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 does pert little pixie Leslie Jordan, whose stream-of-gay-consciousness one-man show, My Trip Down the Pink Carpet, is hilarious and ultimately inspiring, filled with zesty experiences, from his telling Marlee Matlin that the alarm of her white Mercedes was going off to butting bewigged heads with Boy George in a strange commercial for sake ("Honey, she's evil!").
For me, last week's pink carpet led to judging the Mr. Gay Philadelphia contest at Voyeur, which has nothing to do with the West Hollywood boîte where Republicans spent RNC money to patronize "erotic art" of the type they so vehemently condemn. There was no hypocrisy at this Voyeur club. The event was open, shameless, oozing with brotherly love, and as delightfully cracked as the Liberty Bell.
As the comely contestants paraded down the runway in evening wear, hosts Brittany Lynn and Frank DeCaro announced interesting factoids about each one. ("He has size 12 feet" somehow had the audience cheering as if the end of wartime had been declared.) That was followed by the bathing suit category, during which we judges strained our bloodshot eyeballs trying to distinguish the padded scrotums from the ones that needed padding. (I'm sensing a theme to this column.)
And in the climactic Q&A section, the incredibly diverse questions ranged from "How much would you charge Larry King for sex?" to "How much would you charge Tiger Woods for sex?" (Fifteen million dollars would be optimal in both cases, naturally.) "I wouldn't do it because I have a boyfriend," insisted one staunchly upright contender, and I applauded wildly, loving the idea that if the guy were single, he'd gladly entertain the idea of unsuspendering Larry's scrotal sac and diving on it for some coinage. (Honey, I'm evil!)
A less pissy contestant got extra points when he announced that he's a physician's assistant, "and I'll let you give me prostate exams later." The audience got so excited by this proposition that they even forgot about his abnormally large feet. But because the competition was so Philadelphia-fierce, the saucy stud only came in second. Shoot me, Kevorkian!