By Albert Samaha
By Steve Weinstein
By Devon Maloney
By Tessa Stuart
By Alison Flowers
By Albert Samaha
By Jesse Jarnow
By Eric Tsetsi
So Jesus was resurrected last Sunday—take that, naysayers—and I'm a completely changed person over it! Unfortunately, I still have the same old type of filthy, disposable gossip. And so: Porn star Erik Rhodes (the hulking guy who's been seen with both Marc Jacobs and Marc Jacobs's boyfriend) feels that his blog may have screwed up his last relationship. In blogging about his blogging, Rhodes wrote, "I feel like Michael Musto, who can't keep his fucking mouth shut about anything." I guess he's still mad about the time my column got him in trouble with his fucking probation officer . . . I was so disappointed that the Jan De Cock exhibit at MOMA turned out to be just photos.
Speaking of de cock, isn't it a terrible idea for Kate Hudson to date Owen Wilson again? She'll never be able to break it up, no matter how unpleasant things might get. In the middle of any fight, he has the ultimate manipulation up his sleeve: "I'll kill myself!"
Want more of killer trannie Candis Cayne, who's made it big in TV's Dirty Sexy Money? Check her out in RuPaul's Starrbooty! (available on DVD) as a high-kicking, slithery cosmetics titan slash nefarious criminal who puts out vaginal lip gloss, sells prosties for body parts, and says stuff like, "I'm always looking for a gorgeous girl with a strong, horselike work ethic." So's Eliot Spitzer!
Horsing around at Patrick McMullan's St. Patrick's Day bash at Home, I chatted with John Epperson (a/k/a drag star Lypsinka) about the late movie actress Joan Blondell—of course—whose last film, Epperson told me, was the 1981 trannie saga The Woman Inside, in which her character tells her nephew Hollis, "You want to cut off what?" (Sure enough, Hollis transforms into Holly as Joan gags.) By the way, the still-male Epperson has yet to shoot his cameo role as Blanche Hudson in Another Gay Sequel: Gays Gone Wild, which unfortunately missed the Tribeca Film Festival deadline. But the documentary about the '90s club SqueezeBox made it, and I can't wait for this nostalgic look at the club that was nostalgic for glam nostalgia. Designed for weird-haired rebels who were ostracized by both the gay and rock worlds, the club ran the risk of becoming just as cliquey and oppressive as the scenes it escaped from, but it did give a home to some fiery, exploratory talent. Still, when you read the official synopsis describing SqueezeBox as "the seminal event in nightlife history," you have to wonder if the glitter was on a little too tight.
At the same McMullan party, the original club kid, "88-year-old dancing queen" Zelda Kaplan, was being led around because she can't see anything, and had to be virtually screamed at when someone wanted to talk to her because she can't hear anything either. When I get to that point, I beg you all to please have mercy and kindly . . . keep inviting me to parties!
Getting older while staying relevant, Madonna's back with more music, and my ancient ears can still hear it, but a DJ and Madonna fan named Danny Echi sent out a mass e-mail saying that her new song, "4 Minutes (to Save the World)," should actually be called "4 Minutes to Make More $$$$$$." Wrote Echi: "This is just a corny commercial track. The Madonna shout-outs on it are corny, as if no one knew her name or she's trying to be cool hip-hop, which she's not. This is just a sell-out. It sounds like a James Bond movie theme. I think they tried too hard to repeat Timbaland's 'Give It to Me' featuring Nelly Furtado and Timberlake.
"It's not her worst record," he went on, generously, "but by Madonna standards it doesn't measure up, and that 'tick-tock' part is definitely a sign of running out of fresh ideas. ('Time went by so slowly' to make her forget the lyrics to 'Hung Up'?)" PS: Echi doesn't like the album cover either! But Madonna, I suspect, will not care that much as she laughs all the way to the nearest Barclays Bank (where she can pick up her accent again, if not her weirdly absent husband).
Big bucks were won at the immortal Faggot Feud at Splash, where I was part of last week's victorious team, "the Jolie-Pitts." (I was Shiloh, one of the most remarkable things that's come out of Angelina's pussy.) But getting to the finish line was harder than Hillary's dick whenever Obama gets into racial trouble. I became frantic when one of my drunken teammates started screaming out the right answers for the other team to steal. And I lost it even more when another team member's cocktails kicked in so hard he collapsed and fell off his stool twice onstage. (The sight of him sprawled out on the stairway with a spilled drink, muttering an answer—"sandal"—was truly poignant, especially since the answer was wrong.) But we soldiered on and somehow won, mainly because the other douches didn't know that cheese is good both hot and cold and that gays wear leather. Nobly enough, I ended up giving my $50 cash prize to host Peppermint rather than create an international payola scandal, and she was thrilled to be able to take a cab home instead of hitchhike or sit on my handlebars.