Room With a Spew

Chloe knows a "sweet piece of ass"
photo: Courtesy of Luke Nero

Some unrelated short items for PARIS HILTON and anyone else with A.D.D. and an unread Bible: First off, Logo meets Lego with Rick & Steve, the very animated series bringing stop-action tops and bottoms to gay Middle America. WILL MATTHEWS, who does the voice of the Filipino-American insatiable bottom Rick, was prancing around Pop Rocks last week, so I told him I was surprised the generally restrained Logo is going for something that reportedly pushes so many (Manila) envelopes. "I think it's their breakout show," he said. "Not a happy, feel-good documentary about so much of their gay worldview—it's angry, biting, and funny." "And how do you feel about taking a job away from a Filipino?" I snarled, sort of joking. "I try not to think about that too much," Matthews replied, tastefully.

The multiracial new Hairspray flick is 300 pounds of fun, but I noticed the absence of the fab "Mama, I'm a Big Girl Now" number, except in a version played over the closing credits. Why isn't it in my worldview? Genius composer MARC SHAIMAN told me the number was never filmed. "We had to cut an hour [from the screenplay]," he related. "And the song doesn't really push the plot forward. We already see that Tracy wants to be a star, Penny's mom is a Nazi, and Velma is the mother from hell in the establishing book scenes. And [director] ADAM SHANKMAN made a very interesting point, which is that the song humanizes Velma and Amber, making their situation too close to Tracy's and Penny's, which onstage, with cute staging, you don't quite mind. But in a movie 'reality' it was better to not—right away, especially—make Amber be like Tracy." Gosh, these queens really thought this thing through, didn't they?

A different omission seems to be happening with the line of Hairspray dolls being released to celebrate the movie about integration in the '60s: They're all white! Dolls representing Edna, Tracy, Link, and Penny are coming upon us any day now, and not until the holiday season will an actual dark-skinned one—i.e., Seaweed—finally emerge. "Back of the bus?" murmurs one blogger.

A new Batman will be coming at us, and I hear white supporting player ERIC ROBERTS is even less beloved by the extras than he is by his sister. It seems Julia's surly bro' is generally not very nice to the little folkand, what's worse, he makes a loud trumpet sound with his mouth after every take!

The sound of razzies greeted TOMMY WISEAU's bizarre 2003 movie melodrama The Room, so they remarketed it as a dark comedy and put it on DVD some time ago. And it's genius—the best worst movie ever made, filled with stilted dialogue, problematic continuity, and explosive situations with no set-up or follow-up, all interspersed with softcore-porn montages and establishing shots of the Golden Gate Bridge. Everything was cut that humanizes anyone. In the lead role, Wiseau himself mangles English, shows his veiny butt, and chortles after every line. (Maybe he knows something.) But the only real drawback for viewers is that you don't get to catch your breath between the two "best" scenes—Wiseau hurriedly buying flowers from a fat lesbian, and his lady love ordering a pizza with "half Canadian bacon and pineapple, half artichoke with pesto, and light on the cheese." Please enter The Room—you'll never play football in tuxedos the same way ever again.

A Broadway musical based on a rotten movie that's heavy on the cheese, Xanadu comments on the lack of inspiration in the theater world while threatening to become part of the problem, but it rises above all that with goofy self-mockery. Described by some as the world's longest Easter Bonnet Competition sketch, the show has some flat spots and desperate jokes, but it's generally grin-out-loud and even hilarious, with funny anachronisms, campy blurtings ("She's a demigod, bonehead!"), and looney assertions ("Kira is Tangerine—and they're both Clio.") KERRY BUTLER is deliciously fun as all three ladies, and some of the other cast members skillfully chew the scenery until the disco balls descend and prove indigestible. Scarily enough, I liked the show best when it stayed straightforward and stuck to the original plot. (You know, a Greek muse comes to life in Venice Beach and helps a dork open a roller disco). Then again, I'm looking forward to the sequel to Glitter.


In the realm of real glitter balls, the splashiest recent club spectacle was the self-proclaimed wedding ceremony uniting LADYFAG, a spunky gal who considers herself a gay male (and who's going to argue?), and Rainblo, a candy-colored drag queen who looks like a psychedelic barber pole, at Cain, which will probably never be quite the same. Was it for real? For a green card? Or for a more sincere reason—to get press? Responds Ladyfag, "The question on many people's minds was, 'Why? Is he not a faggot? Do they fuck?' But I think people left the wedding with a feeling that sometimes we forget in nightlife—caring about each other. Sometimes love happens unexpectedly. Yes, he's a fag, but hey—so am I! And neither one of us is your average faggot.  

"It all happened in a nightclub," she went on, "but we do have lives outside it, and as Rainblo and I have always said to one another, 'When the wigs come off and the makeup's removed, all that's left is me and you.' We have found a true love that supports and inspires our life. So what if we're both in separate bathroom stalls with other people? We always go home together!" It's starting to sound more and more like one of those Scientology hookups, but this one happened organically, and they're so open about it, you gotta just go yay and throw confetti in their cocktails.

In other genital nightlife news, LUKE NERO, the waiter with the perfect ass at the downtown club Mr. Black, delightfully insists not only on keeping it exposed while he does his wait-serving, but on peskily shoving it in everyone's face. The reaction, invariably enough, is sheer horror! Kidding—it's absolute delight as the customers (including celebs like FERGIE and CHLO SEVIGNY) gleefully pose for photos with those charming cheeks in between an occasional pinch for freshness. Well, Nero has amassed such an astounding collection of photos that he's now shopping a coffee-table book of them! It'll have even more shots of asses than the MISSHAPES book.

By the way, every time I go on a date in a club, there comes a point where the guy spots recording artist CAZWELL in the crowd and practically orgasms, cooing, "Ooh, there's Cazwell! He's so cute!" Fuck off, Cazwell. You're ruining my love life.

But back to the items: The most telegenic scene at Equinox recently was ANDERSON COOPER on a stair machine right next to SAM CHAMPION on a treadmill, the two of them occasionally communicating in between huffs and puffs. They were probably saying, "If this gym burned down, there'd be no more gays on TV."

Porn icon MICHAEL LUCAS was recently spotted sporting sunglasses (he had lasix surgery) and, more inhibitingly, braces on his teeth. But how does he suck dick, pray tell? "I take them off," he told me, simply.

Meanwhile, the new New York Times offices need all kinds of serious surgery, as you may have already read. First off, there's practically nowhere private to go in the whole place—everything's brightly lit, and even the "crying rooms" for privacy are glassed off in full view. Worse, there are maggots dropping out of the vents because the vermin in there—you heard me—have attracted larvae-wielding horseflies. In one department, horrifyingly enough, a maggot fell about an inch away from someone's coffee, almost creating a highly unwanted mug of magga-ccino! It's like a CHRISTIAN BALE movie. I haven't been so shocked since Mary Poppins said cunt at Broadway Bares. Good night. Loud trumpet sound made with my mouth. With braces off.


Want to know what Anna Nicole Smith thought of her ex husband, feminism, and Madonna? Well, while doing some belated housecleaning, I came upon my 1993 interview with the then-exploding model and realized she had uncorked some doozies. Her first hubby?

"He was very abusive," Anna Nicole told me. "I was too scared to fight back. . .He's been in his room ever since I left, in his parents' house. He has circles under his eyes—and his hair is whiter than mine."

Were men in the business coming on to her all the time? "No," she said. "No one has approached me, no one serious."

Maybe because they're gay? "I've noticed that. I've noticed that a lot."

Did she consider herself a feminist? "I don't understand that question," she admitted. You know, fighting for women's rights. "Whoever started that, I could kick them in the head. I believe in women staying home and watching the children while the husband's at work."

What happened in the kitchen at Red Lobster, where SHE worked? "I'm not going to tell. . .Just don't ever make anyone mad and don't send anything back."

Who did she think is sexier—Madonna or Sharon Stone? "Oh, gosh, neither. I'm upset with Sharon because she was offered the Marilyn Monroe part (in a proposed adaptation of The Immortals) and she looks nothing like her. I wanted that part. Madonna was approached too. I would have thrown up. She plays good music—that's all I can say. She should definitely stick to that. I used to like her in the old days when she was nice, before all the fame and fortune got to her."

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