The only effective way to flush clichés out of our language is to use them all up at once in a cathartic colonic of bad verbiage and then move on, honey. You know what I mean by clichés: You are so busted. These are my peeps. My bad. Don’t go there. Talk to the hand. Hello! In your face. Take no prisoners. I’m there for you. What’s that about? Not so shabby. You snooze, you lose.
And so on, until the cows come home.
All those worn-out phrases and more will be used in this column, so you can pay special attention to them as you absorb and then reject them forever. No, Kuwait a minute—I’ve already used all the fuckers up. There isn’t a single cliché left in the world, even on Jerry Springer! I’m such a total dork—but that’s great and a bag of chips, actually. We’re now guaranteed a dewy fresh column, one devoid of tired descriptions and overly familiar thoughts. It’s all good.
Of course, I can still write about clichés, so let’s start with the boring, claustrophobic, and offensive Gigli (rhymes with “really”)—a supposed paean to sexual fluidity which is actually just a tired-businessman’s fantasy of coercing a dyke to “hop the fence.” As you’ve heard, J.Lo plays a kickass “clam licker” who finds herself teamed with deceptively Cro-Magnon-like co-kidnapper Ben Affleck (“I’m not gay!”) and a patronizingly cute “retard” (who at different times has autism, brain damage, and Tourette’s, but is always irritating).
“What about me isn’t your type?” asks Ben, and J.Lo jauntily responds, “Your penis,” generously assuming he has one. But it complicates things that the part-time man-resenter has dabbled in dicks, as Ben’s mother (Lainie Kazan) has with other stuff; Mom even kisses J.Lo on the mouth (a vagina-like cavity, as J.Lo explains) after smirkily announcing, “Keep an open mind.” And legs—J.Lo the experimenter can’t resist opening hers for Ben, after dumping one of those crazy, suicidal-lezzie girlfriends who are so unreasonable when the loved one is on assignment. “I thought you wanted to be my bitch,” J.Lo declares, mounting the guy—yes, she’s on top—for the dreaded sex montage, which climaxes with him muttering, “God bless you, penis.” (Yep, it turns out he has one.) This all sounds like tons of fun, but trust me, it isn’t, especially when the “Bennifer” duo debates pricks versus vaginas while she adopts suggestive yoga poses. (This was about when The New York Times‘ Elvis Mitchell stormed out of the screening.) That scene is second only to the one where the “retard”—no, not Ben, the other one—realizes his dream, to swelling choral music, of entering a Baywatch-type beach scenario, presented here as the height of male achievement. Really. It’s all bad.
Moving on to the real Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, the buzz on that highly consumable show has been so deafening—even in the wake of Boy Meets Boy—that I need a “hip tip” as to where to get some really cool earplugs. It’s gotten so out of hand that even if someone’s hit by a truck and you help them onto a stretcher, they mutter, “Have you seen Queer Eye?” before dying. The show clearly appeals to vast realms of people who love the idea of tasteful queens serving needy straights. But naturally, there’s some backlash: Exaggerated messiness. Too much product placement. Icky sexual-harassment jokes (the kind I make). And sexuality clichés (which we’re rejecting today). Still, who cares? Have you seen Queer Eye?
The show, by the way, is perfectly timed with the metrosexual trend of straight guys pouncing on gay hygiene and grooming principles. But here’s where I should note that the downside of this craze is that it allows sneaky closet cases to hide under the “metro” term, as if they’re really just friendly, effeminate heteros. Note to them: Metrosexuals prime their faces and sautée new potatoes, but they do not suck dick, OK?
But back to the out gays: “Dancing on the Beach 3,” a benefit for the LGBT Center, was held at a sprawling, homosexual-filled beach house in East Hampton. You know which beach—Two Mile Hollow, which has been redubbed Two Mile Swallow, thanks to all the wanton sex that’s taken place there among the dune dudes. (Here’s a hip tip: Put a pretty seashell to your ear there and you wind up with a used condom as a clip-on.) Of course the uppity resort’s been cracking down on all that stuff, and now, hopefully, all the fucking and sucking can return to Main Street.
Meanwhile, sucking in cheekbones is back because downtown faves Brini Maxwell and Patrick McDonald have been throwing fun, monthly “The Hostess and the Highbrow” parties at Alfama, attracting fashiony types who’ll eat something, but only if the residue on their lips doesn’t clash with their Gucci knickers. Patrick is the dandy about town who doesn’t leave the house if there’s one bauble left in the closet. (At the last “Highbrow” bash, he swore he was casually dressed, which meant beaded cashmere harem pants, dozens of bracelets, and a crocheted skullcap.) Brini—the legal, drag answer to Martha Stewart—was resplendent in a floral gown and flawlessly immobile hair. Her public-access show—a nouveau helpful-hints program, with a teensy smirk enlivening all the good sense—is coming to E! Style Network, and they’ve already shot episodes with Cynthia Rowley and Helen Gurley Brown (the original Candace Bushnell). Brini said Brown was delightful, jauntily declaring that sexual harassment is a way overstated issue. (That’s good news for the Queer boys.) At another point, she asked Brini, “Have you ever been married?” “For one tense moment,” says the host, “we all wondered, ‘Does she know that I’m a man?’ ” More pressingly, do we know that Helen isn’t? Teehee, teehee.
All woman, Joan Rivers was an acidic riot at Fez last week, trashing the late Bob Hope (“At least now his wife knows where he is”), savaging Katharine Hepburn (“a mean dyke”), and expressing astonishment that her daughter Melissa turned down Playboy. (“I told her, ‘Ask for another $100,000 and show pussy!’ I’m still paying off her wedding, and they’ve been divorced for a year and a half!”) Joan seemed a little more sympathetic to the newly separated Liza Minnelli and David Gest. “I hope she has eggs left,” she said, meaning David.
All kinds of oddballs mate in the cliché-subverting puppet musical Avenue Q, which is an utter delight—a Sesame Street spoof with heart and dirty words, true love and Republican bashing. The theater-queen puppet is a definite standout, but let’s not forget the masturbating Web surfer or the slutty singer from the Girls Gone Wild series. It’s all so cleverly done it leaves you beaming, if a little more conscious about what you stick your hand up at night.
Speaking of which, Scott—one of the supposedly more wholesome finalists on that Cupid TV show—turned up the other day on a local cable dating program, saying he has a stash of sex toys and his ideal first date ends in a hand job. That sounds wholesome enough to me. God bless his penis.
And now, I’m off to finally finish up my Easter candy. Those are my Peeps!