All Bleeding Stops Eventually

Folding Up My Tent

2008-12-29T21:07:00.001-08:00

If you want to find me, I'm writing in a new forum.

The Open Letter Blog Project

And Here's What I'm Sayin'

2008-12-27T11:01:00.001-08:00

I'm going to stop this blog.

I know.

I just did this whole post to say I had something to say. And then what I have to say is that I'm not going to be saying it here?

Fate is a cruel mistress.

But also an intentional one.

I'm starting a new thing. More focused. A little quirky. But I've always wanted my blog angle, and I think I've found it.

What will it be?

I'll post the link here for both of you who give a shit.

For the rest who've come here because you were Googling something about shit ... and you should really stop that ... it's gross ... you can scroll down to see my thoughts on your late-night insecurities.

Won't Someone Please Think of the Children?

2008-11-20T17:05:00.000-08:00

It's as bad as we thought, people. Recent research now quantifies the impact of gay marriage on the world (from buzzfeed.com):

I've kept fairly quiet on this so far, as I think it's fairly obvious where I stand. But I'll say this much just to get it off my chest:

So here's the deal, America. Human rights are for humans. As in all humans. You don't get to decide which ones. You don't get to negotiate or legislate or equivocate mine while yours are a birthright.

And you for damn sure don't get to stand behind made-up excuses that are designed to create action out of fear while in reality it comes down to this: you don't support gay marriage because you're a bigot.

You're not doing this to protect the childen. Or the churches. It ain't the end of the world. Or a threat to the sanctity of the whole shenanigans.

It's your bigotry that's holding us back. And we deny you that right. We'll have exactly what you have, and we won't rest until we have it. That's what Americans do. It's why humans everywhere have risen against bigotry. It's why tyrants fall and corrupted systems find themselves powerless. And if you want to worry about anything, that's what should worry you most.

Voting? Totally Overrated. Seriously. Don't Bother.

2008-10-14T17:51:00.000-07:00

See more funny videos and funny pictures at CollegeHumor.

Betty White: Goddess

2008-10-11T00:47:00.000-07:00

I swear to Jesus I want to have Betty White's babies. But it's so hard overcoming genetics.

So instead we'll have to settle for my undying love for this:

VPILF

2008-08-30T21:36:00.000-07:00

If John McCain wants to add smoking desperation to the list of desperations (including the stinking, stunning and hopeless versions) passing for his campaign strategy, you won't hear me complaining.

The Palin veep pick is equal parts arrogance (Hillary voters will be drawn to her vagina) and pandering (neo-cons will be drawn to her contempt for the vagina).

So. It's politics. Fine.

And she's a light weight. Even better. Or is it?

Because they just might pull it off. And then we'd have someone doing a job she professes not to understand. Which she doesn't. Clearly. Just a while ago she was Mayor of Mooseville.

But in being coy about her chances, Gov. Palin actually told the guy at CNBC that she didn't know what a veep did all day. God. Save. Us. All.

Kiss Me, You Fool

2008-04-21T20:17:00.000-07:00

I know, I know, I know. Nothing but YouTube clips of Obamaganda for months and then I spring up like Chatty Kenneth.

But I was just amusing myself with my open letter to the (alleged) guy who came here after searching the Google for "bleeding while taking a shit." Hey, I don't make this stuff up. I just get the reports.

It's a little concerning that since then there's been a dramatic rise in that sort of search leading to this blog. I trust my perverted readers (and I do mean both of you) have been trying it out on their own. And to both of you I say: It totally works, doesn't it?

But wait. I can probably top that one. The latest odd little search that led some unsuspecting person with a traumatic medical condition into my lair?

"My lips bleed in winter but not summer"

I'm serious. Someone searched that on the internets and wound up here.

Since every good blog needs an angle ... a point of view ... maybe I'm missing my golden opportunity. People can tell me what their medical insecurity is, and then I'll tell them what I think while disavowing any knowledge of medicine whatsoever and making them promise that they can't sue me because I'm just a big wind bag.

And if that dream were to come true, when someone searched for "my lips bleed in winter but not summer," then I could say the following:

Geez. I'm sorry to hear that. Maybe it's the dry heat. Do you have a radiator? Those can be very drying. And the wind often pulls moisture from your sensitive skin.

Do you have a humidifier? You might want to consider investing in one along with a good lip balm. Kiehl's makes a fantastic one. Granted it's like $15 a tube or something, but if you buy something they'll sometimes give you a free sample.

And nobody likes scabby lips. I can only imagine how uncomfortable that is, so avoid products with too much camphor. That could really sting.

Now I Can Give Up My Gratuitous Nudity Plans

2008-04-21T20:08:00.001-07:00

It's finally happened. This blog has finally sunk to the furtherest depths imaginable. Check it out for yourself. Jack Valenti couldn't have said it better:

I wasn't really going for the 17-year-old demographic anyway. They're not old enough to vote yet. But when they are, I hope their first presidential election will be to re-elect Obama. So for those of you adults out there reading this (and I mean both of you), vote.

Please think of the children. My language only gets worse from here.

An Open Letter to Pennsylvania, Indiana, North Carolina, et al ...

2008-04-21T19:46:00.000-07:00

I admit it. I've got Democratic primary season fatigue big time. Will someone just stick a steak in her heart already? (Figuratively speaking only, of course. I don't need anyone opening up my FBI file again.)

So when I'm blue or seeing red, (blue and red ... get it? I kill myself.) a little bit of Obama rhetoric just warms my heart up. I reach for my checkbook every time he delivers something like this:

I offer this up for consideration to all the states that have primaries remaining. Please watch this and then realize the part in history you're playing. And go fucking vote for this guy, or I'm gonna lose my fucking mind. Seriously. You don't want to see me any more mentally unstable. None of us do.

So do the right thing. You know who you are. You can still tell her you voted for her afterward even when you didn't. Millions of us have your back.

Older Than Pakistan! Bwahahaha

2008-04-17T23:39:00.000-07:00

I don't know what else to say. Hate me for it if you will, but that shit is funny.

2008-02-14T22:17:00.000-08:00

Look, people. I can't make it any more plain than this:

Clinton:

Obama:

He's right. It's the same old bullshit. Someone drive a stake into her heart or cut off her head. (Figuratively, of course. There's no need to go digging up my FBI file again.) It's the only way to end this thing.

Compare and Contrast

2008-02-14T16:39:00.000-08:00

Let me make this as easy for you as I possibly can.

McCain:

Obama:

I Know You're Out There. I Can Hear You Bleeding.

2008-02-06T22:19:00.000-08:00

Now and then most bloggers indulge in a review of their blog stats in a tragic moment of self consciousness just to see if they are indeed reaching the masses.

This blog reaches very few masses. But to those of you keeping the faith ... and I mean both of you ... I say I'm in it for the long haul if you are.

These stats also tell you where people are visiting from. To my readers in Finland and Egypt ... and I mean both of you ... I say welcome. And I apologize. If it makes you feel better, this doesn't make much more sense to Americans, either.

But what I'm really here for is to share my alarm ... consternation ... worry ... and let's face it ... downright shameless amusement ... not to mention an alarming ability to improperly and frequently use ellipses ... about how people reach my blog somewhat unsuspectingly.

A few months ago, I wrote an open letter to a woman who got here by Googling "emotionally unavailable men." I hope she's doing well and has embraced her faghagness as a badge of honor rather than as a shield of self loathing.

My concern now turns to the person ... I'm guessing it's a man given the word choice ... who crept into this dark little corner after searching for "bleeding while taking a shit."

Jesus. I was so surprised, I had to Google that myself. And there I am. The third link down.

For the record, I have never blogged about bleeding while taking a shit. Well. Until now, that is. But apparently the Google pieced together one of my Ann Coulter rants with some other ... uh ... shit ... and voila. Mysterious are the ways of the boolean search.

But I also noticed that there've been multiple visits off of that search. So now my conscience ... and let's face it, that's a small, cold little nugget ... is forcing me to respond out of concern for my fellow man. And so to you, sir, I say:

Honey. Get some help with that. Chances are it's just a hemorrhoid problem and will clear itself up. Especially if it's blood red and not black in the bowl. But. Still. There's only one exit for this business, and you can't take that too lightly.

Certainly we haven't reached the point where the internets can be used to cure us of all our ills with any degree of certainty. Just searching for a solution to get skunk spray off of my dog once proved that much.

I can only imagine what kind of a horror show you faced when you just had a crimson crap and your shame and embarrassment drove you to search the internet only to be lead to a discussion of ... whatever the hell I've been spouting off about.

It certainly isn't hemorrhoids, I can tell you that much.

Well. Until now.

Gutter Mouth

2008-01-18T18:11:00.000-08:00

Well it was inevitable. What was once a sunny little PG-rated blog has now garnered this:

Meet Kansas Singles

I blame Mike Huckabee for goading me into telling him to fuck off.

Shit. There I go again. Jesus Christ.

It all raises the question: What the hell do you have to do to get an NC-17, goddammit. Because I'll do it. You bet your ass I will.

I Heart Huckabee

2008-01-18T12:11:00.000-08:00

On the eve of the Republican primary in Michigan, Mike Huckabee made a speech about how he'd like to see abortion and marriage rights handled. Mr. Huckabee would like to see the Constitution amended to match "God's standards."

Oh, yes. He did. You can see it right here:

In case it isn't obvious, Mr. Huckabee believes God's standards mean women don't deserve control over their reproductive health and gays are best viewed behind razor wire while wearing pink-felt triangles.

Mr. Huckabee, sadly, went on to place a distant third in Michigan.

This leads me to believe that God's standards are working just fine when it comes to Mike. It certainly seems to be His will that Huckabee will be this election's Howard Dean.

Since God won't say it to you directly, Mike, I sure will: It's my Constitution, too. Tend to your own marriage and keep yer fuckin' paws off my rights. Sheesh. You should be embarrassed to think you have any concept of the Word of God. I'm pretty certain He's embarrassed plenty by you.

You keep preachin', though, sugar. It's gonna be a lot easier for *any* Democrat in the fall to win against you than the others. It takes a special kind of guy to make a mormon look viable. So I wish you all the success in the world.

In It To Win It?

2007-12-31T11:29:00.000-08:00

Now anyone who knows me for more than two seconds knows I'm not a Republican. My politics tend to make Ghandi look like a social conservative.

But I LOVE politics and the wheeling/dealing manipulativeness of it all. Where others get turned off by the hucksterism, I eat that shit up. Blame it on either my career as a corporate communicator or on my general lack of a moral compass. Who cares. What I really care about is the fight.

Which brings us to John McCain. Anyone who spent some time in a tiger trap in Vietnam gets props from me. Would I vote for him? Oh, hell no. But a tip of the hat to John for his character and his service to this country. And heaven knows the man wants to be president.

Or does he? The campaign so far, which should have been his for the picking, has been a mess. Including his dread of anything negative.

Well at least his public dread. Apparently he's been sitting on an ad spot that knocks ol' Mitt's teeth in. It's been leaked now, which probably will get it more air time for free. And McCain won't have to take responsibility for actually trotting it out to the public.

But more than whether or not McCain or Romney is the right choice ... because trust me, they ain't ... I think this is some damn fine political maneuvering.

So I share it with you here with mad props to slate.com for digging it all up in the first place:

Ann Coulter is a Shit Head

2007-10-18T22:05:00.000-07:00

I was going to talk about Ann Coulter, who recently said that an ideal America would be free of Jews and that Jews wanted to "be perfected."

It's true. She really did. And you can see it here:

But that's not as interesting as the story from Idaho that showcased a guy getting away with taking dumps under a freeway off ramp. I mean, this is the real news, people.

And in my heart, I'd like to think that Ann agrees with me. If there's anyone who knows about taking a shit on America and getting away with it, it'd be her.

So my hat's off to the Outback Steakhouse employee who's featured here. We stand ... or squat ... in solidarity with you, sister.

Feelings. Whoa-whoa-whoa feelings!

2007-10-01T23:45:00.000-07:00

An open letter to what I heterosexistly presume was a woman who visited my blog after searching for "emotionally unavailable men" on The Google.

Oh, Sister,

Let me tell ya. I know what you're talking about. For the love of god, you can't live with 'em, and you can't chop up their bodies and hide them in a Hefty bag behind the 7-11. A girl can hardly clear her head with all the phonie-baloney bullshit that gets thrown at her from every suitor every damn day. There should be a law.

So I apologize for the disappointment you must have experienced when during an attempt to come up with input for a coping mechanism that would help you deal with that insensitive lout, you stumbled onto my pointless windbaggyness instead.

I also noticed that you didn't stay too long, either. But a hit's a hit, isn't it? So I'm keeping you noted on my rolls, thank you very much. And if you ever falter again in your noble trek toward self improvement, you can always cast your back to the wind here, my sister.

You could stay as long as you'd like. Maybe even read a post or two. Click an ad banner or something. Y'know. Make yourself comfortable.

Dude Looks Like A Lady

2007-09-20T15:54:00.001-07:00

Ohmygawd. This guy is a genius. Somebody hire him and make him rich.

(Advance warning: This features obscene lyrics and sexual content. Consider yourself warned.)

Drunk and Disorderly

2007-09-17T22:13:00.001-07:00

Brett Somers, ex-wife of Jack Klugman and perennial Match Game panelist, died Saturday at the grand age of 83.

A first-generation latch-key kid, I spent many an afternoon soaking in the vodka-drenched shenanigans of Somers as she fussed and bickered with Charles Nelson Reilly, her long-time comic foil.

It was my first exposure, I suppose, to a gay man bantering with his beloved fag hag. And I had no idea that's what I was taking in at the time. To paraphrase Elaine Stritch in her solo show, At Liberty, I just knew it was funny, and I dug it.

I also had no idea that for most of the years that I watched, she was soused. Not tipsy. Not drunk. But blotto. Blasted. Every sheet imaginable to the wind. I watch episodes today on the Game Show Network and marvel at how she can barely slur out most of her answers.

Was it because for my family attempting to have a conversation after consuming staggering amounts of alcohol was known as "dinner"? Or was my brain at that time content to just take in another bunch of people who worked overtime to say inappropriate things in an appropriate manner?

It matters not, I suppose. Brett Somers helped pass the time and made me feel happy when I already knew I felt different. She'll always have a blank spot in my heart.

God speed to you, Brett.

I Plead The Fifth

2007-08-14T18:32:00.000-07:00

allbleedingstopseventually.blogspot.com/

WANTED FOR THE WRETCHED SLAUGHTERING of a BRAWNY HILLBILLY

$4000

In my defense, I only typed my blog name into an online wanted poster generator.

Those who know me well understand that while I might do a number of things to a brawny hillbilly ... and in all my years I have occasionally dabbled in those smoky hills ... slaughtering them wretchedly would probably not be one of them.

Dirty Bird

2007-08-14T14:00:00.000-07:00

Okay, people. What is happening to this world when my blog only scores a PG rating?

See? Here it is all official like:

It hurts when people don't get the depths of depravity to which I clearly stoop on a regular basis in this forum.

Oh, sure. You can drop the f-bomb and score an NC-17 in mere moments. Any old hack can do that. But I want procreating Republicans everywhere to stay up at nights worrying that their children might happen across this filth.

And it's hardly going to happen when I'm less threatening than Shrek the Third.

So be warned, you sonsabitches. I might start working "blue" any second now. And you only have your prurient interests to thank for it.

My Lips Are Sealed

2007-08-12T20:35:00.000-07:00

So the siren song of the gays dashes another prominent Republican's future on the treacherous rocks of sodomy.

Glenn Murphy, Jr., the 33-year-old Indianan who was elected chairman of the Young Republican National Federation in July, resigned his post on Friday ... only a month after taking office ... saying that a "life-altering" business opportunity had come up that he couldn't pass on.

Well. That and the fact that he got caught with his mouth wrapped around a sleeping Republican's "trunk," which the sleeping Republican apparently didn't appreciate upon waking and wondering who was at the root of the warm sensation in his nether regions.

I mean seriously, people. Giving hummers to your sleeping bunkmates is so 1982 camping trip.

But it appears to be true (though disputed by Mr. Murphy, who isn't saying it's not true ... but that it was consensual). All the same, you can read the whole story here.

To be honest, I could give a damn about Mr. Murphy, his position in the Republican party and his propensity (he apparently pulled the same stunt in 1998) for late-night naval maneuvers.

What's funny in light of recent events is a quote of his about his job as chairman:

"I will essentially be the mouthpiece ... for tens of thousands of young Republicans," he said.

You've got to admire the liberal interpretation of his job description. I'm just sayin'. Mr. Murphy was definitely been reading between the lines ... not to mention the sheets.

If I Were In Charge of Church Signs

2007-08-11T19:11:00.000-07:00

My Future Wife

2007-08-02T21:42:00.000-07:00

I adore this woman.

And I don't care if my boyfriend knows it.

We hardly even know each other. But she reads this blog. And lets me take pictures of her while she sits in my lap.

So a shout out to you, sister. We were meant for each other.

Even if we want the same thing.

If anyone else wants to read my blog and take pictures while sitting in my lap, I'm game. Just say the word.

Snow Job

2007-07-30T20:47:00.000-07:00

You know, I wasn't going to talk about the Iraqi parliament ducking out of town until September, as I'm hardly the first guy to be annoyed in this arena.

But you know, let 'em never come back for all the good they're doing us so far. Whether they're hunkered down in Baghdad or sunning their buns in Dubai, I could care more.

What's really unforgivable in all of this was how Tony Snow, the president's spokesliar and former Fox News shill, handled the press questions about it. In response to a reporter's question asking if they'd tried to talk the parliament out of their vacation, he said, "You know, it's 130 degrees in Baghdad in August. I'll pass on your recommendation."

And his tone said, "It's hotter than hell over there. They need a break from that shit hole."

No, really. Thanks to the magic of YouTube, you can see it right here:

To her credit, the reporter launches into him with, "...it's 130 degrees for the U.S. military also on the ground ..."

You know, I'm just gonna say this:

There's a special kind of hell for someone like Tony Snow who makes comments like that and for anyone who takes part in a government that allows such vicious cynicism to reign victorious. And unfortunately, we're currently living in it.

America's Doctor. America's Homophobe. Same Diff.

2007-07-20T19:16:00.000-07:00

No one in the country but me seems to be bothered by this. So I'm submitting the following for your information. Get pissed, folks. They're counting on you to not pay attention. And so far, it's working.

Recently, Dr. Richard Carmona resigned at the end of his term as Surgeon General after accusing the current administration of interfering with his views on stem cell research, global warming and abstinence-based initiatives (which ... shocker ... they didn't quite agree with).

On May 24, George Bush proudly announced his new nominee for Surgeon General, one Dr. James W. Holsinger Jr. Dr. Holsinger hails from Kentucky ... which might be concern enough ... and I can say that because I have family from there. I wouldn't trust any of those people with a prescription pad, let me tell ya.

But even better is Dr. Holsinger's 1991 position paper for the Methodist church titled "Pathophysiology of Male Homosexuality."

I'll save you having to look up the 50-cent word. Pathophysiology is "the physiology of abnormal or diseased organisms or their parts." (Emphasis mine.)

Nice. In case you want to read this horror show, it's online here.

But the title should be enough for anyone but George W to realize this guy's a whack job. And then there's the little sentence on page two that reads, " ... the varied sexual practices of homosexual men have resulted in a diverse and expanded concept of sexually transmitted disease and associated trauma."

Jealous much, Dr. Holsinger?

Whatever trauma we've endured as a result of our sex lives, it's nothing compared to the associated trauma someone like Dr. Holsinger is sure to visit upon us. (I'm not so certain, but I believe it includes bringing back pink triangles as an accessory.)

When he wasn't busy cooking up six pages of homophobia shellacked with a thin but shiny coat of widely disputed "science," Dr. Holsinger and his wife were founding the Hope Springs Community Church, widely reported to be intent on helping cure gays and lesbians of their pathophysiology.

The church is now denying that they ever had programs to help those poor self-loathing homers who're trying to pray the gay away, saying the claim was a smear by the gay mafia or something. (For being so organized, you'd think we'd have that marriage thing taken care of by now. What the hell are we doing wrong if we've got all this power at our disposal?)

Someone might want to share that with their own Reverend David Calhoun, who on June 1 told the Lexington Herald-Reader "We see [homosexuality] as an issue not of orientation but of lifestyle. We have people who seek to walk out of that lifestyle."

And you ... what? Pat them on the back and tell them to save their aching arches? No.

Who knows what will happen with the nomination in the Senate. At least Ted Kennedy's on the case.

But in a way, I hope it all works out. If Dr. Holsinger succeeds, he could help cure Mary Cheney, the VP's lesbian shill ... I mean daughter. It'd mean one less hypocrite on the dais for all of us.

Is This Thing On?

2007-06-26T21:58:00.000-07:00

Hey, faithful readers,

Yes. Both of you.

Especially the woman I met at KC's wedding who sat in my lap and had pictures taken. I'd love a copy of that photo if you're so inclined.

I'd even post it on here and make you famous ... to the other person who reads this regularly. Whomever that may be.

So shoot me a note, baby. I miss you already.

I Did It Norway

2007-06-26T21:43:00.000-07:00

Rusty and I are off to Amsterdam and Norway for a couple of weeks starting this weekend. Last time it was Thanksgiving in New Zealand. This time it's Independence Day in Europe. Such is the life of an international jet setter.

So I'll be switching off this blog for a couple of weeks. (And to those of you who thought, "How would we know?" ... you try to be amusing day in and day out.)

But I'll be on the travel blog pretty regularly ... provided we wrangle internet access along the way. Do travel along with us, will you?

Dog Days Of Summer

2007-06-24T20:14:00.000-07:00

Eight years ago on this very weekend, Rusty and I skipped out on Pride Weekend and motored out to Sweaty Kneecap, Nevada, or something like that, to pick up Chip, a labrador retriever puppy. On the drive home, he slept in the crook of my arm. Today, he's a 105 pound brick shithouse with a graying muzzle. My how time flies.

And Chip ... aka Chipdog ... aka Chipperdoodle ... aka PoodleDoodle ... aka The Poodle ... has become such a part of us, he's ... well ... a part of us. I do love that poodle.

Today, Rusty, Don (our house brother), Chipdog and I skipped out on Pride to go meet Bingo, a nine-year-old labrador retriever at the Santa Clara shelter. And while he's a bit of a spaz, Bingo came home-o with us today.

A new dog, Kenneth, you ask? I know. A nine-year-old new dog, Kenneth, you say? I know, I know. The debate about do we get a new dog or not has raged for years. A friend or two (yes, Patty, this means you) has even gone so far as to launch a full-scale campaign to lobby for a new puppy.

And instead we defied all expectations and came home with this old coot. But I can explain.

It's clear that Bingo (not his real name-o ... but his English isn't so great, so he can't tell us the real one) was separated from His Peoples somehow. He knows how to sit and lay down and shake, which is hardly something you pick up by accident as a canine.

Whether His Peoples wanted it this way or not is impossible to know, but the shelter's tried for several months to return him to his rightful place to no avail. And people don't exactly run to adopt older dogs. He was featured as pet-of-the-month so many times in the newspaper, he almost got his own column.

And that's how we got Bingo. Now to be known as Peety (an homage to my current employer and his current need to relieve himself every 15 minutes).

The reason why is simple: Every one of us was once a pup that rode home in the crook of a happy parent's arm. And every one us could lose Our Peoples in our later days. The best any of us can hope is that another tribe will wander by and claim us as their own ... that they'll see us as family even if we're old and there's no more fur on our elbows.

Welcome home, Peety. Welcome. Home.

How To Get My Vote

2007-06-02T12:41:00.000-07:00

Barak Obama issued a statement yesterday about Pride Month. Now it's almost enough for me that Barak knows that Pride Month exists. But he pretty much puts me in the voting booth after saying the following. Is it possible that he just threaded the needle on this issue? I think he very well may have.

Here's the official text:

"Pride Month is a reminder that while we have come a long way since the Stonewall riots in 1969, we still have a lot of work to do."

"Too often, the issue of LGBT rights is exploited by those seeking to divide us. But at its core, this issue is about who we are as Americans. It's about whether this nation is going to live up to its founding promise of equality by treating all its citizens with dignity and respect."

"It's time to turn the page on the bitterness and bigotry that fill so much of today's LGBT rights debate. The rights of all Americans should be protected -- whether it's at work or anyplace else. "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" needs to be repealed because patriotism and a sense of duty should be the key tests for military service, not sexual orientation. Civil unions should give gay couples full rights. And those who commit hate crimes should be punished no matter whether those crimes are committed on account of race, religion, gender identity, or sexual orientation."

"This Pride Month, let's make our founding promise of equality a reality for every American."

Rock on, Barak, baby. No matter what happens, you were the first person who had the courage to look it in the eyes and say it. Let's just hope you really mean it, too.

My Life In Four-Color Photos

2007-05-13T01:24:00.000-07:00

I've always loved four-color introspection. The idea for this comes from Kirsten, from whom I often steal blog ideas. This is because she is brighter than I am. (I put this in just to test if she's still reading. Then again, is *anyone* still reading? Hello? Hello? Is this thing on?)

Anyhoo, peoples. Here is my psyche as a slide show.

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

Would You Grab This Man's Ass?

2007-03-17T14:47:00.000-07:00

This gays in the military thing is killing me. Well, not literally. I suppose actually being a gay ... or anyone for that matter ... in the military right now would more likely be killing me than just having to listen to Peter Pace, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, wax philosophical about how gays are immoral and that allowing us to serve openly is paving the way for a regiment of pedophiles and serial killers.

Apparently Peter fills his brain with thoughts of sexual immorality instead of his type of immorality where sending thousands of young men and women to their deaths in the name of ... what exactly? ... is commonplace. But that's beside the point.

What's really killing me is how every time we go two steps past the immorality blather, there comes the sucker punch of how it'll also mean that straight soldiers will have to shower with homos. Gasp! And live with them in close quarters. The horror!

My favorite quote of the week on this subject comes from Tony Perkins (seen in the picture on the right), head of the Family Resarch Council ("Defending family, faith and freedom." From what? And with what?) In an interview with the Baptist Press, that hotbed of journalistic integrity, Tony says:

“Sometimes you’ll have 100, 500, or 1,000 soldiers, sailors or Marines together in a barracks or in a ship bay, all using the same showers and bathroom facilities. When you introduce sexuality into that kind of environment, it begins to break down discipline and unit cohesion."

I could get all in a tizzy about this, but I'm going to go for the less-is-more approach. For once. And simply ask this:

Why's it always the pale, pasty, ugly dudes who think we're going to leer at their junk? Keep it in your pants, Tony. We don't want it.

He Is The Egg Man. Koo-koo-kachoo.

2007-03-17T14:17:00.000-07:00

Khalid Sheik Mohammed (note to Khalid ... dude ... buy a brush) has "confessed" to a Gitmo panel that he is responsible for 31 terrorist plots including, but certainly not limited to, the 1993 and 2001 World Trade Center bombings/attacks, the shoe bomber attempts and to a failed attempt to assassinate Jimmy Carter.

In undisclosed parts of his testimony, Mohammed also confessed to:

Putting the lime in the coconut.
Putting the bam in the bam-shalam-a-bam.
Putting his chocolate in my peanut butter.
Putting his right foot in, his right foot out, his right foot in and shaking it all about.
Shooting the sheriff. (But he did not shoot the deputy.)
Having been to paradise but never having been to me.
Seeing mommy kissing Santa Claus.

Now I'm not sayin' that he's ready for sainthood. But 31 nefarious plots, including being responsible "from A to Z" for 9/11? Busy boy that Mohammed.

I for one am relieved, as it proves our torture dollars have been well spent ... not to mention our failure to capture Osama isn't such a failure after all.

Whew. Thank you Mohammed. Now tell us ... where'd you bury Hoffa?

Takes One To Know One

2007-03-03T11:52:00.000-08:00

So Ann Coulter (bitch! ... sorry ... it's like Tourette's every time I hear her name) goes to the American Conservative Union Political Action Conference this week and calls John Edwards a faggot.

Seriously. You can see it right here:

Now the fact that Ann Coulter (cow!) spouts out the word "faggot" is hardly a shock. It's clear by her hair alone that she doesn't have a lot of gays in her life, and clear from every other word of hate, ignorance and intolerance that falls from the vile, shit-filled arroyo called her mouth that she's here to inflame more than anything.

I feel rather sad for Ann (neocon-whore!). After all, we have to put up with her dressed like that, and she feels compelled to dress like that. Just who's on the losing end of that self esteem vacuum, I ask you? So as loathsome as she may be ... and that's pretty loathsome ... I'm in sort of roll-my-eyes mode with her at this point.

What should really give one pause is that it's a room full of hundreds of people who are listening to Ann put her minstrel show through its paces. And when she suggests that it's gotten so bad ya can't even say the word "faggot" anymore, do they take issue with her? Does anyone boo? Hiss? Storm out?

Do any of the gay cater waiters wrestle her to the ground and give her an impromptu bob behind the podium?

No.

The room erupts in laughter. Knowing, telling laughter that says, "No longer being able to say 'nigger' is one thing. But taking away 'faggot' is just going too far. Not on my watch, Ann. Not on my watch."

This is the group that everyone with a prayer for the Republican presidential nomination must go to and grovel. Rudi. McCain. They both went. They both swore they were "just like them." And who in their right mind would want to be just like that?

Better yet, who in their right mind would want to vote for someone who says they're just like that?

Don't be upset with Ann. Though I hope she dies. I really do. A painful, ugly, humiliating and public death ringed by faggot camera men who are more into capturing her demise than preventing it.

Be upset with the room full of people who've elected her their clown. She's just doing the dance. They're the ones playing the tune.

The Friuli Tasting Menu

2007-02-17T11:08:00.000-08:00

So Mario Batali has a new(ish) restaurant, Del Posto, his shrine to Frank Bruni at the New York Times, who he's hoping will one day crown him with the only four stars ever received by an Italian restaurant in Manhattan.

At 11:00 p.m., we breezed in and ordered the eight-course tasting menu with wine pairings. Did they squirm and refuse? Only squirmed. A little. And in an entirely classy way. But did they capitulate? At those prices ... of course they did.

And how was the most expensive meal I've had in my lifetime?

Very, very good. But knock-my-socks-off good? Not from start to finish, no. (The wine, however? Holy moses. I wanted to crawl inside of every glass and bathe in that stuff.)

The highlights? The fish course, where they took a scallop and cross-cut it diagonally so it fanned out in this beautiful flower. They then set it on top of a "Salsa di Caffe" ... an espresso salsa, peoples. It was mind blowing. Transcendent. And if every other course was like that, I'd call Frank myself and beg him for that last missing star (he gave them three in his review ... and he's right. It's excellent but not extraordinary.)

Mario is a celebrity chef, who actually gives a shit about the quality of the food as much as he's concerned about establishing himself as a brand. And that's possibly the downfall at Del Posto. (Though this is nitpicking, kids. go there, and you'll have great food, amazing wine and astonishing service.)

But in creating world-class dining at Lupa and Babbo and Esca and Casa Mono, and in raising the bar every time, he's wound up having to compete against himself. And that just might not be possible this time.

That scallop, though? Amen, brother. Amen.

From the Sublime to the Ridiculous ... and Back Again

2007-02-17T10:11:00.000-08:00

Another day in New York.

Started off with lunch at Lupa, went shopping for tea at Ito En, saw Zoe Caldwell and Denis O'Hare in A Spanish Play, and finished with an eight-course tasting menu at Del Posto with the reserve wine pairing.

Crazy. If I lived life like this every day, I'd be dead in six weeks. But what an exceptional way to go. Hell, I didn't even have time to get cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery, for heaven's sake.

Lupa makes a saltimbocca that will make you weep. Veal cutlet pounded within an inch of its life is layered with an ethereally thin wafer of prosciutto and sage leaves. Then they pan fry it in extra virgin olive oil until the prosciutto and sage are welded into the veal. It's served on top of a bed of wilted greens and more olive oil. It's a salty, oily, herby orchestra of tender baby cow deliciousness.

While Lupa is like an old friend, Ito En is a new find. My Peety McPeetniks at the new(ish) gig have hatched a plan to turn me into a tea freak. And I have to say they're doing a fine little job of it. So I saw in Zagat that there's a place on the upper east side that is slavishly devoted to artisan tea. The best of the best, they universally proclaimed.

And damn if they weren't right. Tucked away in a little townhouse right between Cartier and Dolce & Gabana (wha?) is Ito En, where Tomoko the tea purveyor and I got a little giddy over the leaves.

The greatest thing was watching her realize I wasn't just wandering by looking for something, as she said, "with mango in it." Because once she decided I was a fellow traveller, the really good shit came out.

Now if you've been drinking Lipton's and thinking that's tea, people ... I have something to tell you. That shit is dust. It's brown water.

Ito En is tea. TEA. Lovingly crafted, foraged out like truffles and gold and diamonds and saffron and really good olive oil. And so full of pride, it's giving Peet's a run for its money in the fanatical employee department.

Go. Now. If you're anywhere near Madison & 69th Street, walk or crawl or run. Do whatever you can, but buy some tea. (Or buy our stuff, which would give 'em a run for their money, I believe.)

Ask Tomoko to pull out the 20-year-old Iron Goddess. It's aged for five years before being roasted once a year for another 15 years before it's sold. Can you imagine? Twenty years before they think it's worth putting hot water on top of it and pouring that into a cup.

That's love, people. Love of craft and love of quality. And it's all so sublimely ridiculous.

Another Winter in a Summer Town

2007-02-15T23:16:00.000-08:00

I'm coming to you from New York City this week. How's the weather, you ask?

Well. Use the following in a sentence: It's cold.

As in ... Holy fucking shit, it's cold. Sweet Mother of God, it's cold.

In the immortal words of Thornton Wilder, the dogs are sticking to the sidewalks.

Kicked off the whole thing with a stop at John's Pizza in the Village. As in ... Sweet Mother of God, that's good pizza.

And kicked off the theater (seven shows in four days, kids) with Grey Gardens, the new(ish) musical about Jackie Kennedy's aunts who went from society doyennes to nut jobs. Living with Jackie will do that to you, I suppose.

So the show is daring but not ultimately that successful. Still, I'd pay double just to watch Christine Ebersole tear up the f'in stage again. God love that woman. She's the talk of the theater community now and for good reason. As my fellow theater junkie, Miss Virginia, likes to point out, Christine doesn't take any of it home with her; she puts all of it out there on the stage. When at the end she realizes she'll never escape the mansion and her mother no matter how decrepit either becomes, and the tears don't just well up in her eyes but come in big, heavy rain-like drops, you're taken to your own most scary, vulnerable place.

And that's what really good theater is all about, peeps. So my scarf's off to Christine. Word. Engrave the Tony, because it's hers.

Here's a clip of her performing the second-act opener at the Drama Desk awards. She's a flippin' genius, and I want to have her babies.

And at an ASCAP Foundation peformance, she trots out "Around the World" from the second act as well. Note that she's singing the hell out of this thing while maintaining a nearly impossible New England accent.

Race. Matters.

2007-01-31T14:17:00.000-08:00

So Joe Biden, the Democratic senator from Delaware, is running for president. We know this because he's announced his intentions so many times, his wife now wears a t-shirt that says, "I know!"

Good for him, because that's about the closest he's going to get to the White House without a special pass or an invite to a state dinner.

In a New York Observer article, Joe does a little assessment of his potential Democratic opponents. No surprise, he takes good aim at Hillary and Iraq. Like Hillary's biggest worry is what he has to say on the subject. There are far bigger fish hoping to fry her.

But then he gets to Barak. And compliments him. Or does he?

In what can only be the first of a lamentable string of back-handed racial slurs, Joe says (emphasis mine):

“I mean, you got the first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean and a nice-looking guy,” he said. “I mean, that’s a storybook, man.”

Oh, Joe. Joe, Joe, Joe, Joe, Joe. The terms "house slave" and "field slave" are so 400 years ago.

To their credit, Barak's handlers simply say that Senator Biden's comments speak for themselves. And indeed they do.

Four-foot Woman. Fifty-pound Beef.

2007-01-31T12:22:00.000-08:00

In prepareation for Amazing Race Allstars, I'd like to share some of the best moments ever from past seasons.

At the top of the pack has to be Charla, a four-foot dwarf, who when faced with carrying a 50-pound side of beef took one look and yelled, "Put. It. On. My. Shoulder!"

She then took off like a shot ... trailing cow and hauling ass. America, in all its voyeuristic glory, stood and cheered.

They talk about the experience here:

View Charla & Mirna on innertube now

One Month To "Amazing Race Allstars"!!!

2007-01-19T09:20:00.000-08:00

I'm so excited! Team Hillbilly, Team Cha Cha Cha, Charla & Mirna and Uchenna & Joyce all in one race? I just can't stand it, people. It might be the best night of my life.

And that's rather sad.

But don't judge me. Just watch it. You'll be a-thankin' me later.

Bush Pilot

2007-01-18T14:55:00.000-08:00

Think that Bush doesn't do his own thinking? Suspicious that he's being spoon-fed every line? You're right.

And here's proof:

Jose Rivera's 36 Assumptions About Playwriting

2007-01-16T14:23:00.000-08:00

You probably dropped by to see if I was going to be funny. And I'm going to disappoint you on that front. Instead, I'm going to share the thoughts of Jose Rivera (Cloud Tectonics, Marisol, References to Salvidor Dali Make Me Hot, et al) on playwriting, a subject near and dear to my heart (not to mention my master's degree and my student loans). These are some of the most compelling thoughts about the subject I've ever read. And while it's long and probably not a topic you give a flip about ... read it anyway. It's provocative, and I promise you'll find something to think about.

Jose says:

Over the years, I've had the good fortune to teach writing in a number of schools from second-grade to graduate school. I usually just wing it. But lately, I've decided to think about the assumptions I've been working under and to write them down. The following is an unscientific, gut-level survey of the assumptions I have about writing plays, in no particular order of importance.

Good playwriting is a collaboration between your many selves. The more multiple your personalities, the further, wider, deeper you will be able to go.
Theatre is closer to poetry and music than it is to the novel.
There's no time limit to writing plays. Think of playwriting as a life-long apprenticeship. Imagine you may have your best ideas on your deathbed.
Write plays in order to organize despair and chaos. To live vicariously. To play God. To project an idealized version of the world. To destroy things you hate in the world and in yourself. To remember and to forget. To lie to yourself. To play. To dance with language. To beautify the landscape. To fight loneliness. To inspire others. To imitate your heroes. To bring back the past and raise the dead. To achieve transcendence of yourself. To fight the powers that be. To sound alarms. To provoke conversation. To engage in the conversation started by great writers in the past. To further evolve the artform. To lose yourself in your fictive world. To make money.
Write because you want to show something. To show that the world is shit. To show how fleeting love and happiness are. To show the inner workings of your ego. To show that democracy is in danger. To show how interconnected we are. (Each "to show" is active and must be personal, deeply held, true to you.)
Each line of dialogue is like a piece of DNA; potentially containing the entire play and its thesis; potentially telling us the beginning, middle, and end of the play.
Be prepared to risk your entire reputation every time you write, otherwise it's not worth your audience's time.
Embrace your writer's block. It's nature's way of saving trees and your reputation. Listen to it and try to understand its source. Often, writer's block happens to you because somewhere in your work you've lied to yourself and your subconscious won't let you go any further until you've gone back, erased the lie, stated the truth and started over.
Language is a form of entertainment. Beautiful language can be like beautiful music: it can amuse, inspire, mystify, enlighten.
Rhythm is key. Use as many sounds and cadences as possible. Think of dialogue as a form of percussive music. You can vary the speed of the language, the number of beats per line, volume, density. You can use silences, fragments, elongated sentences, interruptions, overlapping conversation, physical activity, monologues, nonsense, non-sequiturs, foreign languages.
Vary your tone as much as possible. Juxtapose high seriousness with raunchy language with lyrical beauty with violence with dark comedy with awe with eroticism.
Action doesn't have to be overt. It can be the steady deepening of the dramatic situation or your character's steady emotional movements from one emotional/psychological condition to another: ignorance to enlightenment, weakness to strength, illness to wholeness.
Invest something truly personal in each of your characters, even if it's something of your worst self.
If realism is as artificial as any genre, strive to create your own realism. If theatre is a handicraft in which you make one of a kind pieces, then you're in complete control of your fictive universe. What are its physical laws? What's gravity like? What does time do? What are the rules of cause and effect? How do your characters behave in this altered universe?
Write from your organs. Write from your eyes, your heart, your liver, your ass -- write from your brain last of all.
Write from all of your senses. Be prepared to design on the page: tell yourself exactly what you see, feel, hear, touch and taste in this world. Never leave design to chance, that includes the design of the cast.
Find your tribe. Educate your collaborators. Stick to your people and be faithful to them. Seek aesthetic and emotional compatability with those your work with. Understand your director's world view because it will color his/her approach to your work.
Strive to be your own genre. Great plays represent the genres created around the author's voice. A Checkhov genre. A Caryl Churchill genre.
Strive to create roles that actors you respect will kill to perform.
Form follows function. Strive to reflect the content of the play in the form of the play.
Use the literalization of metaphor to discuss the inner emotional state of your characters.
Don't be afraid to attempt great themes: death, war, sexuality, identity, fate, God, existence, politics, love.
Theatre is the explanation of life to the living. Try to tease apart the conflicting noises of living, and make some kind of pattern and order. It's not so much and explanation of life as much as it is a recipe for understanding, a blueprint for navigation, a confidante with some answers, enough to guide you and encourage you, but not to dictate to you.
Push emotional extremes. Don't be a puritan. Be sexy. Be violent. Be irrational. Be sloppy. Be frightening. Be loud. Be stupid. Be colorful.
Ideas may be deeply embedded in the interactions and reactions of your character; they may be in the music and poetry of your form. You have thoughts and you generate ideas constantly. A play ought to embody those thoughts and those thoughts can serve as a unifying energy in your play.
A play must be organized. This is another word for structure. You organize a meal, your closet, your time -- why not your play?
Strive to be mysterious, not confusing.
Think of information in a play like an IV drip -- dispense just enough to keep the body alive, but not too much too soon.
Think of writing as a constant battle against the natural inertia of language.
Write in layers. Have as many things happening in a play in any one moment as possible.
Faulkner said the greatest drama is the heart in conflict with itself.
Keep your chops up with constant questioning of your own work. React against your work. Be hypercritical. Do in the next work what you aimed for but failed to do in the last one.
Listen only to those people who have a vested interest in your future.
Character is the embodiment of obsession. A character must be stupendously hungry. There is no rest for those characters until they've satisfied their needs.
In all your plays be sure to write at least one impossible thing. And don't let your director talk you out of it.
A writer cannot live without an authentic voice -- the place where you are the most honest, most lyrical, most complete, most creative and new. That's what you're striving to find. But the authentic voice doesn't know how to write, any more than gasoline knows how to drive. But driving is impossible without fuel and writing is impossible without the heat and strength of your authentic voice. Learning to write well is the stuff of workshops. Learning good habits and practicing hard. But finding your authentic voice as a writer is your business, your journey -- a private, lonely, inexact, painful, slow and frustrating voyage. Teachers and mentors can only bring you closer to that voice. With luck and time, you'll get there on your own.

Nobody's Gonna Rain on My Parade

2007-01-02T00:26:00.000-08:00

I laughed so hard at this, I had snot running out of my nose.

It's all you have to see to understand what it's like inside of my head. All of the time.

Seriously. I love this more than oxygen:

Soup's On!

2006-12-30T18:40:00.000-08:00

I was just tagged by the Lady Miss Cheryl, challenging me to keep the following meme alive. And fearing that some horrible fate will greet me if I don't comply, not to mention being constantly challenged to find something ... anything ... amusing to blog about (lest the natives get restless, and trust me I never hear the end of it when they do), I'm game.

So here goes:

· Find the nearest book
· Name the book
· The author
· Turn to page 123
· Go to the fifth sentence on the page
· Copy out the next three sentences and post to your blog.
· Tag three more folks.

Nearest Book: The Joy of Cooking, 75th Anniversary Edition (4500 recipes for the way we cook now).

I really don't know why this is sitting on my coffee table right now. I bought it at Costco after seeing an article in the New York Times, which talked about:

The Authors: Irma S. Rombauer, Marion Rombauer Becker and Ethan Becker

Irma was the orginal author back in the '30s, who threw herself into chronicling her recipes as a way to distract herself from her husband's suicide. So I'm thinking the original version may have been titled The Joy of Cooking Sure Beats the Shithole That's the Rest of My Life. Or something like that. My hope is that Mr. Rombauer didn't kill himself out of financial concerns, because after Joy's publication, ol' Irma got richity, rich, rich. Plenty of joy to go 'round.

Marion was Irma's daughter. She's dead. Ethan is Marion's son. And heir to the throne. Somewhere along the publishing line, they got in bed with Scribner, who now mostly controls the rights and has been known to bring in a food editor to reimagine the whole thing for a new edition. As happens with most children who see the change of something their family was a part of as a change to the actual family ... instead of, say, just an update of a cookbook ... Ethan has been pretty pissy about each version since his mother and grandmother were no longer deeply involved.

To which I say, Ethan, honey ... seriously. There are only so many uses for cream of mushroom soup that the market needs these days. And we have these amazing things called microwaves and food processors. Not to mention frozen puff pastry. Let's not keep looking back, okay? Also not to mention that grandma is dust. Worm food. Pushing up daisies. She doesn't give a damn, and you look like an idiot. Go count your fortune and shut it.

Turn to page 123, go to the fifth sentence on the page and copy out the next three sentences:

No matter what the soup, a small quantity of salt pork, a ham hock or a few slices of bacon will add flavor and depth. As for stocks, there are three simple methods for removing fat from soup. If you chill the soup, the fat will solidify and it is then easy to spoon it off; or float a paper towel on the surface of warm soup, and when it has absorved as much fast as it will hold, discard.

A good friend, Michael Hambone, once told me that there's no food that can't be improved by the addition of gravy, cheese, bacon or frosting. It's got to be heartening for him to be validated by this venerable tome.

And this defatting thing is a pickle, let me tell ya. The chilling trick really works the best. But whoever cooks with enough time to chill his or her stock probably also completes his or her Christmas shopping by July in order to fully "enjoy the holiday season." These people can't be trusted and must be destroyed.

I'm also pretty sure they're the same people who devised the urban legend that floating a paper towel on top of a hot liquid would result in defatting it ... instead of the real-life version where you frantically plunge your hands into scalding liquids in a futile attempt to retrieve a paper towel as it sinks like the titanic to the bottom of your soup pot.

"Is that rice?" they'll ask you as they pick soggy white bits from their molars. "No," you'll say with a smile. "Bounty."

I'm a tagging:

The professional ex-wife.
The Christmas Queen.
The Little Dutch Boy.

Jim & Tammy Faye's Prodigal Son

2006-12-27T20:00:00.000-08:00

Oh. My. God.

The Sundance Channel is airing a series called One Punk Under God, an original documentary about Jay Bakker, the son of Jim and Tammy Faye.

Run to your f*ing Tivo right now. Right this very second, I tell you. And snap up every episode that you can. This is some amazing TV.

Seriously.

Okay. So. Jay is a punked out preacher's son with a lip ring and tattoos. His cup runneth over with ink, and he has full sleeves done on both arms. Heaven only knows what else there is and where, but I'm hoping for the t-shirtless scene where we get a little more information on the subject. Then there's the chin scruff and his geeky glasses.

Confession being good for the soul, do I think he's hot? Hail Mary! Bless you, Jesus!

But in case little skater punk Christians aren't your gig (and I can't imagine why not, but it's your choice and I won't stand in judgement) ... is the show any good? Hell to the yes.

Tammy Faye dotters around in the late stage of cancer. Even through the copious layers of mascara, she looks like death's knitting in the next room. Jay's wife is doing everything she can to get him to leave the ministry. (Oh, yes. He founded his own church called "Revolution" in 1999. It caters to youngsters and cashes in heavily on his street cred, but is funded deeply by the ultra-conservative fundamentalists. Sneaky Petes.) And his father, the disgraced Mr. Bakker, has Jay on his show just to serve his own needs. (Fancy that.)

In case that's not enough, the episode (#2) that I'm currently obsessing over has him saying things like (while leaving for the airport to see his father), "They're never gonna let me on [the plane]. I've got too much crap. It's because I'm carrying way too many Bibles."

Fish gotta swim. Birds gotta fly. I gotta love one punk skater Christian fundamentalist til I die. Watching him navigate his past by way of his present is fascinating stuff.

But even more interesting? Unbeknownst to anyone ... including the TV show ... he decided to use the attention of the show to announce that he's pro-gay marriage. And the cameras follow him to several unfriendly congregations where he does a sermon basically saying, "Hypocrites."

Incredible stuff. Go now!

Mystery Date!

2006-12-19T18:16:00.000-08:00

Cute, cute, cute. For those of us who secretly played our sisters' Mystery Date when no one else was watching (oh, like I'm the only one), here's the version we were really fantasizing about.

Elf You!

2006-12-16T16:27:00.000-08:00

Alas, I can't get this to play inside the blog, but I'd like to send my holiday wishes to you all by doing a special little dance.

Hey, Old Friends. Whaddya Say, Old Friends?

2006-12-11T23:46:00.000-08:00

A shout out to my former Gappertons, the professional ex-wife and T-Dawg, for the cocktails. You two are the best that place has left to offer.

Word.

And my professional ex-wife's fiance is a pipin' hot little dish. Oh my god, that boy is adorable! I'd make a play for him myself if I didn't have so much hair on my breasts. But alas, I do. So take him with pride, sister! Take him with pride.

:::smooches:::

Spring Awakening

2006-12-10T19:12:00.000-08:00

Every few years, a new show comes along in the Broadway season that suggests the bloated, over-produced, over-hyped mega-musicals are not the only things that can survive ... that there might be room for something smaller and different ... that there might be a group of people out there who want to push the form forward instead of just throwing a pile of gold-plated, $10 million piece of shit on stage.

In the past, it's been quirky little odd ball shows like Avenue Q or The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee, both of which started off-bway and met with enough critical acclaim to warrant a move uptown.

This year the little show that could is Spring Awakening, a musical about teens coming into sexual awareness. A big ol' hit for the Atlantic Theater Company last season, it's opening on b'way tonight. And it's the one show I'm most looking forward to. Check out this business:

They've got their own little video of one of the production numbers. This shit is tight. Check it ooooooot. It's called "The Bitch of Living," which if you listen to the lyrics is a direct reference to ... uh ... masturbating. Rock on!!!

And then buy some tickets to it. Show the world that we can enjoy an evening in the theater that doesn't include a flying car, house, helicopter or chandelier. Please.

Beaches

2006-11-25T11:57:00.000-08:00

Did I ever tell you you're my hero?

Sorry. Wrong beaches.

I'm coming to you live this week from Maui. So it's more like this beaches. The webcam for that live, streaming video is hanging off the edge of my balcony. Life is fucking tough, bitches, and this is what it looks like:

Just to prove how tough it is, on the first pic below is of The Christmas Queen, The Little Dutch Boy and I waving from the ocean this morning. The Husbear took this pic from the balcony of our condo:

Which was shortly thereafter followed by me crashing and burning in the surf in a moment of what can only be described as Delicious Irony to all who were watching. This pic captures me trying to get the sand out of my ass during what can only be described as a Graceful Recovery.

It's gonna be a hard week. Brace yourselves.

A First Time For Everything

2006-11-21T23:48:00.000-08:00

In case you didn't notice, this is my first time to print a retraction ... and my last. (If the Little Dutch Boy is still reading ... that obscure reference is for you, baby.)

So yesterday I suggested that Michael Richards was a racist but on the grand scale of racism through the ages, he probably ranked above your mother locking the car doors a little too quickly when your father drove through certain parts of town and just below ... oh, let's say ... the Grand Dragon of the KKK.

That was before I actually saw his apology on Letterman for myself, thanks to my Tivo unit that clearly is out to teach me a thing or two about tolerance in the American entertainment industry.

I'm seriously taking it all back. Seriously. Because of two things.

First, in his apology he said he said some pretty bad things to some "Afro Americans."

No, really. "Afro." I turned up the volume so loud and pushed the repeat button on the Tivo so many times to make sure, my neighbor started banging on the wall.

I suppose the word "wearing" in his sentence was silent. But come on, Michael. Out of touch much?

Second, as it all soaked in a bit, it occurred to me that had he tossed around the word "nigger" like Paul Rodriguez tosses around the word "faggot," he'd probably be a garden-variety racist.

Like Paul Rodriguez is. Oh, it's true. I wouldn't blog it if I hadn't heard it myself.

Instead, the very first thing out of his mouth was to pine for the old days when an uppity black would have been lynched. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is where Paul Rodriguez (and it pains me to say it) is right. There is a line you can't cross in speech, and that's the line where you in any way hint that someone should be ... uh ... taught a lesson.

Strange fruit, hanging from the Southern trees. Blood on the roots and blood on the leaves.

That's not to be dismissed so handily. I was wrong.

Godspeed, Mr. Altman

2006-11-21T14:16:00.000-08:00

Robert Altman died today at the fabulous age of 81. Had it been up to a vote, I would have given him 81 more, as I'm certain he had so much more for us to see.

And just because this is all about me, he's the guy who inspired me to always have some place in my plays where people are intentionally talking all at the same time. When (if?) you ever hear my stuff and you notice it happening, give a little smile to honor his genius.

Godspeed, Mr. Altman. Godspeed.

But Some of My Best Friends are Spear Chuckers!

2006-11-20T20:53:00.000-08:00

Michael Richards is not a racist. How do we know this? Because he says so. Not because he got heckled during a set at West Hollywood's Laugh Factory, prompting him to suggest to a black audience member that 50 years ago we'd have him "upside down with a fucking fork in your ass."

You could almost hear Mel Gibson sigh with relief.

Not content with this, Richards went on to toss "nigger" around more often than two teens on the 38 Geary bus. His current behavior notwithstanding, he dutifully went on to Letterman to make sure we all know he was not a bigot and was "deeply, deeply sorry."

What you really have to know he's sorry about is the invention of the video cell phone, which someone quickly trained on him to catch the majority of his rant. I have to admit, the printed version pales in comparison.

Is Michael Richards a racist? Of course he is. But probably not in the burn a cross on your lawn and wear a white hood while doing it sort of way. I'm betting he's the same type of racist you and I are.

Oh, that's right, buddy. You're a racist. Want proof? Look no further than Avenue Q, the Tony-winning musical, and its show-stopper tune "Everyone's a Little Bit Racist."

And I quote:

You're a little bit racist. And you're a little bit, too. I guess we're all a little bit racist. Admitting it is not an easy thing to do. But between me and you, I think everyone's a little bit racist sometimes. Doesn't mean we go around committing hate crimes. Look around, and you will find that no one's really color blind. Maybe that's a fact we all should face: Everyone makes judgements based on race.

'Nuff said. They're right. Michael Richards was stupid and showed bad judgement. But so did that guy in the audience yelling "That's uncalled for, cracker ass," and you don't see anyone turning the camera on him.

Then there's Paul Rodriguez, also on the bill the same night, who found a news camera as quickly as he could to say, "Once the word comes out of your mouth and you don't happen to be African American, then you have a whole lot of explaining. Freedom of speech has its limitations, and I think Michael Richards found those limitations."

Oh, Paul. Puhleeze. You use the word "faggot" like it's punctuation. And unless your hairdresser knows something we don't know ... you've got a whole lot of explaining to do, buddy. So how about you shut yer yap, my nigga.

Or someone's bound to get offended.

Sleeping With The Enemy

2006-11-11T15:53:00.000-08:00

So Ken Mehlman, the newly deposed head of the Republican National Committee, is rumored to be gay.

Then there's our friend Ted Haggard, the Colorado minister who admitted (or denied) he had (or didn't have) sex with a male prostitute. Actually, a side note about Haggard ... for this isn't my point here, but I can't help but mention it: When the shit really hit the fan, rather than admit he had sex with a man, Ted swore it was a drug deal instead. And crystal meth at that.

Oh. Thanks for the clarification, Ted. Hand jobs now rank above drug dealing on the mortal sin continuum. I'll make a note of that. But you've confused the hell out of me, because when I came out, my mother said, "Of course I still love you. It's not like you're a drug dealer."

So between my mother and God, there seems to be some disagreement. Great. And even then, I have the sneaking suspicion neither of them have it quite right.

Anyhoo.

To round out the holy trinity of self-loathing is Mark Foley, the alleged pedophile and self-professed alcoholic homosexual who was smart enough to blame it all on being a cocksucking booze hound but not bright enough to know about things called chat logs.

This is almost all too much for my smart-ass heart to take. But the exposure of such hypocrisy is a hollow victory this time around. Because I want to just riff and riff and riff on it, but I can't bring myself to do it. And doesn't that just suck?

Because it's wrong to preach against and legislate against and politicize gay civil rights. It doesn't make it worse if you're gay and doing it.

No, really. It doesn't. You're not more evil for sucking dick while publicly railing against dick suckers. You're just more sad. You're just profoundly, inexplicably tragic. And lost.

Not to say that you get a pass. You step on the rights of gays? You should have no power. No matter what you're doing in your bedroom. You must be stopped.

But to wind up in a place where you're relentlessly tearing down the very thing you are? Then you're sleeping with the enemy. And you have far worse problems than the rest of us in the community.

I don't hate these men. I pity them.

Better Late Than Never

2006-11-09T13:48:00.000-08:00

Well, finally.

It only took six years of the current administration and 12 years of Republican domination of the House and Senate before Democrats managed to regain control of congress. Six years of this administration before we collectively woke up from the "stay the course" haze that had somehow made us very, very sleepy. Not to mention very, very stupid. And now very, very in debt in every conceivable notion of the word and every far-flung corner of the world.

Granted it was done in a very dramatic fashion, which came as a bit of a shock to our Republican brethren and sisteren. And shocking Republicans is one of my favorite past times, don't get me wrong.

But excuse me for saying that while I'm thankful for the tourniquet to stop the bleeding, I can't help but remind everyone that we had the chance to save the rest of the leg a couple of years ago but somehow thought it better of it. And me being me, I'm not so thankful after thinking that. I'm just mostly annoyed. But all the same ... welcome back from the abyss, Ohio. All is forgiven.

Hail, Mary!

2006-10-22T22:23:00.000-07:00

Gotta love a Fast Forward on the Amazing Race. Mary and David get a reprieve. Long may they reign.

Marked For Elimination

2006-10-22T09:38:00.000-07:00

It's happened. We knew it would. So we just have to buck up and say it: David and Mary are in some deep shit on Amazing Race.

Unless they come in first tonight ... and let's face it, I have a better chance of accomplishing that, and I'm not even in the damn thing ... they'll have 30 minutes of waiting at the end of this next leg to find out if they're out of the running.

And I know those bastards at CBS will have edited the thing so I have no fingernails left. I'm not sure if I hate them more for manipulating me, or me for falling for it, but the drama may wear my frazzled nerves right out, I tell you.

So in case they flame out and have to return to the hills of Kentucky sooner rather than later, I'd like to say:

Oh, David and Mary. We hardly knew ye. But what we've seen, we've loved. And I personally thank you for showing that it's not just the rednecks that have their prejudices to get over. Being a card-carrying pinko cocksucker, I admit I read your bio and heard your accents and immediately assumed you'd be loud-mouthed, narrow-minded trash, threatened by anything and everything that wasn't 1) white or 2) sold at Wal-Mart. But you were not. And you met the gays, the blacks, the asians and a bowl full of fish eyes with open arms.

I salute you. And in your honor, I vow to once in a while not have my mind closed to people I'd usually have it slammed shut for. Until they open their mouths and say something so homophobic that they must be destroyed.

And when you head into those hills, keep your heads high. And please, Mary. Please, oh, please. Don't beat the shit out of David.

In the event they survive tonight by some miracle, I'm taking it all back. Until then, I'll be conducting a prayer vigil. Join me, won't you?

Lord of the Ring Mold

2006-10-19T10:57:00.000-07:00

With Project Runway finished, I must now turn my attentions elsewhere. So why not give Top Chef a look?

It's early to tell. But this season's pretentious tool (the Stephen substitute) is clearly Marcel.

But who cares (yet) about what an ass he is. First, let's trouble ourselves with important things. I will begin with an open letter.

An Open Letter to Marcel's Hair:

Dude. What are you thinking? You look like Froddo. You look like a tweaked-out Hugh Jackman playing Wolverine playing Liberace.

You look like an idiot. Your ego is making you look like an idiot. Put the mousse down and back away before anyone gets hurt.

Seriously.

Sugar Baby Love

2006-10-13T17:43:00.000-07:00

Since my last tirade about the death of my civil rights, I've been waiting to see something that made me laugh and feel joyful before I came back to bloggin' it out.

Took a while, but along it came in the strangest of places: A safe sex ad. Yeah, I know. Who'd've thunk it. (And to be fair, he made a hetero one, too. Almost as cute.)

But it's from the incredible French animator, Wilfred Brimo, and is a three-minute cartoon that was part of that country's AIDS awareness campaign.

Heartfelt, funny, joyful, poignant. Very, very sweet. Now I've got that flippin' song in my head.

It's a little racy, but only PG-13 racy. Still, consider yourself warned. And see if for some reason a safe sex campaign can't make you feel better somehow.

Not So Funny Business

2006-10-07T17:44:00.000-07:00

On Thursday, the 1st District Court of Appeals upheld California's ban on gay marriage. This summer, high courts in New York and Washington states also refused to strike down laws prohibiting same-sex marriage.

Rusty and I have been together for the last 11 years. 11. Count 'em, you judicial fuckers. 4,015 days.

We own a house. And a dog. Well, it's more like the dog owns us. But we own the back yard he counts as his toilet. We've fought. We've laughed. We've fucked. Just like everyone else.

And for each of us, there was a time when we thought we were watching the other one die. Seriously. No hyperbole. There was one day in those 4,015 when it looked like I might bleed to death. And there was about a week in those 573 weeks when it looked like complications from Rusty's surgery were going to prevail.

Luck prevailed instead in both cases. But what if it hadn't?

Due to circumstances that aren't important to this rant, our house is in Rusty's name. Had he died, I promise you that the house we've laughed and fought and fucked in for the past decade would no longer be mine. His family would have rights to it that I'd be denied. They've never been in my home. Not that they wouldn't be welcome. But they've never wanted to be any part of the last 14,600 days of Rusty's life. And so they are not.

They don't send Christmas cards. They don't call on his birthday. They certainly don't invite us over for dinner. They don't drop by when they're passing through. They ... just don't.

But they'd own my home. And I'd be out. It would take just about as long as it's taken to type this.

Now of course you can say that we can protect ourselves from this by paying an attorney thousands of dollars to make certain I'm protected as well as I have to be. You're right. And we have ... but not everyone in our situation has that kind of cash or the wherewithal to know what to do.

But here's the question the high courts and every last pig-fucking mouth-breather who doesn't think Rusty and I deserve to be married should answer: Why should we have to do that?

Why is the right of survivorship something I have to pay for when other people wake up and have it for free? And don't get me started on taxes and the mountains of other things that all the money in the world to an attorney will never afford us.

Why should anyone in this country wake up and be three-fifths of what anyone else is? And why aren't we rioting in the streets?

I'll be funny tomorrow. Today, I simply can't afford it.

Proud Mary

2006-10-01T21:51:00.000-07:00

So Amazing Race is having one of the best seasons ever. And I'm still giving all the thanks to Team Hillbilly. That woman is just a step away from my personal reality TV Hall of Fame. (Other inductees include the clowns and just about every other team that came in fourth place. I can really pick a winner, people.) Every week, I pray for just one more hour of Mary and David.

And speaking of just a step away, Team Peg Leg looks to be having troubles. This leads me to the obvious question: We all know it's tough when you break up with someone. But what happens if you break up with the guy who makes your legs? I have an ex that I can run into nearly a dozen years later, and it's still tense. And the only thing he ever made me was ... well ... not a damn thing. If he'd also been molding my prosthesis ... well ... I'm just sayin'. Tense.

It'd be especially tense because I don't have a prosthesis. But anyhoo. I'm just stalling. Because there's something bugging me, and I'm hesitant to bring it up.

Since confession is good for the soul, I'll just come out and say it. It's Team Miriam. Kirsten, an excellent blogger, good friend and winner of the the Friend Of Gays Lifetime Achievement award (it sort of looks like a jock strap made of Swarovski crystal ... I understand she keeps hers in her bathroom to throw guests off kilter), sort of likes them. I personally want to wrap them up in the yards of chiffon that fall from their mouths every time they talk and throw them into the river until their cha cha heels stop twitching.

What is it, I ask, about these two gay boys that gets under my skin? It's not like I'm the butchest dude on the planet. (As the Little Dutch Boy and I like to say, people who never suspect we're gay have clearly never heard us talk.) And another inductee in my Reality TV Hall of Fame is Austin Scarlett, who doesn't appear gay as much as he oozes it.

It occurs to me as I'm writing that it's not them. It's not that I think they should hetero it up. And if that was the case, it'd really bother me. Because I'm the guy who once ordered coffee from a 6'3" tall white boy with shoulder-length, green dreadlocks, silver platforms, a leopard print pillbox hat and sequined cats-eye glasses. And the only thing I thought was, "God, those glasses are fabulous."

So if I was suddenly turning 40, which I just did, and becoming embarrassed by the more flamboyant amongst us, it'd be a sad day. Instead, I'm turning a dark eye toward the producers, who insist on pigeon holing us as lisping little girls. You want to be a lisping little girl? Rock on, sister. And come sit by me. But you want to think that's the only way America can see us? Then shame on you. Shame, shame, shame. Bitches.

Up Against The Wall, You Redneck Mothers

2006-09-30T10:33:00.000-07:00

So the Sweeney Todd bootleg got busted on YouTube. You can thank Actor's Equity for causing a stink. Does this mean I'll be blacklisted from getting my card? Just wait until I'm rich and famous. Then those bastards will be begging me to post things without regard to copyrights and such.

Just you wait. It's only taken 40 years so far. But I'm feelin' lucky.

Knotted, Polka Dotted, Twisted, Beaded, Braided

2006-09-28T07:08:00.000-07:00

It was very sweet of my former professional wife to plug my blog and to compliment my humor in a recent post.

But then she starts posturing about how she has a lot more hair than I do in a clear attempt to provoke a blog feud. Now I don't know why sister needs to do that, given that more than two people read her posts (unlike my quiet corner over here).

But I love her, and I'm prepared to take the high road. If this is how she wants to talk about that back hair problem of hers, then so be it.

He Uses Antlers In All Of His Decorating

2006-09-24T08:51:00.000-07:00

I just saw that Donny Osmond is "starring" in Disney's Beauty and the Beast on Broadway. As he's only playing Gaston and neither the beauty nor the beast, that "starring" credit is up for debate. But marketers will be marketers.

I digress, however. Imagine that.

Today's rant is actually about how his son came to opening night. His adult son. Who looks older than he does. There they are in the photo. With Donnie's face tighter than his progeny's.

Ick.

Amazing Race, How Sweet The Sound

2006-09-23T21:27:00.000-07:00

How is it possible, I ask, for me to get as giddy about a new season of The Amazing Race as I have already?

Because I lead a simple, quiet life? Well, yes. And thank you for asking. But come on, people. There's a woman from Kentucky whose husband is a coal miner. And while he was offering suggestions to help her scale the Great Wall of China, she barked, "Step back and shut up. That's how you'll help me."

If you think Rusty haven't said similar to each other ... well, we haven't. But that's only because neither of us has been trying to scale the Great Wall of China.

I just saw a preview where she says, "We're from Kentucky, so we haven't met gay people. But I like them!!!"

Upon which her husband came out of the closet. Okay, okay. But *that* would be some good television. He has very pointy ears. It's odd. And the photos in their online bio are touched up. Girlfriend could use some orthodontics. Still, love her, love her, love her.

I do not love, however, Team Peg Leg. I don't care if girlfriend is leaking hydraulic fluid from her prosthesis or not. The second her ... boyfriend? ... said "When you get over that wall, Sarah, I'm going to cry," and she didn't reply, "Step back and shut up!", I knew there was more made out of plastic than just her knee caps. (He didn't cry, by the way.) Not to mention that anyone who ... dates? ... the guy who makes her fake legs creeps me out, people. Creeps. Me. Out.

Their bio says they have unresolved romantic feelings. I imagine he does, yes. For the junkie male models. What's up with women who fall for emotionally unavailable men? And what happens to their legs below the mid-thigh? It's a question for the ages.

Get Off My Skirt

2006-09-23T21:24:00.000-07:00

There are those out there who wonder where I am. And why I haven't kept them entertained. And there are those who could give a shit. To both of you, I say: I've been working 15 hours/day as of late. So cut a girl some slack.

The Last Five Years

2006-09-11T12:41:00.000-07:00

From today's New York Times editorial:

Today, every elected official in the country will stop and remember 9/11. The president will remind the country that he has spent most of his administration fighting terrorism, and his opponents will point out that Osama bin Laden is still at large. It would be miraculous if the best of our leaders did something larger -- expressed grief and responsibility for the bad path down which we've gone, and promised to work together to turn us in a better direction.

Personally, I'm waiting on the miracle. If only it would come.

Whoa, Nelly!

2006-09-05T19:49:00.000-07:00

Who else could make Hedwig and The Angry Inch look tame but its creator, John Cameron Mitchell. I just saw the censored trailer for his new film, Short Bus. And let me tell ya ... I'm a little shocked. In a good way, of course. But most San Franciscans think they've seen it all. I'm guessing Mr. Mitchell is giving us more to see, God love him.

Check it out for yourself ... but be forewarned that even though censored it's adult and about ... well ... sex.

Some Things Are Worth Waiting For

2006-08-31T10:40:00.000-07:00

Last week I was ready to walk away from Project Runway. It was too much to believe that the hands of the producers weren't guiding every move. And then something so delicious happens this week, that all is forgiven. I know the Little Dutch Boy is still out of range of a Tivo, so I won't divulge. But let's just say that if you fly to Paris, be prepared to leave quickly. It was everything I could ever want.

Speaking of everything I could ever want ... and to the two or three of you who reflexively thought, "James Gandolfini in a bathrobe?" - shame on you ... my former Professional Wife recently became engaged. I couldn't possibly be more happy, because she's a catch if there ever was one. I swear to you, if I wasn't so damn homosexual, I'd make an honest woman out of her myself. But since it can't be me, and since we're no longer professionally married, I have to say that she's landed a good one.

I know many of you will be checking for my endorsement, so I'm coming out with it early. That boy is a keeper. He not only received the first ever Gay Merit badge, he also recently nabbed the much-sought-after and often-coveted Good With The Gays seal of approval. What more could a heterosexual woman hope for? Marry the man, sister. And just a thought to hold onto as you make your plans: I look dynamite as a flower girl.

I Had A Farm In Africa

2006-08-24T10:56:00.000-07:00

I loved Meryl Streep in Out of Africa. Almost as much as I love Peet's Coffee's soon-to-be-released Ethiopian Super Natural. It's in stores this Saturday. Buy it, people. Buy it and grind it fresh and drink it while thinking of the birthplace of coffee.

Too Much Tooty

2006-08-17T11:45:00.000-07:00

I want it known that I'm dying to talk about "Project Runway," but the Little Dutch Boy might be my only reader, and the pressure is on not to divulge spoilers until he's once again clutching his Tivo remote.

So an open note to Laura will have to satiate me for now:

Laura. Honey. Baby. Listen. Too much boobage. If Bravo is fuzzing out your nipples, it's time to consider foundation garments. Immediately.

I feel much better.

Culture Wars

2006-08-17T11:01:00.000-07:00

A poll released by Zogby International (you remember -- the people who said Kerry was going to win) this week says that only 25 percent of Americans can correctly name two Supreme Court justices. Compare this to the 75 percent who can correctly identify two of Snow White's dwarfs ... dwarves. (Dwarves are very upsetting.)

The poll also shows, in news that surely must have warmed Ruth Bader Ginsberg's heart, that 23 percent can name Taylor Hicks as the "American Idol" winner while only 11 percent can name Samuel Alito as the new Chief Justice.

All in all, not a great day for name recognition in the judicial branch. But this kind of culturally elitist crap gets my goatee. Samuel Alito was only on TV long enough to avoid questions about how he's going to help overturn Roe v. Wade. Taylor Hicks was on TV for weeks. In prime time. And it's no wonder we all know the drwarves; you can't swing a dead cat in Disneyland without hitting one of them.

If ol' Loose Lips Sink Nominationships Alito had a ride designed for him in Orlando or a multi-bajillion dollar ad campaign and recording deal to shake his money maker, of course we'd know him. If Antonin Scalia spent half as much time on The View as he did quietly chipping away at our civil liberties, he'd put the fame in famous.

And for those keeping score, I've named three Supreme Court justices so far, and I could keep on going, confirming what I've long suspected: I'm smarter than most of America.

A-ha! There it is. This is the equivalent of Paul Lynde singing "Kids! What the hell is wrong with these kids these days?" (Even fewer Americans can name that original cast album.) It's cultural elitism. It's the age-old suggestion that an abundance of pop culture makes us stupid.

George Bush Senior was once photographed looking in awe at a supermarket scanner. And he nominated David Souter and Clarence Thomas (five down ... four to go). Betcha he remembers their names. But was once amazed that the red light knew the price of a gallon of milk.

And I ask you: Just who's out of touch?

Not me. To show I'm of the people, I'm not even going to mention the other four. Instead, I'll close by saying: Greg, Marsha, Peter, Jan, Bobby and Cindy. The professor, the skipper, Gilligan, Mr. & Mrs. Howell, Ginger and Mary Ann.

It's The Little Things

2006-08-15T09:40:00.000-07:00

I was just talking ... well, emailing ... with one of my favorite Gappertons of all time. (We're talking one of the original Gappy McGappertons, who secured entry into the Gapperton Hall of Fame by exclaiming, "Jesus, Kenneth. Gay much?" in front of our new boss.) Yes, you know who you are.

And I realized that tomorrow is my one-month anniversary with the gold standard coffee purveyor. (Brown aprons are the new black. Trust me on this.) This makes me very happy, as I like the new place. And the peoples are quite excellent.

But even better? I haven't touched Power Point for over a month. Seriously. I get a little misty with joy at the thought of it.

Those who know me well will recognize this as a major accomplishment. Take a moment and dab your eyes.

Those who don't know me well will wonder when I'm going back to harping about Mel Gibson. In good time, my pretties. All in good time.

Loathes And Fishes

2006-08-13T10:09:00.000-07:00

Okay. One more thing about Mel. And I'm loathe to be political here. But someone has to say it. And a warning to the kiddies: I'm going to include a quote from Mel later on that uses very graphic language and profanity. Read this at your discretion.

I'm a touch amused at the punditry around whether Mel's career can come back after he came out as Mr. Kill A Jew. Well not so much amused at that. More amused (and when I say "amused," read that "annoyed") over how many people are suddenly outraged now that they've seen his true colors.

If you're ever-so-shocked, you just haven't been listening. Mostly because it's been about gays up to this point.

In 1992, Mel told the Spanish newspaper El Pais:

They take it up the ass. This is only for taking a shit [pointing to his butt]… But with this look, who’s going to think I’m gay? It would be hard to take me for someone like that. Do I sound like a homosexual? Do I talk like them? Do I move like them? What happens is when you’re an actor, they stick that label on you.

When asked in a 1995 Playboy interview if he'd apologize for these remarks, he said:

I'll apologize when hell freezes over. They can fuck off.

I really am loathe to rant politically here, so I'll keep the break down uncomplicated:

Mel: Anti-semite = apology. Homophobe = fuck off.

America: Anti-semite = career suicide. Homophobe = box office bonanza.

Now that we've got that straight ... people show us their true colors way before we want them to. It's up to us to pay attention.

Oh, yeah. And to care. Pay attention and care.

Give Me Aerosol, or Give Me Death!

2006-08-11T12:31:00.000-07:00

Mike Douglas died today. At 81. On his birthday. Bummer.

Rumor has it he heard there'd be no more hairspray allowed in his carry on ... and that's just not a world he wanted any part of.

Godspeed, Mike. Heaven may be warmer because of the ozone your grooming regimen destroyed over the years. But Godspeed.

Heidi, Can You Hear Me?

2006-08-10T07:23:00.000-07:00

What's with your fashion choices on Project Runway, Heidi? Last night you were wearing a top made from my Aunt Reba's guest bath shower curtain. And apparently there wasn't enough fabric to go around. What else could have possessed you to have a foot-wide gap down the front that showcased your commitment to breast feeding? It's nice that you have an environmental side, though. Trimming it all in cardboard indicated you care about post-consumer waste.

I'm not even going to talk about the boots, people. But after the runway show, I half expected Michael Kors to turn to her and say, "Before we start, let's talk about the catastrophe you've got on ..."

Is it possible to vote the host off for her lack of fashion sense? She's auf in neverland.

She's Super Freaky, Yeah. Temptations, Sing

2006-08-08T22:36:00.000-07:00

Has Angelina really moved out of the house with the kids? And has Brad really freaked? Oh, who cares?

What'd really freak me out is figuring out how she got her lips to look like that without slamming them in a car door. That and the fact that she was into Billy Bob Thornton way after we were all over him.

Rule #1 when you're leaving your pouty-lipped girlfriend for another pouty-lipped chanteuse: Consider her past actions. And not the I wore my lover's blood in a vial, I went to the Oscars and acted like I was boinking my brother past. That's practically brunch conversation. Kid stuff.

It's the kid stuff I'm thinking Brad should have been worried about. We all do things to make us feel better. I, for example, buy shoes. Lots of shoes. Save for the structural engineering issues it creates in my closet, it's fairly harmless and reasonably affordable. But at multi-millions per picture, our girl went right past collecting shoes and dove head first into collecting Third World children.

It's a little precious to follow in the foot steps of Mia Farrow, but you gotta know it's less about saving them and more about filling a Jon-Voight-sized hole in Angelina's heart. And those pound puppies make the best pets. After doing hard time, you're less likely to pee on the rug.

I'm just sayin'. That's all. Nothing to freak out about.

No One Puts Baby In A Corner

2006-08-07T11:47:00.000-07:00

When I've run afowl of the law and wind up with my face splashed all over the tabloids because I've exposed my true self, please remind me to make sure that Patrick Swayze is one of the first people to come to my personal defense.

He'll probably be pretty busy ... he is, afterall, breaking a cha-cha heel rushing to Mel Gibson's defense. But it's worth the investment. Just consider what he said about Mel's antics:

He is not anti-Semitic. People say stupid things when they happen to have a few (drinks), and especially if you don't drink anymore, or have limited your drinking for a long time. Everybody else gets to be allowed to have a stupid moment and nobody knows about it or cares the next day. So it makes it difficult when your life is under the microscope.

Okay. Patrick. Honey. If you get plastered and slobber all over your friends about how much you love them, *that* is a stupid moment. And your friends really do care the next day, but American society being what it is, they just repress their feelings like the rest of us. No harm-o, no foul-o.

But. If your friend has gone on record to support his holocaust-denying father when he's sober and spouted a mind-numbing level of vitriol after having several bottles of vino ... well ... that makes you, Patrick, the kind of person I want in my corner when it really hits the fan. Because who needs reason when blind loyalty will get your name mentioned in "Variety" again?

You, sir, should be ashamed of yourself. Just like the rest of us are.

For The Love Of Peet's

2006-06-30T12:09:00.000-07:00

As I am leaving behind my work at the country's largest specialty fashion retailer for a position with the standard-bearer for fine coffee and tea (If you thought "Starbucks," leave this blog immediately. Friends don't let friends drink bad coffee. Especially at those prices.), I feel compelled to leave behind a few observations as well:

At the end of the day, it's still just a pair of jeans, kids. You can call it denim. You can weave it from the left, weave it from the right, stand up, sit down, fight, fight, fight. But it's jeans. Really. And we're all still the fourth grader whose parents made us buy the ugly ones from Sears. That's what we're trying to work through when we're adults with the critical choices of acid wash, sand blasting and distressed cuffs on our hands.
Clothing that comes from the lingerie department is underwear/sleepwear. Only your bathroom mirror, your mother and the person to whom you're currently attached need to see these items. I don't care if you bought it with your discount. I don't care if you're "wearing the brand." If you're wearing pajamas in my office, you're coming to work in your underwear. It's just that simple.
Some men like pleats on the front of their khaki pants. It's a sickness, but it's what they've chosen for themselves. And while I'll give you that it's an unspeakable horror, can we all agree that it's not an infraction that's greater than or equal to committing genocide in the Third World? Let's just love the sinner but hate the sin on this one, alright? The war crimes tribunal in The Hague thanks you.

If any of my Gappy McGappertons are reading this, you know that leaving my peoples is like wearing pleats. Unthinkable. Even on the craziest day ... and heaven knows there were more than we'd imagine ... I worked with the smartest, most talented, most committed and just plain funny as hell people. It's been a pleasure beyond measure.

But I have to admit: I'm craving me some coffee.

Thirteen Minutes

2006-06-18T21:51:00.000-07:00

That's all it took before I spit Diet Dr. Pepper out of my nose. Thirteen minutes into "National Treasure," the bastard love child of "Amazing Race" and "DaVinci Code," and I'm snorting soda through my mucus membranes.

Where to start?

Perhaps the Wild Hanlons' patriarch's mullet? The way the camera glanced across the fat boy jumping into the water only to lavish its attention on the busty blondes? The fact that the African American brothers are from the Brown family?

Oh, yes. There it is. We have a starting place, my lovelies.

The Browns. Is it me, or are the casting directors of these shows getting a little feisty in their tacit racism? First there was the Black Family on last season's "Amazing Race," who happened to be ... uh ... black. And now the Browns who are ... uh ... not Asian. Or white. Or ... well, you get the point. You have to wonder where you find families with names that describe their race.

Coming next season on "Survivor": the Rices face off against the Crackers.

Anyhoo. There's racing around. There's ignorant yocals. There's clues where "Stillwater Washington" equals "Lake George." It's stupid. And I have to stop now so I can watch the rest of it. Pity me.

The Perfect Hard Boiled Egg

2006-06-17T09:44:00.000-07:00

Bedeviled by dark rings around your hard boiled eggs? Do you fear judgement from your epicurian cohorts? Fear no more, friends. Fear no more.

Put a dozen eggs in a regular sauce pan and cover them with cold water with about an inch of water above the eggs. Put the uncovered pan on your stove over high heat until the water starts to boil. Starts to boil ... not boils like a big pot of pasta boil and not boil like there's only a couple of air bubbles on the bottom of the pan. Think of something in between those two things. Like Al Gore.

Now here's the trick: Water started boiling? Good. Take the pan off the heat completely, cover it and let it sit for exactly 13 minutes. No more heat. No lifting the lid to peek. (They're eggs in hot water. What are you expecting to see?) At the end of the 13 minutes, drain the hot water and *immediately* run cold water over the eggs. Add some ice if you're feeling gourmet. Anything to get the heat out of the eggs pronto.

And you'll have a hard boiled egg Martha Stewart would pat you on the back for. Of course she should ... it's her recipe in the first place. Well, okay. Probably some poor, harried staff member's recipe. But she's got all the muscle in that operation, so don't challenge her when she's patting you on the back. Just smile and say, "I couldn't have done it without you, Martha." She likes that kind of thing.

Attend the Tale of Jersey Boys

2006-06-16T12:05:00.000-07:00

Listen, people. I'm the first person to say that Broadway is where art and commerce collide. Well, okay. Probably the second person. Cameron McIntosh, the bazillionaire behind "Cats" and "Phantom," probably mumbles it in his sleep now and then.

And this collision on the Great White Way often happens head-first with results that look like those scary films they showed you in drivers ed to convince you not to drink on prom night.

But "Jersey Boys" just won the Tony award for best musical. "Jersey Boys." Seriously. Let's take a page from the Pulitzers and not give something out for a year if this is what it's coming to.

Because call me crazy, but it's enough to ask us to fork over $125 for orchestra seats because 18 years ago Cameron thought a few flash bulbs and a "falling" chandelier sounded like a grand night out. Now we have to pay that kind of money to see a Four Seasons sing along. And the industry salutes it with the best marketing plaudit it can provide.

Instead of "Winner! Best Musical!" during their inevitable national tour, they should be required to say, "Winner! Best Musical. We're really, really sorry!"

And this coming from the man who once paid over $400 to see Harvey Fierstein in a housecoat in "Hairspray." So you know I'm serious about this.

And don't get me started on Patti LuPone being robbed of best actress ... and "Sweeney Todd" being jilted by the "Pajama Game."

Commerce killed art. Yet again. And I'll be back for the fall season, full of hope and promise ... and a $125 burning a hole in my pocket.

Dying Is Easy. Comedy Is Hard.

2006-06-16T11:43:00.000-07:00

Okay. I know what you're thinking: "What's up with the blog name, Kenneth?" And I shall tell you.

Everything's temporary, kids. Take it from a dyed-in-the-wool drama queen ... there's always another act waiting in the wings.

Just between us, we're alone. So suck it up and be a mensch. No matter how bad it seems, it'll be over at some point. Because all bleeding stops eventually.

Speaking of eventuallies ... we always knew it was just a matter of time before I cracked and had to blog. I promise no themes but this: I'm bitter, jaded, cynical, romantic, funny and crass with an opinion on practically everything if you want to hear it or not.

If you're more in the "or not" column, don't be book-markin' this little way station. If you're remotely inclined, kick your feet up.

At the very least, I promise no mind-numbing chronicle of my daily activities. Just a lot of crankiness in the form of urbane observations on pop culture, food, theater, dogs, and men. Let's not forget the men.

Rock on, playas.