By Jena Ardell
By Jon Campbell
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Tessa Stuart
By Roy Edroso
By Jon Campbell
By Albert Samaha
By Zachary D. Roberts
Check your attention spans at the door and dive on these quick bites, which I assure you will add up to a richly rewarding meal that you'll never forget. (Vomit bag not included.)
First off, Tony nominee and screen legend Jane Fonda will be thrilled to know that I just peed on her! See, I went to an affair at a veterans' social club in the outer boroughs—don't ask—and found that smack-dab in the bathroom urinal is a strategically placed red circle with Fonda's face in the middle and the words "Hanoi Jane Urinal Target" blaring around it. They're still mad at her Vietnam stance 37 years ago! While I've long forgiven the woman, I had no choice but to relieve myself on her illustrious visage.
Want to wet yourself? In the trailer for The Hangover, you hear a crude character (he's supposed to be crude, mind you) screeching, "Paging Dr. Douchebag!" But in the actual film, I hear, it's the even more enchanting "Paging Dr. Faggot!" Go see the movie, I guess, if you feel the trailer somehow cheats you on this witticism.
Paging all gays, the Friday-night Rock It bash has been drawing scads of them to Amalia, and that's apparently been denting Mr. Black's business. But no need to rename it Mr. Black and Blue just yet; the clubland pendulum swings every which way but loose, with moves as unpredictable as those of a wet gay cockatoo.
Paging all fruit flies, the Miss Fag Hag contest at Comix was a scream, starting backstage when my fellow judge Hedda Lettuce asked if we should put itching powder in the contestants' clothes, while another judge, TV star and new mom Caroline Rhea, wondered, "How come I'm not getting Miss Fag Hag?" I assured her she was getting the Lifetime Achievement Award.
Rhea went on to tell me that she and some other stars of Sordid Lives would be performing at the same club soon. "Oh! All the people fired from Logo," I joked. "We weren't fired!" she replied. "The producer wouldn't pay us residuals!" Rhea sardonically called me nasty, and I responded, "At least I don't breastfeed." "That's true!" said Rhea, biting my bait. "I can't accuse you of sustaining a life!"
Then came the real contest, where the finalists were a girl who sang a hard-boiled version of "Tomorrow," another who did a clog dance while spinning hoops and juggling bowling pins, and a third who screeched, "You Oughta Know" by Alanis Morissette with angry fag-hag lyrics. (The "I put the ho in Soho" gal, who demonstrated safe sex with a banana, was sadly shut out, as was the first female Liza Minnelli impersonator in history. Too radical.) The Alanis girl won, even though her sash misspelled "West Village."
For a palate cleanser here, let me tell you my personally researched list of the top five sayings uttered by gays on the circuit—and let this be the last time we're subjected to their tiredness, girl. In ascending order of frequency, they are: "How very dare you!"; "I'm an ass-half-full kind of guy"; "Physician, heal thyself"; "Well, smell you!"; and, of course, the immortal "You can't rape the willing." No, dear, but you can certainly tell them to shut up!
A drunk at Pieces bar wouldn't plug it up the other night, but at least he managed to tell me that he'd heard a TV commentator unleash this gem of an observation: "Leave it to Madonna to find the only Jew who's a hot Latino with an uncut penis."
The uncut version of what happened on the plane to Vienna for the Life Ball—the big AIDS benefit/fashion gala—was that Paper magazine's Mickey Boardman found himself in the middle of some liquid mayhem involving Katy Perry and Kai Kuhne, the perennially tipsy ex-member of As Four. As Boardman explained it to me, "Someone dared Katy to kiss a sleeping man on the flight. She did it. Then Katy dared Kai to teabag me with a wet teabag in my face. I woke up and saw him doing it and pushed him away. His whole glass of champagne spilled all over me, though he said it was an accident." With him, it always is, but, in any case, two particularly vivid questions come to mind: Katy kissed a boy, and she liked it? And, more important, you can do teabagging with an actual teabag?
I sucked proverbial face with the performance crowd at the benefit for the Kitchen, where a roomful of lawyers and corporate sponsors watched Laurie Anderson and Sonic Youth put the "ah" back in avant garde as I schmoozed with Butthole Surfers' Gibby Haynes. "Johnny Depp is a real motherfucker!" Haynes told me, eyes a-popping. "Really? Why?" I asked, panting for some scoop. "He had two children that aren't twins, by the same woman," he said, grinning. Oh, a real jokester! Haynes went on to tell me a Jew joke and a Jesus gag and to crack that he may have had oral sex with Dr. Timothy Leary, "but I didn't witness it. Apparently, it was my penis. I didn't suck his dick, that's for sure." How very dare you!
It was surreally wonderful to see Lisa Edelstein again at a birthday bash in her East Village apartment last week. Way back in the prehistoric '80s, I wrote a column gushing about Lisa (then known as merely Lisa E.) and James St. James as the hot celebutantes on the scene, dolled-up young things who were running around clubs being fabulous and, in my eyes, really going places, too. People crucified me, saying, "Who cares about these two dingbats? Are you just plugging them because they're your friends?" Well, James went on to write the acclaimed memoir Disco Bloodbath, and Lisa co-stars on the hit show House. Snap, snap, score (which, by the way, is the sixth most overused gay expression).
At the get-together, I asked Lisa exactly how many shows she's been on through the years. "I don't know," she replied. "That's like counting how many people you've slept with." Speak for yourself, dear. But House has clicked, finding its audience when American Idol gave it a whopping lead-in and stopped it from foreclosure. Before all that, did Lisa really turn down a lead in Will & Grace? "I turned down my callback," she clarified. "I didn't think the part was right for me. I have to know I can like the person for seven years." And so the role went to Eric McCormack, ba dum pum. (Yes, I can do bad jokes, too.)
More soberly, I went to the Horton Foote memorial at the Vivien Beaumont, seeing as I know Halle, Daisy, and, in fact, all the Feet! The event—commemorating the esteemed American playwright and screenwriter—brought out a tasteful assortment of theater folk singing Foote's praises and acting out his dialogue. No one was greedily trying to divide the estate; they were so respectful of their subject that, if he were still around, Horton would have heard a who's-who. Best of all, his son, Walter Foote, told the crowd that people always advised Dad "to jazz things up, develop a plot, and bring in some action," but he didn't know how to do so, nor did he want to!
Was that a satisfying meal for you? Great. You can relieve yourself on a two-time Oscar winner on the way out.