By Jared Chausow
By Katie Toth
By Elizabeth Flock
By Albert Samaha
By Anna Merlan
By Jon Campbell
By Jon Campbell
By Albert Samaha
Next up, I was swept past all sorts of exposed body parts and ended up at a screening of Collusion, a sleek Brit art-heist film by Richard Burridge, in which snarfy people outsmart each other as a chanteuse sings, "You don't know what love is." Afterward, Burridge didn't consider me an anus for remarking that his country's leader, Tony Blair, seems a tad more articulate than our fella (who, by the way, has appointed his own panel to see what went wrong with that weapons thing. Gee, I bet they won't find him culpablebut hey, in case they do, the results won't come out till March 2005). "But what is Blair articulating?" Burridge shot back. "A huge set of defenses which nobody believes! He enjoys a big reputation as a folk hero here, but back home, people can't stand him and see him as lying, spinning, and self-justifying." But kinda cute in an ex-male-model-with-too-much-kidney-pie-on-the-plate way, no?
It was right back to the exposed body parts with the self-justifying Grammy awards show, which was quite entertaining, partly because Janet Jackson's boob gave it a subtext, looming over the proceedings like the proverbial elephant in the room. Everyone was so frigging well behaved, even though, to replace Justin and Janet, they somehow recruited Prince and Beyoncé, those two one-named, double-breasted people who are respectively known for singing "Head" and ritualistically humping the stage. (But this night, snatchurally, a feathered dress trim kept Beyoncé's naughty bits safely under wraps and Prince only sang about the weather!)
That straitjacketed yet pleasing spectacle was followed by plus-sized moralist Queen Latifah announcing, "Sometimes it's not about controversy. Sometimes it's just about music," and introducing Christina Aguilera, the "Dirrty" strumpet who's been a half-dressed, woozily walking gossip-column item since birth! But even she was covered upfor a while anyway. (After her number, Tina, a slave to her primal desires, couldn't help quick-changing into a boob-tease shimmy dress. So much for the music.)
Basically, all the stars who are derogatorily called sluts and whores proved they really are whores by minding their p's and q's on command, to the point where the wildest the show got was Sting wearing, oh wow, a kilt as he dredged up "Roxanne" again without stopping at the red light. About the worst it got was the usually superb Alicia Keys's wobbly version of "A House Is Not a Home"; she sounded like she actually thought it was a song about furniture. (And that whole Luther Vandross section was extra weird because Janet's name was mentioned, but she never materialized, refusing to grovel one more time. Too bad God got back at CBS by taking it out on poor Celine Dion's microphone.)
But there were lots of touching tributes to dead people, and overall not one person who's ever created music in the past, present, or future was left out of the proceedings. With nods to "Disorder in the House," "Busted," and Get Rich or Die Tryin', they even included the music Martha Stewart must have been hearing on hold when she flew into a rage! By the end, everyone was so delirious they didn't even notice that OutKast's Andre 3000 was baring both breasts. (By the way, isn't OutKast the group that sang, "I'm sorry, Ms. Jackson"? Discuss.)
The chastity belts were certainly lifted at BAR d'O's 10th anniversary party, celebrating the long run of Jean Marc Houmard's snazzy cabaret-lounge for big-voiced drag queens. House organs Joey Arias and Raven-O took a break from starring in Cirque du Soleil's Zumanity show in Las Vegas to flounce back to their home base and be lovingly wicked again. "I hate fucking Las Vegas," Raven sang to the crowd, "but we gotta pay the bills." "There's a list of things we're not allowed to say onstage there," he told me at the bash. "It's challenging." Fucking challenging, actually. Joey agreed, adding, "Tonight, I feel like I'm back in the embryonic sac. Las Vegas is all million-dollar hookers, pimps, high rollers, and Midwestern big butts." Sounds exactly like the Grammy awards.
Moving on, I'll drag my giant Northeastern rear to Broadway anytime, especially when the divoon Julie Halston is arching her wry eyebrow onstage. The longtime actor-raconteur has found her niche as a saucy staple of madcap '30s revivals they wouldn't understand at Bally's. In fact, these shows need her so badly that in Ken Ludwig's upcoming revision of the old screwball comedy Twentieth Century, they've even given her a male role! In the original, the character was Oliver Webb, the droll manager of faded Broadway producer Oscar (played now by Alec Baldwin), but to suit Halston, they've lopped off the Justin, added two Janets, and made it Ida Webb. And simply Halston.