Make way for my very own hot list, which is guaranteed to make EW‘s Hot List as the hottest list that is neither hot nor a list.
First of all, the wackiest Internet show for days is East Village Radio’s DList Radio, hosted by Daniel Nardicio, the go-go-boy-crazed party promoter who was going to throw events for Hillary Clinton‘s campaign until they realized he’s done sex parties. (I guess if they wanted someone who’s thrown sex parties, they could just get Bill.) The joy of the show is that it sounds like a bunch of downtown nuts and celebrity drop-ins flapping their gums without even realizing anyone’s listening (and for all I know, no one is). Recently, I guest-starred along with fierce romantic-advice-giver Robbyne Kaamil, who’s ready for prime time with her pricelessly phrased wisdoms about love and shit; retired showgirl Carlotta Wellington, who’s seen, screwed, and drunk it all; and tight-trousered Jonah Falcon, who paraded around his 20-foot dick as if the radio listeners could see it—and they probably could. (By the way, Falcon told me he’s “orally versatile” because he inventively grew up sucking his own wee-wee. Honey, I can’t even suck my own nipples.)
In between interviewing guests and spinning esoteric music and Madonna, Nardicio offered drag-queen gossip like how “I love Bianca del Rio, but she’s so evil that someone warned me: ‘You have to stop supporting Bianca. Everyone hates her.’ ” Now I love her even more! Then in came otherwordly singer Angel Eyedealism, who announced that her new name is Angel Eyecon—got that?—and comic Shawn Hollenbach, who said that when a doctor told him a digital prostate check would be the worst part of an exam, he vigorously disagreed (though he still wouldn’t bottom for a couple he recently three-wayed with, and as a result, he didn’t get a second date. Got that?).
By the way, after Bianca del Rio was let go from Vlada Lounge, they hired an even zanier queen named Logan, but on examination, they turned her mic off after just one song. And the ranks of bitter drag queens keep growing and growing.
The hottest reason in ages to leave the house on a Saturday is Misstress Formika‘s combustive get-together called Family (at 40 Avenue C), though last week Formika told me that opening night was even better. “A guy peed into a cup and drank it,” he said, misting over. “It was so old-school!” I love how we’re now waxing nostalgic about the good old days when clubbies used to drink pee, eat shit, and suck their own wee-wees.
Let’s raise some champagne to the hottest autobiographical musical performance: Sherie Rene Scott‘s You May Now Worship Me, a “one-Mennonite show” done to benefit Phyllis Newman‘s Women’s Health Initiative. Scott—who’s currently flapping around as Ursula in The Little Mermaid—was hilariously droll and vocally creamy, taking us from her upbringing in Topeka (“which is the Kickapoo word for ‘fabulous place to dig for potatoes’ “) to her adult life as a wealthy lady with a country house (“I’ve worked very hard for every penny of my husband’s family’s money.”) The high point was a brilliant sketch about a guy who worshipfully aped Scott on YouTube (played by Mermaid‘s Tyler Maynard) and how he came to turn rotten on her, as fans so often do. But not me. I sat with Sherie’s rich relations and, after much sucking up, I am now pretty much part of the family.
The week’s hot revival is South Pacific, in which the girl who got kicked in the head by a horse and fell for an Italian guy in Light in the Piazza is now romancing a Frenchman with mixed-race children, as the Italian guy from Piazza lusts for a Tonkinese chick being pimped out by her bad-ass mother, and the Latin lover from The Drowsy Chaperone watches on in drag. Got that? The perfectly lovely production goes for naturalistic interactions that don’t exactly electrify, coming way more alive when it dares to go larger (like with Kelli O’Hara‘s glorious “I’m in love, I’m in love . . .”). I know we’re supposed to orgasm over anything with restrained, scaled-down performances, but the eagerness with which critics now try to discredit the galvanizing star charisma of past productions is absurd. (They also worship any show with just two violins and a triangle because it’s “revisionist.”) Anyway, with Act II, the regret, romance, and heroism blend into a much more enchanted evening, with Paulo Szot‘s wrenching “This Nearly Was Mine” making me totally envy his self-pity.
An even darker retread, Macbeth is being presented as the lost Saw prequel as done by the Bard via David Cronenberg. The slasher-film effects are bracingly effective, the nutty touches work (“Double double, toil and trouble” is done as a rap song by three nurses), and it’s all ultra-theatrical, which is good because after all, it’s a theater piece. Amazingly, the show is twice as long as usual, but it somehow moves twice as quickly. I only felt that the Idina Menzel look-alike cast as Lady Macbeth played it too much like Lady Macbeth, if you know what I mean.
The hottest buffet was served at a dinner for The Visitor, a well-meaning misfire that aims to show us that immigrants are A-OK! In fact, they probably served us the buffet. Alas, the film only proves that they’re banality-spouting stick figures who primarily exist to shake up an equally blah white man’s life and get him to let loose on some djembe drums (if not a triangle). Let’s keep them out!
The totally hawt book I’m beating the drum for is The Secret Life of Siegfried and Roy, a dirtfest about the frozen-faced twosome whose biggest trick of all was keeping their homosexuality hidden from Middle America as if hiding a gerbil in a hat. Among the book’s revelations, Siegfried once “swooned over a handsome and very young magician named Darren Romeo.” Then again, he swooned over a lot of people. The authors contend: “Of the two, Siegfried had the bigger reputation for promiscuity. The staff joke was that he’d screw a doorknob if he thought it might respond.” Siegfried even shockingly admitted he’s slept with women, “which makes the ‘baby Siegfried’ (or ‘Siegfrieda’) rumor possible.” If there is a child, I bet it looks almost as young as Siggy.
But wait, here’s the best passage: “[Co-author] Jimmy Lavery discovered what a glory hole was when Roy Horn approached him one day and handed him a brass token . . . Roy told Jimmy he’d found the token in his car and figured Siegfried had dropped it there.” It turned out to be a token that fit perfectly into a coin-operated glory hole! And I’m shocked—that Siegfried hadn’t used it!
The most magical reality show is still National Geographic Channel’s Dog Whisperer, but for me, the problem is that there just aren’t that many different problems dogs can have. How many times can you sit through “The dog’s rambunctious energy is proving to be a threat to the neighbors”? And while I’m hopelessly addicted to truTV’s Forensic Files, all that painstaking evidence-gathering usually leads to the same unshocking conclusion: The husband who was cheating on the wife and just took out an insurance policy on her turns out to be the one who killed her!
The killer dessert place is still supposed to be Pinkberry, which I find sleekly nightclub-loungey, with ditsy but agreeable help. But while the green-tea and coffee-flavored “yogurt-styled” stuff they serve is self-evident, what, pray tell, is in the “original” flavored one? The shit is white, so that’s no help whatsoever. It tastes vaguely lemony, but it’s also mildly sour, like crème that’s been left on the table a little too long, with a teensy hint of metal sprinkled in. Call me crazy, but I need a little more detailed description than “original” to know exactly what faux-flavor I’m pretending to enjoy. Until that happens, Pinkberry will sit in limbo on my “What?” list.