NY Mirror

What chef wouldn't mind a taste of that clubbin' transsexual? Which dead black comic's son once had a relationship with that live black comic, a fact the son revealed at his dad's wake when the live comic (a friend of the deceased) didn't show? Which famous mother once said, "That director was the only straight man I married"? What star enjoyed Spermalot at a midtown gym's steam room and sauna with a hunky young African American? What sauced starlet showed up at a gay bash and promptly set to work asking the powers that be how she could get some booger sugar? What actor who's played gay was supposedly going to come out as bi on that talk show, but naturally didn't? And what gay director, say the rumors, wants to out his male discovery, but will no doubt succumb to similar pressure not to?

While we're asking questions: I mentioned how the five nominated movies are totally Gloomy Guses, but doesn't it seem as if LGBT-themed plotlines need to be extra doomy and deadly to be so honored? After all, Oscar has orgasmed for movies in which WILLIAM HURT's cellblock love was beaten, TOM HANKS died of AIDS, HILARY SWANK was viciously killed, IAN MCKELLEN committed suicide, CHARLIZE THERON was executed for all those nasty murders, Capote attended a hanging then stopped writing for seven years, and the Brokeback queens . . . well, I won't give that away, even with a joke. At least FELICITY SEYMOUR HUFFMAN, as it were, earns some joy and—spoiler alert—her son even goes on to be a porn star, a much more exalted way to sell sex than his previous gig, hustling.

One last question, to lighten the mood: Don't cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me? Don't cha?


Litter Box
TRUE COLORS

On Theater Talk, the Post's MICHAEL RIEDEL suggested that Oprah (the real one, not the Chinese one) is guilty of two frauds—the JAMES FREY book and telling people to see the Color Purple musical.

In revival news, darling CYNDI LAUPER was passed over for Sweeney Todd in favor of PATTI LUPONE, but now that she's got that plum role in The Threepenny Opera, wouldn't it be delish if she and Patti eventually go head to head for the Tony Award? Am I the only one who thinks of shit like this?

That new drama about grief, Rabbit Hole, is pristinely acted and utterly sensitive, despite its TV-movie platitudes about being in a good place, being there for each other, and letting go of it all. In the audience, I wasn't in a good place when I excitedly went up to JERE BURNS and said, " MALCOLM GETS!" Over at the Zipper Theatre, Lenny Bruce . . . In His Own Words is a slavish re-creation of a Bruce monologue that's not pointless, mainly because the cocksucker who plays the guy is really good. So was the Downtown Book reading, where ERIC BOGOSIAN said he's been battling the "performance art" label for years. I valiantly lent support. We're there for each other.


musto@villagevoice.com

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