As a result of having just gone through something of an emotional crisis, I’ve been exuding a raw openness and desperation lately, and guys have picked up on it with miraculous results. Tasting despair can be pretty unnerving, but libidinally speaking, it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, since hotties are sensing my accessibility and zooming in for the roadkill. After decades of inactivity bordering on crotch rot, my newfound craving for any human contact has me suddenly swatting off men like fruit flies, and I totally recommend it. No, really—have a nervous breakdown! It’s great for your love life!
I was especially hotsky to trotsky one recent Sunday evening at a certain nightclub, where my floundering and vulnerability filled the room like aphrodisiacs, and I magically turned from beast into Belle (or, more precisely, into slut). In fact, thanks to my finally having dropped my defenses, among other things, people were lining up to play me like a slot machine. In the grasping spontaneity of the moment, two gentlemen and I made a rather unholy scene in the chapel—anyone strolling by got quite a show, honey—a debauch which started when one of the guys kept holding up a camera and telling various males, “Give me a pose I can [pleasure myself] to later” and the other guy I mentioned complied in a saucy way I’d rather keep etched in my memory bank. It turned out that pleasuring oneself later was no longer necessary—the two guys became occupied right on the spot, “and I helped!” as the little girl in that classic Shake and Bake commercial always yelped so cutely. (Look, my life’s always been an open dime-store novel, and even if none of this is anything to brag about, it’s too late now, so let’s keep going sewer-ward.)
Anyway, this was just moments after I’d been exchanging numbers with a hot Latino, at least until his boyfriend angrily dragged him away, pulling his tongue right off my larynx! The handsome señor called the next day anyway—and so, amazingly, did the other two babes—and suddenly I’m no longer clawing through the wreckage of my depression, I’m reeling from the glow of my impossibly studly success. It’s a phenomenon—an absolute wonder that my bat is hitting homers so late in the (let’s be generous) fourth or fifth inning! But now I desperately need advice on how to transition from the life of a nerdy castrato to that of the world’s most bizarrely desirable genital juggler. Help!
Assaulted mixed nuts
>> By the way, on Sundays, Avalon plays home to Kurfew parties which are trashily fun—but mind you, that is not, repeat, absolutely not the place I was just describing. But enough about me. I also go to those
Susanne Bartsch/Kenny Kenny Tuesday nights at Happy Valley—not for sex (though two guys did pin me against the wall), but for the way they’ve recaptured the circusy spirit of the old club days, when everyone, no matter how annoying, brought something wild and welcome to the mad-tea-party table. The three-level bash attracts an actual mix, tossing together nouveau club kids, old-timers, pumped-up Escuelita trannies, and
Prince Dimitri of Yugoslavia. And since the crowd is generally worth targeting, there are lots of people photographing them (but not the above-mentioned provocateur, alas) and handing out invites for other parties—always a good sign. The remixed retro music, cute bartenders, burlesque acts, and giant vagina (don’t ask) all collide for a kitschily attractive mix. Best of all, there are no celebrities. But I’m sore from running up and down the steps all night trying not to miss anyone.
I’m also sore from other things, but let’s not dip into that cesspool again. More tastefully, I vaguely remember growing irritable at
Karl Lagerfeld when the sunglassed style server never bothered to sashay into his own Mercer Hotel book party a few weeks ago. Why the fuck not? A publicist never responded to my e-mail posing that question, but I heard Karl was sprawled out up in his room at the hotel the whole time, no doubt waiting to be told of any major celebrity arrivals at the party so he could whoosh on down. And sprawling. And waiting. And so on.
Turn on the swish
>> But we certainly don’t have to wait for gays to appear on-screen anymore. They’re here, they’re queer, and the hicks will have to get used to it. But while the mostly positive representation is the result of everything we fought for, is it possible things have gotten a little too correct? After all, the gay lovers in The Family Stone came off as sweet but calculatedly diverse cutouts whose purpose was to be living billboards for caring and commitment. (Apparently gays can love better than straights in parts of modern-day Hollywood. I prefer Avalon, where they’re authentically messy.) And the sweetly observed Brokeback Mountain‘s gay couple also seems more symbolic than real, so much so that I never felt an irrevocable bond between them or even cried when they hit the inevitable road bumps. (And enough with all the talk about the actors’ bravery at playing gay. No one says that when people play murderers or junkies. Besides, they’re piling up awards and getting huge career boosts. How brave is that?)
So—I never thought I’d say this—let’s please have the stereotypes back! The ones we screamed and protested against! Even if critics decided The Producers is the dud Springtime for Hitler was supposed to be, I’ll take that film’s flaming theater queen Roger De Bris (played by
Gary Beach) and his “common-law assistant” Carmen Ghia (Roger Bart) over all these heart-tugging gays anytime. They’re alive, for god’s sake! They’re joyous and vibrant and bitchy and deeply connected, propping each other up in between shit fits and uplifting everyone else with sensible cries of “Keep it gay!” They lead people in conga lines and make WWII a fun experience and turn Hitler into Judy Garland while making a bomb into a smash—and even though they’re there to spoofily embody all the old clichés and to provide gay panic for the leads to play off, you realize how contagious their vitality is when Leo Bloom ends up in De Bris’s boa and headdress. Viva la fruitcakes!
Only going slightly off topic here, the most memorable recent discussion on TV came in the wake of the religious wrong’s reaction to Brokeback Mountain. It was on CNN, when
Jack Cafferty said, “There aren’t too many closet doors that are left closed in this country.” “I think you’re probably right,” responded
Wolf Blitzer. I guess they haven’t watched their own show, 360 Degrees with you know whom.
Speaking of which, Nardi-Gras—Downtown scamp
Danel Nardicio‘s freewheeling show on eastvillageradio.com—has a segment called “Inside Anderson Cooper,” which is a place we’d no doubt all like to go. And the show goes to other locales too. Recently, Nardicio featured gossip extraordinaire
Perez Hilton—the new me—talking cynically about
Ashlee Simpson‘s exhaustion problem and saying—on a whole other subject, of course—that today’s stars don’t know how to handle their drugs. Considering the squalid first section of this column, I’m in no position to wag a finger at anyone’s behavior—though I’ll gladly wag it at their behinds.
No, really, I’m a fan
Recently, a comic I’d never heard of e-mailed me to serve oozy praise while asking me to guest star in a live variety show he was doing at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre. I said, “Sure, what the heck?” but two days before showtime, he replaced me with the Gastineau girls, admitting he felt “like a disgusting showbiz whore” for having to do so. Well, I happened to be at that theater on the big night—a long story—and in the green room, I ran into modelFrederique van der Wal. “I’m the comic’s guest star tonight!” she informed me, surprisingly. No, I have no idea, but it was all a pretty hilarious reminder that I probably should stop being a disgusting showbiz whore and saying yes all the time (though I won’t stop my other whoring, naturally).
Meanwhile, I hear HBO has said yes to doing a series on Rodney Dangerfield starring a rabbi I know. You must believe me. Also trust Mama that
Angelina Jolie was spotted at a New York antiques showcase, buying a Mickey Mouse watch for Maddox‘s “Uncle Jimmy”—i.e., her brother. So they’re still dating! And Will Smithis still tight with his friend Charlie Mack. At a PM Lounge party, Smith served a touchingly real tribute to the guy, telling the crowd, “When I first met Charlie, he was well on his way in neighborhood pharmaceuticals. He had a thriving business in southwest Philadelphia.” Eventually, Smith urged Mack to end all that, and now the Philly skanks I know can no longer get extra crack on their cheesesteaks.
Everyone’s still talking about ABC’s New Year’s Eve show and how they exploited everyone’s interest in how DICK CLARK would look and sound. (Not good, it turned out; talk about “stroke of midnight”). But everyone would have watched Clark anyway, and besides, I think it’s great that for once, TV chose not to show just the pretty and refused to shield viewers from disability. But what was with Mariah’s thunder thighs?