cause for concern? Probably all of the above.
I have dedicated entire days and weekends to the act of getting rid of clutter, cleaning up my messes, organizing the insanity, and after a long stretch of hours, I stand back and it looks like only an inch and half of space is now clean and clear.
How could I have gathered so much unneeded junk that I, for some reason, have decided to hold on to by putting it in a place where I can never find it if I actually need it? And how could I care less about cleaning and making a bed and folding clothes than I have in the past when I never gave a damn before?!?
Maybe it's my way of keeping potential boyfriends at bay. I've heard women talk about not shaving their legs before a date so that they would not even be tempted to sleep with the guy at the end of the evening. Maybe my mess is my unconscious way of staying single. Not something I want, but something that seems to be continuing, nonetheless.
For the longest time, my apartment appeared to be in order, but if you opened up a certain drawer or closet door, you could see where the mess had been relocated for the time being. One of my friends referred to this as, "Outside control, inside chaos," which was and is the most accurate description of me I have ever heard.
So, what does it mean now that my chaos has overtaken my control?
Hey, Marvel Comics! You want to know how to make a Hulk movie that won't bite the green weenie?
Cast this guy.
Who is he? What does he do? Is he a villain? A love interest? A rebooted Mr. McGee?
(You know, the reporter who follows the Hulk and Dr. Banner around, thus giving us the line, "Mr. McGee, don't make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry?")
Which one of those characters is Mr. Tattman, the Ab Master? Who the fuck cares?!?
As long as THAT is his ONLY costume. And he's on the beach. A lot.
After all the lawsuits contesting not one, not two, but three different appearances on "To Catch a Predator," the billionaire playboy / Dark Knight is forced to take a job.
Any job.
He could have at least dressed like the Batman of Zur-en-arrh. For the color, you know.
Poor "Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark."
