By Araceli Cruz
By Tessa Stuart
By Anna Merlan
By Keegan Hamilton
By Albert Samaha
By Village Voice staff
By Tessa Stuart
By Albert Samaha
Bless my gay stars! You've heard by now that Rosie O'Donnell is coming out in her memoirs, which at this point might be as shocking as Kid Rock being straight, but it's still an important step worthy of breaking out our finest diet sodas. For years, I've critiqued Rosie's ambiguous single-mom act and dissed her for claiming she wanted to protect her private life, while publicly detailing every burp and doodoo of her kids. At the height of her subterfugeenforced by her higher-ups, for all I knowRosie gushed over Tom Cruisein between indulging in coy, pronoun-free banter with her musical director (who's due for a closet-busting, too, if you ask me). Quizzed about her sex life, Rosie would say she didn't want any adjectives attached to her name, though she probably had no problem with Irish or funny; it was just the L-word that drove her looney, and she made sure it didn't come up on her homey (but not homo) show.
At least she was trotting out her gal pals in public rather than being a total"bearded" lady, and as the pop landscape changed, things kept moving forward for the mouthy comic. During a commercial break in a Tony Awards show a few years ago, Rosie made an untelevised lesbian innuendo, later telling me, "Maybe that'll stop you from writing about my personal life." It didn't, but it wasn't the end of her inching toward honesty either, as she floated more gay suggestions and legendarily declared, "I love you, Kelli," at last year's Daytime Emmys. (She later tried to take that back, but couldn't.) Now Rosie can live without lies or evasions, if also without a talk show. Can't someone come out when they're on top? Still, though she's belatedand selling a bookshe's definitely beloved, so bravo!
Out lesbians populated the Miss L.E.S. Pageant (for Lower East Side sapphists) at the Slipper Room, where the only bearding involved actual facial hair. As a judge, my fave contestant was the Aussie gal who promoted "basket weaving, bush crafts, and dingo farming" and sang "My Secret Love" to a photo of host Murray Hill(who's a woman in drag, so don't get bent out of shape). But it was hard to resist Miss Orchard Street, an earnest lass who, for the talent segment, brought out intricate, handmade music boxes that had literary inscriptions and played AC/DC tunes! The winner, Miss Rivington (sexpert Ducky DooLittle), scored points for licking from a bowl of milk, slurping away even when the stuff spilled onto the wood floor. (She won $100 and some oral splinters.) But what really nabbed her the prize was her interview segment; when fellow judge BOBasked her what's the first thing she does every morning, Ducky responded, "I go home."
By the way, the best gossip of the night was that at Barracuda, Flotillaand Princess Diandrahad just put the dragback into knock-down-drag-out fight. I smell more oral splinters.
But most of the week's behavior was gender-specific and quite cordial, actually. At the premiere of Miramax's latest foreign entry, Behind the Sun, Harvey Weinstein's mom proved she's behind the son by showing up and being a good audience. At the after-party at Nicole's, I went behind the fun and asked Joyce RandolphTrixie from The Honeymoonersabout Rosie O'Donnell's gay pal Nathan Laneplaying Jackie Gleason in that upcoming biopic. "He'll be wonderful, I guess," she said, containing herself. "And now Jim Carreyis playing Art Carney and Sydney Pollackis involved. I thought it would be for HBO, but it's a big movie!" I was ecstatic, until I turned around and caught Tina Brownschmoozing and putting on a brave front. I almost broke down in tears.
That pert pixie, Parker Posey, is doing her own big movie, cheerily enough. When I ran into her at a sandwich shop, the indie queen told me she's learning how to play the mandolin for a Christopher Guestepic about a New Christy Minstrels-type boppy-folky musical group. I'm sure she'll be best in show.
The worst in commercials is still that sepia-toned Sunday Timeshome-delivery one, my trashing of which has prompted kazillions to call in and point out what theyfind irritating about it. To wit: When hubby says, "She goes straight for Arts & Leisure; I check out the magazine," wifey throws him a look that suggests she'll be performing spousal duties that night; the Prozac-y black chick seems absurdly serene about getting "a jump on the week"; they keep repeating homeas a mantra ("home delivery . . . at home"); and they all seem a little overly proud about reading a fucking newspaper. And don't get me started about the daily delivery commercial, with the nerdy Web-surfer daughter and the dad who says that if the Times is just a paper, "then I suppose the Grand Canyon is just a hole in the ground." Suppose this.
Meanwhile, deliver me from eviland from big holesbut Justin Timberlake's fascinatingly foofy career choices have me wondering if the cutie has a memoir coming out. Justinhere comes another listplayed a swishy hairdresser in the *NSyncmovie (a part he'll reprise on Friends), wanted to do the film version of the AIDS musical Rent, portrays young poofter Elton Johnin Elton's new video, posed for a homoerotic photo spread in Arena Hommes Plus, went to Beige and Asseteria with girlfriend Britney Spears, and reportedly might don drag in Brit's next video. Ain't no lie. Bi bi bi?