Ari Gold: The sledgehammer’s in one of those wooden lockers.
So they dangled a few more clams in front of mama’s paws and suddenly she’s in the blogosphere! Yes, I’ll be going to that clichéd place in your computer by pinching out a daily posting of mirth and mayhem—something wise and witty and astounding, yet not SO good it will blind you to the fact that there’s still an actual column coming every Wednesday. Maybe I’ll be tipping you off to items I’ll be developing in that very column or perhaps I’ll be serving bits of news and nonsense from the world of nightlife, entertainment, politics, and other people’s blogs. But whatever smug verbiage I’m selling, I want you to comment, bitch, moan, call me fat and ugly, and basically help me feel alive again.
For my very first posting, I searched my soul to come up with something special and sophisticated enough to make it truly memorable for the ages. How about listing funny names for a vagina? (Crotch taco, nee-naw, tuna casserole. . .) No, let’s not be absurd. Let’s at least distinguish ourselves with our debut, then sink to the tar pits later. Besides, I need that list for the column! So instead, how about cute names for an anus? (Chocolate hole, open Hershey Bar, pucker palace…)
No, wait, let’s just talk about how a shirtless man is mad at me and coming at me with a sledgehammer! It’s Ari Gold, the singer who approached me at a club to say he doesn’t feel any love coming from me! (i.e., I haven’t mentioned him enough.) Ari is a shameless, I mean shirtless self promoter who once cornered me to promote himself the second I was about to go onstage at a club awards event. Much as I would have loved to be hawked his latest merch at the very moment, my own public called and I had to grace the podium, albeit a little shaken. His singularity of vision—about his own success—is certainly astounding and I’ve always sort of admired the chutzpah while trying to keep my distance from the hard sell (and hard body).
Gold feels that as an openly gay artist, he deserves a heaping of attention from me, who champions homo talent all the time. In all candor, I told him I don’t write much about music, but he shot back, “I don’t buy that”—not the most gracious response to a gracious response, but again, very singular. Another valid excuse is that I don’t automatically write about someone just because they’re openly gay. If that were an instant ticket to publicity, there’d be a lot more artists bursting out of the closet (which would actually be fabulous—maybe next week I’ll plug every single out person there is, but perhaps not the murderers).
But all my bitchings dissolve when I’m forced to admit that when I’ve seen Gold perform, he’s come off charged and talented (I’m starting to sound like Susan Hayward in Valley of the Dolls), and I don’t even think he needs to take his shirt off all the time to make a point. People Magazine gave his newest CD, Transport Systems, a good review. And the sleazy guy on Entourage has the same name. So the truth is we love you, Ari! Mazeltov!
Oh, and congrats to Tom Cruise, who escapes Andrew Morton’s new book about him with precious little sexuality talk and just a few mentions of the “gay slurs” that make Tom sue, leading to Morton’s assertion that “Tom has successfully—and rightly—won every legal battle about his sexuality.” But Morton does sneak in a story about ANOTHER wacky porn star. . . and I’ll have to tell you about it in the column.
This week’s La Dolce Musto: “A New Crisis for Britney’s Sister?“