“It’s up to you to keep the Lower East Side sleazy!” director Lola Rock ‘N’ Rolla told the converted at the Arlene’s Grocery Picture Awards, generously providing me not only with a life’s mission, but with a hook for my first few graphs.
Just a couple of days before that, we’d reveled in the gloriously sleazy Miss L.E.S. (As in Lower East Side) pageant at Fez, hosted by drag king extraordinaire Murray Hill and featuring a motley bunch of l.e.s.bians who battled it out in swim-wear, men’s suits, and peerless diesel-dyke attitude. As an esteemed judge, I had to rate a saucy bunch that included Miss Bowery, who cracked a whip and lip-synched “Goldfinger” while donning plastic gloves and simulating a rather harsh gynecological exam; Miss Ludlow, whose platform was the very heartwarming “Jimmy Choo shoes for Jews”; and the rather wasted Miss Delancey, who pulled her mission statement—a long strip of paper—out of her exposed vagina and read it aloud, unsurprisingly admitting that some of the writing had gotten smeared. (But at least she wasn’t menstruating.) We knew exactly where she would put her prize money if she won. Instead, Miss Bowery nabbed the top honors and raised her fist triumphantly as we ran in terror.
We landed downstairs at CBGB, where an equally guttery Lydia Lunch-hosted bash had the amusing Jonathan Ames reading a poem about cracking his nose when a woman sat on his face too hard. (Like Miss Delancey’s privates, mercifully, it didn’t bleed.) Bibbe Hansen, a/k/a Beck’s mother, also read from a racy memoir, afterward telling me, “First I had to live my life, then I had to recover, and now I’m writing about it!” Me too, minus the recovery part!
Next we immersed our cracked noses in the aforementioned Arlene’s Grocery awards, which gave cans of beans—literally—to 30 of the 149 films they’d screened in a two-day festival of sumptuously arty raunch. The clips shown involved water sports, genital torture, and a dog lusting for a woman’s titties. The winners’ names should have been pulled out of someone’s vagina! Backstage, the mood was very Channel 35 meets E! True Hollywood Story. Presenter Bob Berkowitz told me he specializes in sex-related TV talk shows, “and I even do it once in a while.” More quaintly, Soupy Sales‘s wife was trying out hubby’s walker to see if it would fit onstage. And Jared Harris—who’s in the play Humble Boy—told me, “Movies are better pay, but theater is more immediate.” I guess the optimum would be a combination where you get immediate pay.
As a presenter—yes, I believe in participatory journalism—I had to follow a dancing vagina, Hole’s Melissa Auf der Maur singing “Sweet Child o’ Mine,” and Square Pegs‘ John Femia, who said, “Everyone wants to know if I’m alive or dead. Well, I’m here to announce that I’m dead!” Finally onstage, I screeched that I was not leaving till I saw the promised Ron Palillo (Horshack from Welcome Back, Kotter) and out he came, as a female fan barreled up from the audience with her cleavage popping out of a hole in a Horshack shirt. “Her tits are in my forehead,” Palillo exclaimed, and then they literally were; the banshee lifted the little schnook and spun him around as if in a Celebrity Deathmatch. It was all très fun, but later on, I gagged when I saw Palillo counting his remuneration for the evening. (Talk about immediate pay.) I had worked for just fruit salad!
That’s it for the sleazy Lower East Side stuff. Let’s move uptown to Broadway, where the stripper musical Gypsy is so familiar by now, it should be on TV Land with the sweat hogs, the professor, and Mary Ann. Based on the buzz surrounding the new revival, I was ready to paraphrase a line in the show and scream, “You ain’t gettin’ 88 bucks out of me, Sam Mendes!” But it turns out to be a competent, if surprisingly conventional production, considering it’s from the man whose Cabaret still has me picking pubic hairs out of my mouth. (Of course Mendes apparently did have a darker vision, but everyone was outraged, so he was forced to mainstream it. Last week, glamorous sets were still being broken in, making for a few interesting ad-libs.)
As Mama Rose, that trooper Bernadette Peters may be reaching too hard, but her eternal Kewpie doll demeanor does allow you to see the eerie link between her and Baby June, and she sends chills during “Everything’s Coming Up Roses” and when asking Herbie, “Why does everybody leave me?” At the opening-night party—where everybody left me—Peters had the whole world (and some trout salad) on a plate. “She pulled it out of her ass,” said Hairspray composer Scott Wittman. “A brilliant performance!” (That’s better than pulling it out of your . . . you know.) Linda Hart said she was desperate to take a night off from Hairspray to catch her pal Bernadette’s performance, but was told that wouldn’t be right. As for Gypsy‘s librettist, Arthur Laurents, when I asked if he was happy, he stonily replied, “It’s too late for me to talk.” He looked nauseous, but then turned his mood around and added, “I’m absolutely thrilled for Bernadette!”
Other “new” shows also revel in the old and familiar, like tired cats hiding under musty blankets. Enchanted April isn’t enchanted, but it’s definitely April. Three blocks away, Salome has a bunch of Oscar winners sitting on chairs and holding scripts, which they never look at, but which allow this to be a “reading” sans staging or scenery. Al Pacino would have chewed it all up anyway. His performance—very King Herod via Bobby Zarem—hints at brilliance, but becomes tiresome as he screams each line like a manic-depressive cab dispatcher.
The Look of Love starts out all bland and cruise-ship-ready, with too many songs sung without reinvention, except for some vocal flourishes and a loud screech at the end. But a funny thing happens in Act II. It develops some style, rhythm, and a point of view worthy of the Bacharach–David songs (which to me are pure heaven—sophisticated, willowy anthems of love and desperation). I ultimately gave in to this mess—but would it have killed them to put in a few more gay looks of love?
While we’re on gay looks, you may have heard that Will & Grace‘s Sean Hayes tried to be cute at the L.A. GLAAD Awards, hinting at coming out, then coyly backing down. “I think it’s time to share something about myself,” Hayes told the crowd, later stopping himself and saying, “I’m being selfish again . . . I apologize!” Commentator Gay Boy Ric reports that Hayes “came off as tedious and annoying, his feeble attempt at humor in effect mocking the entire nature of the evening.” Otherwise, it was fine.
In more fulfilling gossip, I hear that Robert Verdi (Surprise by Design, fashion TV) might turn up on Hollywood Squares, and I’m just guessing he’ll be in the Paul Lynde/Bruce Vilanch cubicle. Lower East Side birdies also chirp that fallen American idol Frenchie Davis (the one who posed topless) is under consideration for a role in the proposed Dreamgirls movie, which they swear will probably, definitely, maybe someday happen. More certifiably, nightlife wiz Jimmy Rodriguez is opening a club in the old Danceteria space. And over in that irresistible vanity space Sephora, as Chris Kattan‘s lady friend ogled the merch, Kattan was overheard to say, “You want that? I’ll buy it for you.” Who knew Mango was such a giver?
Meanwhile, can you believe you can’t buy Outlet, the new gay channel, yet? It’s still waiting for a green (or maybe lavender) light! And finally, my most shocking item of the week: Gays will pay $13 for an apple martini. But not if it’s pulled out of someone’s vagina.