By Albert Samaha
By Steve Weinstein
By Devon Maloney
By Tessa Stuart
By Alison Flowers
By Albert Samaha
By Jesse Jarnow
By Eric Tsetsi
I'D LIKE TO SPANK THE ACADEMY
But who cares about Tony-grubbing old musicals? I just won a real award, people! A GLAAD? Well, no, it was the even more important fraank, dedicated to "fags recognizing artists actually needing kudos"! The honor was given on FRANK DECARO's Sirius OutQ radio program to everyone from myself to axed Air America host LIZZ WINSTEAD (a friend of the gays), who told me off the air, "They replaced us with Jerry Springer! How embarrassing!"
This ceremonylive from the Dorothy Zbornak Pavilionwas all about triumph as we were handed commemorative mugs designed for holding our old sour grapes. Honoree LADY BUNNY called in from Miami (she was there for spring break, no doubt) and said, "There are so many hot Latin men here that with all the meat and cheese I'm eating, it's been easy to stay on my Atkins diet." "Hag of the century" Winstead controversially announced, "The way you people spread disease around the world leaves more for me at the buffet table!" And ROBERT VERDI seemed genuinely touched, though fellow winner BOBBY RIVERS(of the Food Channel) lamented, "If GARY COLEMAN played me in a TV movie, he'd get a GLAAD Award and the free grilled-chicken-breast dinner I've long been denied!" And even for a gay man, there's nothing sadder than a free breast held just out of reach.
Speaking of gays and body parts, WORLD OF WONDERthe producing-directing team thatrecently did the documentary Inside Deep Throathas optioned VICTOR M. GUTIERREZ's Michael Jackson Was My Lover: The Secret Diary of Jordie Chandler, the shocking book that will get me through my twilight years. (I have multiple copies and it sells for a fortune on eBay.) Let's raise a humble toast of altar wine.
photo: Sony Pictures Classics
In his raucous, high-end Kung Fu Hustle, STEPHEN CHOW turns cartwheels, eyes a-bulging, as he indulges in chop-socky-to-me hilarity. But in person, at his premiere party at Oceana last week, he was reserved and almost dour as he bore into me with doleful eyes. Who does he admire in American comedy? "Chaplin," he said, seriously. Is he like a rock star in China? "Rock star?" he said, not blinking. "I don't realize it. They treat me as a filmmaker, not an icon."
Well, I treated my bike as a bullet train and flew down to Duvet, where all kinds of fabulous freaks were romping around the bedroom furniture as KENNY KENNY and the old Plaid gang launched their fun Distortion Disco Thursdays. "I'm tired of puritanism," Kenny told me, "and club owners who say, 'We don't want that gay crowdcan't you do it Sunday or Monday?' I won't be driven underground! I want a fabulous gay Thursday night and this club is welcoming it." Well, sort of. In fact, the goon who'd earlier screamed at me, "Mandatory coat check$3!" was now yelling that I couldn't leave through a door marked "exit." Just a couple of little kinks that need to be ironed out before the kinkies can feel at home!