Friday, November 28, 2008

Live Blogging "Rosie Live"

I'm so excited!!! I've been waiting for this show for months. Rosie's sooo funny and so wonderfully subversive I can't wait to see what she'll get up to. Too bad I couldn't get tickets to see it in person.

And there she is! Oh, girlfriend: the lipstick is a mistake. It's almost scarlet, and that autumnal skin tone really needs more of a peach. Plus, it veers waaay outside the lines in the middle, making it look like Rosie's permanently puckered up. She launches into a joke about her boobs, which is strange considering the whole purpose of this show is to entertain the whole family. This is a smack in the face to Gay Uncle Bob.

A trap door in the stage opens up and a figure slowly slides up. OHMIGOD IT'S LIZA! LIZA MINNELLI! I am absolutely her biggest, biggest fan. That voice, that dancing, that razzmatazz -- she's a Broadway icon, a legend, every talent in the world, rolled up into one sparkly package.

She and Rosie immediately launch into a duet of "City Lights." Hmm; an odd selection, from the 1977 Kander and Ebb show The Act. A better choice might have been --

Ooh, Liza's not doing well. Tremulous, and off-key. Some of those notes, girlfriend, are barely notes. And Rosie . . . she's slow, she's awkward, and she can't carry a tune. It's like watching Richard Simmons work out with Marlon Brando.

This is . . . not good. In fact, it's pretty much . . . abhorrent. Repulsive. And now I'm feeling a little strange. In my stomach. In the back of my head. It's -- it's . . . .

Who am I? Where am I?

Whose stylish apartment is this? Why am I wearing a caftan? Where'd my chest hair go?

Holy fuckin' Christ. I . . . I've been scared straight. I watched something so gay and so disturbing, I've actually been scared straight.

I'm going to get myself a beer, and from then on, dudes, this blog's all about sports.



Chinese artist Ju Duoqi is making her own versions of some of the world's greatest paintings -- out of food.

Famous works given the edible treatment include da Vinci's The Last Supper, Andy Warhol’s Marilyn Monroe, and a Mona Lisa made entirely of tofu and sea kelp.


Once a month the smile goes away and the picture makes caviar.
From The L Magazine's review of Milk:

(One nemesis, ballot-initiator Anita Bryant, plays herself a la Joe McCarthy in Good Night, and Good Luck . . . while fellow pol Dan White, who ensured Milk’s martyrdom, is played by Josh Brolin, Hollywood’s new Chris Cooper.)


Got that? "Ensured Milk's martyrdom." Meaning, you know, KILLED HIM.

Thursday, November 27, 2008



Yeah, like a real one helps nuns feed the poor.
Will Smith, in a commercial for Seven Pounds:

When I was a kid, I thought I was strong. Maybe even invincible.


Really, Will? Did you also think that you were wise, but it was wisdom born of pain? That you paid the price, but look how much you gained?

I'll bet if you had to, you could do anything.

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

The first woman to walk in space.

Loses her bag out there.

And this is after keeping all the other astronauts waiting while she picked out the right outfit to wear.



Because we're the vodka company that shows you random photos of hunky French barkeeps.


The Jive Turkey sounds like a nice little restaurant, offering ten different flavors of deep-fried turkey to go. But charging twenty-two bucks more per bird just because it's a holiday? That's like boosting the price of Xanax every time my Mom comes to town.
Football tough guy Brian Urlacher, a linebacker for the Chicago Bears, is fighting a custody battle with his baby mama Tyna Robertson. Ms. Robertson is horrified by the way Urlacher treats their child, and she's begged the court to intervene. Either Mr. Urlacher has to change his abusive ways, she declared, or he'll never see their boy again.

Oozing disgust, Ms. Robertson details the infractions: Mr. Urlacher dressed their son in pink Cinderella diapers, and painted his toes with blue nail polish.

I mean. Imagine. What, will he drag the kid to a Clay Aiken concert next?

The boy has absolutely no problem with either of these. In fact, he didn't want to take a bath because he thought it'd chip his polish, and he proudly showed his diapers to Ms. Robertson, saying "Mommy, look how pretty they are!" Mr. Urlacher says it's not like this'll turn their son gay, but Ms. Robertson says it confuses him.

And so Ms. Robertson is petitioning the court to deny visitation to Mr. Urlacher until he stops painting the boy's toenails, and until the three-year-old agrees that wearing pink diapers just fuckin' sucks.

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Everyone agrees on the basics. Eliot Spitzer used the Emperor's Club prostitution ring to have sex with women for money.

Slowly but surely the various characters have worked their way through the legal system, and with sentencing today of Tanya Hollander, the Emperor's Club scheduler, we seem to have reached the end.

What kind of justice has been meted out so far?

All charges dropped against Elliot Spitzer.

Ashley Alexandra Dupré gets immunity for testifying against the Emperor's Club.

Tanya Hollander gets a year's probation for "violat[ing] the travel act."

So, what does it take to get charged with prostitution in New York?

Picking up a dude in a gay bookstore.

The New York Times throws major shade in a piece about Young Frankenstein closing. First they spell out for Robert Sillerman, Mel Brook's producing partner, every way he screwed up. He opened in an enormous theater. He charged too much for tickets. He bragged about the show.

They repeatedly point out how nobody wanted the show to survive: not theater people, not the tourism industry, not ticket brokers.

Mr. Sillerman is apologetic. He says he learned his lesson. He says despite his mistakes the show will break even. "But he also said that because 'Young Frankenstein' cost one and a half times more than 'The Producers,' it would take the show that much longer to earn back its investment, which would seem to put the recoupment date beyond its Jan. 4 close."

Zing! That's for serving watered-down gin-and-tonics at the snack bar, asswipe.



Think this is offensive? You should see the ad for GayRooms.com.

No Matter How Much He Pokes and Prods Them, Mayor Bloomberg's Kids Refuse to Acknowledge His Ribbon Collection

Saw Billy Elliot last night. Too stupid and too long. Billy's boxing coach gets socked in the groin. It features this exchange:

MAN: I've been thinking long and hard.

WOMAN: That must have been a shock to the system.

Coal miners in tutus: that's a sure-fire crowd-pleaser.

The odd sexuality isn't doing us any favors. The cross-dancing, Liza-imitating kid is gay too? Yeah, that's progress.

The show is like a cross between Death of a Salesman and Footloose. Three hours long. There are three -- count'em, three -- letters whose contents are sung to the crowd. After the second you're like, "Couldn't you just fax it to me?"

Bottom line is, you know, the kid's a good dancer, but it still looked like a kid dancing. Which can be fun for a little while, but if I'd been at home I'd have seen what else was on. The tourists were happy, but the gay couple in front of me left at intermission. Even I, the first person to defend a dude's right to dance, was thinking, "Christ, kid, why don't you pick up a fuckin' book for a change?"

Monday, November 24, 2008

I wasn't ready for this headline in the New York Times after reading the Daily Mail's tale of him bonking his mistress silly last week:



(Via Gawker)

Scientology Security Guard Shoots Sword-Wielding Intruder

If mental illness is a fraud, why didn't they greet the dude with hot chocolate and a jelly donut?


"You are so cold, my little friend, and so quiet. But you want this as much as I do, no?"
It doesn't pay to oversell yourself. From practically the minute it opened, Quantum of Solace has been bragging: "THE BIGGEST MOVIE IN THE WORLD!" commercials blared.

Eight days later, it's downhill. No longer the biggest movie. Not the best reviewed. Can't wait to see the new ads. "THE SECOND OR THIRD BIGGEST MOVIE IN THE WORLD! Left in the dust by the hot vampire flick but kind of tied with that animated dog thing."



Meanwhile, if you want to see more of Daniel Craig, click here. Personally, I don't recommend it. You half expect his dick to rouse itself from its slumber and sing "The sun'll come out tomorrow."

Friday, November 21, 2008

After years of debating philosophy, negotiating intimacy, and exploring personal and sexual boundaries in almost every forum of public opinion, I think I can speak for the entire gay community when I say that gay men today have evolved a finely-honed philosophy about sexuality that helps us maneuver today's moral and sexual minefields:

We don't have sex with anybody who'd have sex with us.

Now, on the surfaee this may seem simplistic, but this isn't your grandma's chastity. We've ventured to the dark side and back. We've had wanton, promiscuous sex, and we've realized that it's not worth it, for our physical or mental well-being. We've simply decided that we don't want to entrust our private regions to people who'd touch the private regions of strangers. We've decided that true self-respect comes from protecting and cherishing the only thing we have that has real worth: ourselves. Which means after that long, drunken night carousing, hitting up every gay bar in town and scrounging the dark corners for some sexy stranger, we keep our pants on and go home alone where we proudly say, "I really, truly love myself!" as we cry our horny asses to sleep.

Now, we're wise to the fakers. "Sorry," they tell us, "I don't sleep with strangers." "Please please please!" "Oh, okay, maybe just this once." Hah! That's not going to fool us again. It's only the guys who stick to their guns -- who refuse to sleep with us day in and day out, no matter how many Kenneth Cole briefcases we buy them or clothing-optional Palm Springs playgrounds we take them to -- that we'll agree to screw. After years of steadfast denials, we'll finally reach that point where we realize, Yes, this is truly a man who won't have sex with me! This is a man I can trust! And we'll write a note applauding his self-respect and offering ourselves in flesh and in spirit to him and we'll send it to him and his new boyfriend.

In short, I congratulate the gay community. I embrace the gay community, keeping my hands well above waist-level. And I say to the gay community, Bravo! Keep it up. You have nothing if you don't have self-respect, and from the way it's going my brothers and I will be holding our heads up proudly until our balls explode and we die.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

Well, I've never really shared this before, but perhaps some of you know I spend Friday nights in various parts of the city trying to bring souls to Jesus. My friends Bobby Joe and Chrisdene usually join me, and sometimes Bobby Joe's little brother Wayne Wayne comes along. We find a busy street corner where we can bring Jesus' word to a whole lot of people, and we stand there most of the night, reading from the Bible, singing songs, and doing whatever we can to bring religion to heathen folk.

Anyway, this week we decided to go to Harlem. Though some African Americans try to be religious, that diabolical Satan keeps diverting them from God's path towards sex and drugs and the Baptist church. We stood on 125th Street and played the guitar and sang together and worshiped the Lord.

We sang "Amazing Grace", and then "Nothing but the Blood of Jesus," and then "Oh, the Blood of Jesus," and sometimes "Christ, That Sure is a Lot of Blood." And gradually a crowd started to form.

Now, naturally I was scared. My Meemaw had warned me all about these people, and judging from a Luther Vandross song I heard on the radio once I knew we might be in for some kind of sexual attack. I wasn't surprised when they started calling us things like "uptight" and "honkeys." I can't even remember all the hateful things that were shouted at us. Clearly we'd reached these people just in time.

"What, can't you find any white folks who need saving?" someone asked, and they just got even madder when we very politely said no. They surrounded us and started yelling at us, even though we'd been minding our own business, singing and blocking the sidewalk with God's love.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" a woman shouted. Chrisdene figured it was time to pull out our signs, so people driving by could receive the Good Word too. Strangely, this drove the crowd even further off the edge. Somebody grabbed the sign right out of my hand and threw it on the ground. Dagnabit! I thought. That sign took me two hours to make, because on my first couple tries I'd spelled "darkie" wrong. Then somebody yelled "BJ!" and I saw red. "GOD DAMN YOU!" I yelled back. "Didn't you see my PROMISE RING, you pea-brained, sex-crazed Satanist? You''ll be SUCKING COCKS IN HELL unless you REPENT!"

I didn't realize it was Bobby Joe's mom. She's driven up from Jersey City to bring us hot chocolate and Subway sandwiches. Luckily she's a Christian too so she understood.

Well, this just seemed to make our attackers even madder. They wouldn't even listen when we said that God loves them regardless how personally repugnant they were. Finally some police officers turned up and formed a line around us, and after telling us how proud they were of us and how important it was for us to spead God's message, they said we had to go home NOW. They led us to our van and we drove home, eating our Subway sandwiches and singing along the way.

When we got home, we prayed and sang some more. In my heart I know our message must have gotten out to one or two of those people. I know when they get home they'll think, "Gosh, those white people seem so smart; I wish I was just like them!" and then they'll ask Jesus into their hearts. It's thoughts like this that keep me going. Heck, we're already planning next week's visit to some place where the Jews live.

And no, in case you're wondering, we're not doing this for money or our own egos or anything. We just love people!

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

That's Reassuring

From yesterday's New York Daily News:

So you've been roped into bringing a dessert, but you don't have the time or the strength to bake. . . . 'Wichcraft (www.wichcraftnyc.com) whips up pecan, pumpkin and apple crumb pies for $27 a pop.

Getting over a cold. Bleacch. Hard to feel fun when your life is controlled by unpredictable snot.




Concession #1: He'll stop hitting on Nancy Pelosi.




I keep hearing about all these chili cookoffs, bakeoffs, etc., where anybody can enter and the paying public judges which is best. Frankly, I think it's disgusting: I mean, who knows what kind of people made this stuff. Now they think I'm gonna eat some stranger's fondue? They think I'll just blindly stick my baguette in some anonymous dude's melty cheese? There's a reason I've been celibate for nearly five weeks.
I can't believe how stupid people used to be. Just a few hundred years ago, they used to believe in a whole bunch of gods. Polytheism, they called it. A whole bunch of gods, and every god had like one specific little purpose. There'd be, like, Xanther, in charge of keeping you healthy, and Dymetrios, tasked with protecting your house. At night when you'd pray you'd have to address each one of them individually, like Supernanny talking to kids.

It seems so wacky, and so superstitious. A whole bunch of gods. It'd be like driving to ten different shops instead of just going to the mall. What a pain in the ass. First, that's a pretty bizarre concept where gods are just good for one thing, like a supernatural Bob Vila. And second, aren't they going to get insulted? I mean, if you prayed to the God of Attractive Clothing first, and then the God of Productive Employment next, wouldn't the latter get insulted? "You want a nice culottes more than you want a job? Okay, buddy -- your wish is my command." But maybe they couldn't hear everything you said, since they weren't all-powerful. Maybe they only listened when you used their name, like my grandma or the dog.

Thank God we passed the Age of Enlightenment, and we realized how stupid we were. I mean, of course there's only one God! The other way just didn't make sense. Now praying is a whole lot easier, plus it's a walk in the park paying the guy off. Drop a ten in the collection plate and you're good for the week. The old way it was like off-track betting: you'd be like, "I want three bucks on Keeping the Car Running Good, two bucks on Longer and Lovelier Hair, and eight bucks on Finding A Dude Who Believes Mutual Orgasm is Achievable in Our Lifetime."

Smartest of all are the Mormons, where God even sends you a bill. That dude doesn't leave nothing to chance, which I guess is why he got the Big Job. You believe in him, you gotta fork over ten percent of everything you earn, no questions asked. No haggling, no arguing, no layaway. Still, with inflation, this dude isn't looking awfully smart. I mean, these days a waiter will chase you to your car for anything less than fifteen percent. But I guess it makes sense: God might be able to make your life better, but a waiter will make sure you get treated right the next time you drop by.

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

Isis King? Isis Tsunami was our favorite contestant on America's Next Top Model, and now it turns out her real name is Isis King? What else about her isn't real?

Now that the unemployment rate is approaching seven percent and the average retirement plan has dropped by a third, America's upper-crust are joining hands and bravely taking action.

They're not actually going to help anybody. They're not going to give any of their money away. In fact, they're all talking to their lawyers to see if they can get a share of the federal bailout. But they've decided en masse that there is one small step they can take to make this new economic world a better place.

They're going to try not to be quite as flashy.

As anyone who's been to New York knows, this marks a complete about-face for the rich. No more thousand-dollar cocktails! No more $175 hamburgers flecked with gold leaf! This kind of selflessness hasn't been seen since the Great Depression, when in an amazing display of unselfishness J. P. Morgan Jr. kept his 343-foot yacht in the boatyard so it wouldn't make unemployed people feel bad.

Brave as soldiers, everyone is doing their bit. Paco Underhill, author of Why We Buy, tells of a man who bought a high-performance sportscar but had the name plate removed so poor people wouldn't realize what it was. Harry Slatkin, founder of Slatkin & Co., a home fragrances company, said he and his wife recently canceled a birthday party at the Four Seasons in favor of a bash at their home where his waitstaff will serve White Castle cheeseburgers on silver trays.

Bravo, I say, and I thank the New York Times for bringing this to my attention. It's tough times like these that show the world what we're made of. I applaud America's wealthy -- from the standing room, of course.

Monday, November 17, 2008

Fox Complains of Mistreatment in Henhouse

Almost every Friday night, a Christian group assembles in San Francisco's predominantly gay Castro district. They spend most of the night there, praying and telling everyone who passes that they're sinners and they need to repent.

Last Friday, it didn't go so well.



This account was posted anonymously telling one side of the story:

It was the first time we'd been back in the Castro to do our normal outreach since California Proposition 8, which defined marriage as "one man with one woman" was passed. We played the guitar and sang together and worshiped the Lord. After just singing and worshiping God for a while, Roger decided that we should all hold hands in a circle and continue singing. So we did. Someone (Actually a person who came up and hugged and kissed some of us who he knew from the past) convinced some people that we were there to protest against the no on 8 campaign.

Then some guy who was dressed up like one of the sisters (The sisters of perpetual indulgence is a group of men who dress up like nuns and call themselves the spiritual authority of the Castro.) took a curtain-type thing (Which I think they use to curse people) and wrapped it around us. Then a crowd started gathering. We began to sing "Amazing Grace", and basically sang that song the whole night. (At some points we also sang "Nothing but the Blood of Jesus" and "Oh the Blood of Jesus".)

At first, they just shouted at us, using crude, rude, and foul language and calling us names like "haters" and "bigots". Since it was a long night, I can't even begin to remember all of the things that were shouted and/or chanted at us. Then, they started throwing hot coffee, soda and alcohol on us and spitting (and maybe even peeing) on us. Then, a group of guys surrounded us with whistles, and blasted them inches away from our ears continually. Then, they started getting violent and started shoving us. . . .

Roger got death threats. As the leader of our group, people looked him in the eyes and said "I am going to kill you.", and they were serious. A cop heard one of them, and confronted him. (This part is kinda graphic, so you should skip the paragraph if you don't want to be offended.) It wasn't long before the violence turned to perversion. They were touching and grabbing me, and trying to shove things in my butt, and even trying to take off my pants - basically trying to molest me. I used one hand to hold my pants up, while I used the other arm to hold one of the girls. The guys huddled around all the girls, and protected them.

Soon after, the cops came and stood between us and the mob. When it was getting more heated, the cops were like "You guys should leave." and Roger said "We want to stay." Someone tried to steal my backpack, but I tapped a cop on the shoulder, and said "Hey, that's my bag." and he got it from him and gave it to me. Others weren't so lucky. Probably half our team got their jackets stolen.

Eventually, as the crowd was getting more and more uncontrollable, the cops were afraid for our lives, so they escorted us to our van. (The cops were very nice to us from start to finish.) Our van was parked pretty far because it was hard to find parking that day. As the cops escorted us, the mob followed us, until the cops formed a line, and held off the people so we could drive away. We took the long way home, just in case anyone tried to follow us.

When we got home, we prayed and sang more, and then prayed over each-other.

                        -- "IntolerantPeople" (via Joe.My.God)



And here's another.

One night I went to a bar, and I met two guys who were around my age and seemed really nice. Around midnight they offered me a ride home, and I said sure. I figured I could trust them, because one was a priest in the Mormon church.

First they robbed me, and then they took my keys so they could go to my house and steal stuff there. They drove me out to a dark, secluded area where they could torture me without being observed. After several hours, when I was close to death, they dragged me out of the car and tied me to a fence.

Eighteen hours later a guy riding by on a bicycle saw me and thought I was a scarecrow. By now I was in a coma. My injuries were too severe for doctors to operate, and four days later I died.

                        -- Matthew Shepard

Friday, November 14, 2008

Well, less than twenty-four hours after Madonna told friends that A-Rod has "the heart of a poet," the other shoe has dropped. An eight-year-old boy in Boston supposedly found this poem on a crumpled sheet of paper outside Fenway Park. Though we're convinced of its authenticity, we'll let you judge for yourself.


I knew the night I met you
that something special was up,
because I felt peace within my heart
and swelling within my cup.

My stomach did the Running Man,
gurgling with the joy I'd found.
My fingers ran your bases
before heading to your pitcher's mound.

You held your breath as I pulled down your panties
then into home I slide.
We made love like a knuckle ball:
fast, and outside.

Fate meant us to be together
though we each had a tiny glitch.
But our future is bright now that you've dumped Guy
and I've thrown out the first bitch.

Now you're the number-one draft in my fantasy league;
the only one in my batter's cage.
I don't deserve the joy I've found,
and we both deserve minimum wage.

In short, girl, you've smacked my heart:
it's up -- it's up -- it's gone!
Just don't trade me like your last eight dudes
for a player to be named later on.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Call me stupid. Call me shallow. Call me a teenage girl.

My favorite part of last night's protest? Eric Leven woofed at me.

An Open Letter to the Red States

Okay, folks -- I can't take it any more. I've kept the secret long enough, and the time has come for me to spill the beans.

We were lying to you. We totally pulled the wool over your eyes . . . and at times, we could barely keep a straight face. It seemed like you were on the verge of catching on, but somehow you never did.

Obama? He's a total commie. Always has been, and always will be. Not just a liberal. Not just leftist. A card-carrying, Lenin-quoting commie. In fact, judging from what I know about his political leanings, I'd be surprised if soldiers didn't turn up on your doorstep this afternoon to turn your place into Malia's dollhouse.

You had your suspicions, and now that it's too late to do anything about it I can confirm that you were absolutely right. You sensed it from his name and from the questionable characters he befriended, but you never got concrete proof. It took a vast liberal network, but we pulled it off. I've got to say I'm soooo proud of the media for keeping it under their hats. I'd like to thank the Los Angeles Times, who kept that film of Obama and PLO spokesman Rashid Khalidi from hitting YouTube. I'd like to congratulate Katie Couric, who "dealt with" a couple awkward Polaroids of Obama throwing a molotov cocktail at the Times Square Toys R Us. And I tip my hat to ABC, who kept news of the forthcoming "Extreme Makeover: Capitalist Pig Edition" out of all our TV Guides.

So, welcome to a brave new world. We're a classless society now. Of course, we took down names of all the people who supported our brave new regime, and all the people who worked for his opponent. Sadly, your name appears on the latter list, so you may suffer a bit.

While the rest of us are feasting on the fruits of our blue-collar labor, you'll be fed exactly one raw potato per day. While we're visiting America's best physicians, you've got to use the official State doctors, who regardless of your malady will inject you with xylocaine and cherry Sucrets. You know how you prayed for your daughter to find herself a nice Christian man? Next Tuesday she'll be unceremoniously deflowered by a sweaty, tobacco-scented Michael Moore. That same day, your son starts his new job trimming Alec Baldwin's pubes. And you know that Dodge Durango you're so proud of? It's been requisitioned to haul copies of Daddy's Got Two Boyfriends around the Barbra Streisand Re-Education Camp.

In the future, there's one thing you need to remember: Obama is in office because after eight years of the world's stupidest man running America, voters would have elected a potted plant. After four years of Karl Marx Jr. in the Oval Office, we'll be about even. So, adios, plasma TV! Goodbye, vacation house! And remember your retirement plan? Now it's assembling tiny Communist flags to proudly proclaim love of the Fatherland from our dirty martinis.

If you don't want a repeat of this episode, don't elect another idiot. Which means we don't ever want to see Sarah Palin again.

Whew. I feel a lot better getting this off my chest. Now go put on your uniform, or no potato for you.

Why You Should Never Take A Cellphone Camera to a Political Rally



Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Whoopi Goldberg.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Wednesday News Round-Up

The National Enquirer has published photographs supposedly showing Cindy McCain making out with a mystery man at a Moody Blues concert in Tempe, Arizona.

I am absolutely disgusted. Have they no shame? They should have scurried away and hid their faces after "Nights in White Satin" came out.

(Via Gawker)



Last night on the Tonight Show, John McCain refused to blame Sarah Palin for losing the White House.

Aside from poking fun at his own gruff personality, Mr. McCain declined to speculate on why he lost the election.


Although he did add that now he can see the dump from his house.



Some pundits are speculating that The Cosby Show helped Barack Obama win the presidency. According to the so-called "Huxtable effect," the repeated presentation of an appealing black family to television viewers lessened any reservations they might have felt.

Not quite as strong? The "Mr. Roper" effect.




An artwork of sponges stuck to canvas sold for more than $21 million Tuesday. Yves Klein's ''Archisponge (RE 11)'' was the top seller at Sotheby's contemporary art auction in Manhattan. The work is considered by some the most important in Klein's Relief Eponge series.

The least important work in the series is currently living in a pineapple under the sea.



A Turkish city called Batman is suing Warner Bros for copyright infringement. "There is only one Batman in the world," the city's mayor declared. "The American producers used the name of our city without informing us."

If they win their lawsuit, experts say this could pave the way for Silver Surfer, Wyoming.




According to the latest Star Magazine, Tom Cruise spent $7,000 to add a gym to his family's Manhattan apartment including trampolines, a balance beam and tumbling mats, because his two-year-old daughter Suri is such an amazing gymnast he's convinced she'll make the Olympics.

Our guess? She'll take the gold in 2018 for synchronized snorting.

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

Tuesday News Round-Up

With so many young people struggling with obesity, authors have started hiding messages about weight control into children's books.

I guess this explains why at Barnes & Noble the other day I saw a copy of Green Eggbeaters and Turkey Ham.



On Monday President-elect Barack Obama urged President Bush to support emergency aid for the struggling auto industry. Bush tentatively agreed on the condition Congressional Democrats would support aid to Colombia.

Bush said the U. S. owes Colombia a huge debt of gratitude, because no other record club will send you twelve CDs for a dollar.



Jersey City councilman Steven Lipski was arrested for urinating on a crowd of concertgoers from the balcony of a Washington D.C. nightclub.

Lipski was at a performance by a Grateful Dead tribute band when one of the club's employees spotted him relieving himself onto the crowd below.


His defense is a little weak. He says the Dead is a jam band, so he had every right to whip out his muffin.




A British vicar was hospitalized with a potato stuck up his bottom.

The vicar, who was not named, had to undergo a delicate operation to extract the recalcitrant vegetable.


He's claiming it was something of a miracle, because it was french fries when it went up there.

Monday, November 10, 2008

Sly Stallone is casting only "ugly guys" for his next movie titled "The Expendables."

"Whereas the 'Oceans 11' films were an ensemble for good looking guys, this is an ensemble for ugly tough guys," he told buyers at the American Film Market in Santa Monica during the weekend.


He then said the film will star Jason Statham, proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that he is nowhere close to being gay.





Circuit City has filed for bankruptcy.

In court documents, Chief Financial Officer Bruce H. Besanko said three factors led to the filing: erosion of vendor confidence, decreased liquidity and a belated realization that nobody wants Pluto Nash DVDs.

Repeat Monday: Greek to Me

It wasn’t easy convincing my landlord that my air conditioner was really broken. He kept saying that the noise and smoke were nothing out of the ordinary, and he stood in the blast of superheated air oohing and aahing like it was a tropical waterfall. When his face took on the color of a medium-rare porterhouse, though, he gave up pretending, and in exchange for a glass of ice water he called a repairman. The next thing I knew somebody was pounding on my door at 7:30 in the morning.

“Open up!” a gravelly voice growled as I glared at my clock in disbelief. “I’m here to fix your air conditioner!” I threw on a towel and opened the door and if I wasn’t fully awake before I certainly was now: the sight of this guy was as bracing as a double espresso. I don’t mind old or out of shape folks provided they wear something to hide it -- like baggy clothes or the Houston Astrodome -- but he had on less than Britney Spears.

I tried to avert my eyes as he lumbered in but I couldn’t help but notice corduroy short-shorts, scuffed brown boots and a tool belt, with lots of blotchy red nakedness in between. He zigzagged through the place until he found the air conditioner, and after the removal of his tool belt sent his shorts plunging to new depths I fled to the shower. When I returned the air conditioner was still grinding like a cement mixer and he was sitting on my bed reading an old copy of Drummer.

Oops. “I’m a musician,” I lied. “I thought that was an instruction manual.”

“No,” he said thoughtfully, “I don’t think so. Though some of the guys look a little like Ringo.” I hadn’t picked up an accent before so I was surprised when he pronounced it “Reengo.” He was from somewhere weird, I thought, but unless he said “Blimey,” “Ah, so” or “Zeig heil!” I wasn’t in a place to guess.

He smiled and showed a jumble of teeth splayed out like shredded wheat. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he said. “I am Greek. My people have been that way for thousands of years. Women are the mothers of our children, but men are for love and companionship. You see, in Greece young men are the tippy-top of beauty. You see that in our art and in our literature. The older men are expected to marry and raise children but also since they hold the knowledge they must share it, along with friendship and love, with impressionable youths. It is their civic duty.”

He tossed the magazine aside, extracted a screwdriver from his toolbelt and pried the front cover off the air conditioner. “Take the philosopher Aristotle, for instance. He was a very wise man. He invented geometry and logic and the VCR. He meets this kid Socrates and he embraces him like a son. He teaches him philosophy, introduces him to politics, and initiates him into sex. But, you know, it’s not just slam bam thank you ma’am sex. It’s a manly thing, like a big friendly hug. Except they were, you know . . . naked.

I couldn’t think of anything to say. I didn’t know anything about gay sex in the past because I’d been trying to get some in the present. But long ago I’d visited a civilization where men bonded together and paired off and left the women to their own devices. It was called “San Francisco.” And while Castro Street wasn’t the Parthenon and a caftan wasn’t really a toga it was still fun enough.

He pulled the air filter off and a line of dirt sprinkled to the floor. “Me, I’m sad to say I have not found a boy to tutor. Maybe I’m not as smart as Aristotle, but I’ve learned a few things and I want to pass them on.”

Now, to say I wasn’t attracted to this guy was an understatement. Though he was butch as Hoss Cartwright’s left testicle he also had a belly domed like a turtle, and his hair was a shade of black found only on newborn mink and Wayne Newton. He had a thick thatch of chest hair that started halfway between his nipples and his navel, and his legs were lumpy and red. But his story made me nostalgic. I looked at the wrinkles encircling his eyes and started to yearn for a time when sex wasn’t just a temporary bond between strangers, something to kill a couple minutes between laundry cycles. When it meant sharing, and forming a bond so tight it could only be expressed by physical affection.

To make a long story short, he showed me how to adjust my thermostat and then we did it. He undressed me slowly and then yanked his shorts down, and with paint-splattered boots still tied to his feet he had his way with me. “We are like Socrates and Aristotle,” he panted. “I share my years of knowledge and then take you from behind.” He wasn’t particularly instructive, as I’d been in that position once or twice before, but knowing it was a time-honored tradition made it special. Before I even straightened up he was gone.

I woke up in a great mood the next morning, despite the fact this was the second day in a row somebody was pounding on my door at dawn. As I wrapped myself in another towel I realized something had changed. No longer was I a shallow gym rat with no connection to the past: now I was a shallow gym rat tied to history. I flung the door open like I was greeting a fresh new life.

“Hey,” my landlord said, grimacing at my pale pink flesh. “Did the guy fix your air conditioner?”

“He sure did,” I said, blushing. “It’s running great now. That Stavros is a terrific guy.”

He looked at me like a dog would if I asked it to mix me a martini. “Stavros? You mean the husky old guy who needs more clothes? That’s my wife’s uncle Patsy. He ain’t Greek -- he’s half Irish and half Italian. Funny you should say that, though, ‘cause once he told a guy he was Greek, and they actually -- “

By the time he saw my mouth drop open it was too late.

“Oh, jeez. You didn’t fall for that ‘mentor’ crap, did you? The Socrates and Aristotle speech?”

I nodded as blotchy red flesh flashed before my eyes.

“I gotta have a talk with that guy. But you can’t really blame him, I guess. That’s the only way he can get laid.” My mood was as limp as my towel now, and he was looking guilty. “Look, if you really want a mentor, I could give it a try. But I ain’t doing any of that butt-pirate stuff.”

I shook my head, smiling in gratitude despite slowly realizing that a seventy-year-old man had just turned me down for sex. “Thanks, Mr. Carmelo. But it’s really not the same without a Greek.”

“I know what you mean,” he said. “In the forties I sent away to Japan for a mail-order bride. They sent me a German Jew named Schotzi.”

After he left I stood in the dark, listening to the air conditioner’s calm hum and feeling the cold air swirl around me. Sure, he’d tricked me. He’d used me and thrown me away. But was it as bad as all that? Maybe “Stavros” wasn’t going to be my mentor but he’d taught me something important.

If I was going to get anywhere in this world, I’d need to fake an accent.

Friday, November 7, 2008

As a gay man, I've never been a huge fan of women. They're delicate. They smell good. They're understanding and compassionate, and way too willing to compromise when clearly the time calls for fists.

I pretty much don't like anything about them. In particular, though, I've never been fond of their Aerosoles.

Now, you'd think being a gay man it'd be easy enough for me to avoid them. To the contrary, it seems like every time I turn around, there's another big pink Aerosole in my face. Running in the park. Stretching in yoga class. Passed out in a subway car.

To say they disgust me is an understatement. I mean, if disgusting bothered me, I'd have started throwing up the second I hit New York and wouldn't have stopped since. No, there's something primal about them that conjures up my deepest feelings of repulsion. Maybe it's the stark contrast between the soft sweetness of the female body and something so clearly designed to fulfill a base function. Maybe it's because they make no attempt to disguise their utility with any concession to looks.

Manolo Blahniks? They're okay. I wouldn't use the word attractive, but I wouldn't use the word gross. Jimmy Choos? No problem. No, it's only when I see Aerosoles displayed almost proudly that I think, Holy Christ: don't women have eyes?

I've always found it bizarre that women don't seem to recognize how disgusting their Aerosoles are. At my sister's birthday, her friends Donna and Sheila proudly passed her that telltale box. Sue pulled off the lid and her eyes went wide.

"Ohmigod!" she yelled excitedly. I tried to smile, but all I could do was look at Donna and Sheila and think, Now that's a couple of giant Aerosoles.

Then one day I was racing a woman to a cab when the unthinkable happened. I hit a crack in the asphalt and went flying. Desperately trying to avoid permanent damage I grabbed for her waist, and as she too came crashing down my nose sank deep inside her Aerosole. I closed my eyes and held my breath, waiting for death to come.

When it didn't, I opened my eyes and took a tentative breath. Sure, it was a little funky, but nowhere as bad as I imagined. In fact, it smelled kind of soft, like Downy. "Wow," I said, "I can't believe how good your Aerosole smells."

After unleashing a string of obscenities and threatening to sue me, she finally acknowledged the compliment. "Thanks," she said, as we both struggled to our feet. "I know what you mean. Some women act like they're self-cleaning, but I'm a real stickler myself. I take mine to a guy downtown who scrubs them spotless with a little spit and a horsehair brush."

And that's when it hit me. It's not an Aerosole's fault it's disgusting: it's the owner's! Sure, in a perfect world, God would have designed us so that we wouldn't need Aerosoles, but you can't blame them for fulfilling the function they were made for, or for owners who didn't take care of them.

I finally got to pay back my karmic debt when I went to the Dugout the other day and overheard some guys talking disparagingly about Aerosoles. They were being totally disrespectful -- talking about how they were always either too loose to feel good or too tight to break in. Needless to say, I couldn't take it lying down.

"Now here this!" I declared, loudly enough for the whole bar to hear. "I too used to hate Aerosoles, but one day, through an odd twist of fate, I fell face first into one, and I discovered they aren't nearly as bad as I thought. To the contrary: they may look repulsive on the outside, but inside they can be soft and warm and inviting, and almost impossible to resist. Since that fateful day I've learned not to condemn Aerosoles for their outward appearance but rather to celebrate them for their unstinting utilitarianism and their courage to stand up to a skeptical world and declare, 'Yes, I'm an Aerosole, and I'm damn proud of it!' In fact, I swear on a stack of Bibles that, should the day come when I am offered some men's Aerosoles, I don't care if they're black and shiny or two shades of puce, if they're tight as a tick's ear or stretched out like an old rubber band, I'll fill them up and wear them out, and not yank 'em off until the sun comes up."

The room went quiet, and then a bunch of guys started towards me. Really, the oddest thing happened at this point, but that's a story for another time.

Thursday, November 6, 2008

When I was eight, my parents got divorced. My sister and I went to live with our Mom, and every Saturday our Dad picked us up and took us away for the day.

The first time this happened I shook from excitement. I could hardly sleep the night before, dreaming of all the cool things we could do. We could get drunk and cruise Rodeo Drive, yelling obscenities at everybody on the street. We could drive out to Muscle Beach and see if anybody needed a massage.

Instead, Dad drove us to Dodger Stadium to watch a baseball game.

Now, this mystified me. Dad was a carefree bachelor now, so I was sure partying would be on the menu, if not the Playboy Mansion. Instead I found myself in nose-bleed bleachers, surrounded by white people stuffing their faces with meaty snacks.

My sister and I looked at each other. We'd rather have gone to a museum. We'd rather have gone to a botanic garden. Heck, we'd rather have stayed in the car and seen what spit can do on vinyl. Even at our young ages we realized there was something ridiculous about chubby people cheering on fit people as they exercised. Dad didn't care. He sat there with fingers crossed, hoping against hope that America's favorite pastime might turn us into regular kids.

A chick in a sequined gown strode up to a microphone placed midfield, and over the sound system came the tinny strains of the National Anthem. My dad stood up. My sister reluctantly followed. I snorted a line of coke off my Hello Kitty mirror.

"Are you fuckin' kidding me?" I asked.

See, even at this young age I realized something: Americans were either stupid or hypocrites. Every chance they got they congratulated themselves on this amazing country where everybody had equal rights. Riiight, I thought -- and those X-ray specs they sell in comic books really let you see bone. I shook my head as my classmates recited the Pledge of Allegiance, proudly parroting claims nobody tried to prove, and I shook my head here. I thought, why don't they all sing about how the White House is also a UFO, or how in his off hours Gerald Ford dons a cape and fights crime?

On Tuesday, our country took a major step forward. Maybe we didn't leap up and demand that gay people needed equal rights. Maybe we didn't jump up and swear that hypocrisy and bigotry were now ancient history. But at the very least, sparking the first stirrings of pride in a much taller but still cynical kid, we stood up and in one voice declared:

Joe the Plumber, go fuck yourself.

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

I voted Democratic yesterday, against my better judgment. I really liked what McCain stood for, and loved his risky, courageous pick of that maverick Sarah Palin. I wasn't sure about that come-out-of-nowhere Obama, with all his smooth intelligence and eloquence. I finally made my decision behind the curtains in the voting booth, and I'm confident I voted correctly. Because basically what it came down to was, I found one enormous, fatal flaw in McCain's political platform:

What if unborn baby terrorists attacked America?

I mean, think about it for a second. Really, it's the question that Anderson Cooper and Katie Couric and all those other so-called "journalists" should have been asking months ago, rather than "How many houses does McCain have?" or "Is Obama dreamy or what?" I didn't hear a single TV pundit address it. But the scary truth is, McCain couldn't do anything! He'd have had to stand idly by while our entire country was destroyed! Even after eight years of Bush I still find that unacceptable.

Ordinarily I support an infant's right to life, but since 9/11 these are different times. We need to prepare for every eventuality. We need to ask ourselves, which candidate would be better prepared if rampaging pre-birth infants loaded Ford Fiestas with chemical fertilizer and parked them in front of the local Christmas Tree Store? The answer is clear: Obama. Surely not McCain. With his right to life stance, all McCain could do is offer them a sip of Enfamil and a soft burping pat on the back. They could have laced the elevators at Macy's with plastic explosives and all McCain could do is wrap them in a soft blanket and steer them over to the photo studio to snap pix for his Christmas card.

And so, hearing the news this morning, I applaud America. Obama is surely the right man for the job. He supports a woman's right to choose, and while normally that means absolutely nothing to me, in this case it means he alone would stand up to fetal thugs, and he wouldn't hesitate to fling some murderous unborn baby terrorist's hand grenade right back at it and teach those adorable pink bastards what for.

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

I keep hearing all this talk about the immigration problem. Honestly, I don't get it. I must have watched McCain and Palin speak to huge crowds every day last month, and I didn't see more than one or two faces that weren't white.



From Sunday's New York Daily News:

Now that it's deer season, Troy Weldy, the director of ecological management at the Nature Conservancy in Albany, hunts at least once a week. "You can't get any more locally grown, free-range, hormone-free, pesticide-free food than game from your own backyard," he says.

See, when they said "Nature Conservancy," I didn't think they meant conserving it in Tupperware in the fridge



I know it's not politically correct, but I stand by our New York City policemen, no matter how many ridiculous claims criminals make about them. In the latest, 24-year-old Michael Mineo said that after he was arrested on a variety of charges three policemen held him down while a fourth sodomized him with his walkie-talkie. The police department immediately, unequivocally declared that this was a lie. There was no sexual assault, and they had two impartial eyewitnesses who'd swear that the arresting officers did nothing of the kind.

Now, it might have looked a little weird when the guy was hospitalized with internal injuries consistent with sexual assault. But he could have done that to himself, right? Or maybe it happened naturally. God knows I'm still suffering from that day eight years ago when I ate two Big Macs. Still, to placate the suspicious public, the police agreed to investigate. They confiscated the walkie-talkie and said they'd check it out.

Seventeen days later, I'll still stand by our boys in blue. Sure, the four officers involved were reassigned to desk duty yesterday, and we haven't heard another word about the walkie-talkie. But what does that prove? I mean, we all know it can easily take a couple weeks to decide if something's covered in shit or not.

Monday, November 3, 2008

Why I Dressed Up As Ketchup For Halloween

Halloween is the one day out of the whole year that the world's imagination comes alive. Just think: you can dress as anything or anybody, male or female, alive or dead. You can pay tribute to your favorite historical character, or poke fun at a pop culture phenomenon. You can spend months painstakingly recreating Louis XIV's coronation suit, or slap on an Amy Winehouse beehive and hit the road. You can dazzle the crowds with your technical proficiency and attention to detail or tantalize them with your flirty clothes and jaunty attitude.

I literally spent every day since last Halloween deciding on this year's costume. It started as a weeding-out process, crossing off all the costumes that would be too obvious or cliche. I knew the streets would be full of Jokers and red-blazered Sarah Palins. There'd be thousands of Hannah Montana and Ugly Betty clones, and literally millions of Waldos to be found. Mummies and zombies and vampires would provoke less screams than yawns.

Now, I'm in good shape, so I could have taken the easy way out, picking something to show off my broad shoulders, chiseled chest, and thick biceps like all the in-shape Italians do. Tarzan, a caveman, a loincloth-clad Indian. Sure, the women would ooh and aah and the men would secretly eye me in envy. But every time I see a dude in one of those costumes, I think, Christ, what kind of ego does this guy have? There's exactly one day a year to indulge in your wildest, darkest fantasies, and these guys fritter it away to show everybody they've been doing squats.

I'm bigger than that, I decided. I wouldn't be vain. Heck, I'd be the exact opposite, I decided in a blinding flash of insight. I'd wear a big red cone on my head, and a long red cardboard tube that completely hid me from shoulders to feet. I'm just in this for the fun! my costume would declare. There's no ego here!

Yes, I'll admit, it wasn't the best idea anybody's ever come up with. You know your costume isn't perfect when you have to tack on a big white label saying what you are. And heck, I wouldn't even be the best condiment on a burger. Surely mustard would be snappier, or sauerkraut would have a foreign flair. But that just added to the surrealist fun. A dude dressed as ketchup would be wacky. Unexpected. I definitely wouldn't run into another one walking down the street.

But mostly I dressed up as ketchup because three of my neighbors said if I turned up on their porch dressed as a big red crayon again they wouldn't even open the door.

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