Repeal DADT: Lady GaGa's Video-Message

I'm usually a bit leery whenever I hear celebrities and artists come out and make a public announcement for the right cause because I wonder what amount of vanity and narcissism might be included.  When Lady GaGa first appeared wearing that long wig and suit and made a pretty atrocious video as if she was Elmer Gantry rallying the crowd I was dismayed. It was over the top, and lacking true grit.  This time she's more relaxed, and comfortable with speaking to the masses who follow her without screeching and I love her this time around.

The Homosexual Mafia is Here

Where there is a new law involving touching there's always a repressed perv who will try to tell us, the discerning public, that this isn't just bad, it's sinful.

Republican lawmaker Eugene Delgaudio, he of the bespectacled visage only a bathroom stall smelling of piss and sordid affairs and an undercover cop willing to play gay for stats could love, has decided to join the long line of haters coming out en masse and make what seems to be a necessary evil something terribly bad. Think conspiracy.  Just add "gay" to it.

You see, this is all but a tip of a very long and sexy iceberg-slash-dildo that involves us, the gays, in a plot to seize the world and make it unlivable for all things straight or closeted.  We're the ones behind the curtains playing this game of chess, a homosexual mafia in Congress, coming up with more ways to get uncomfortably close to people and shove our, um... sexuality down their throats that wish not to swallow our junk.

In his own words: "That means the next TSA official that gives you an enhanced pat-down could be a practicing homosexual secretly getting pleasure from your submission."  He was quick to point out that the 'homosexual agenda' in Congress (his words) will end up in "men hand-in-hand skipping down to adoption centers to 'pick out' a little boy for themselves."

I think Delgaudio might benefit from reading my post from last January.  His worst fears might be true.  I am, in fact, a practicing homosexual.

King of Anything by Way of the Wizard of Oz

Dorothy of San Francisco, California, had decided that she'd had enough already.  She needed to do some 'change'.  Like, um... getting rid of DADT, for once. You know. Setting things straight, and by that she didn't mean the way the ridiculous witch Shakespalin of the North---she who uttered inane blurbs---would think.  The Good Witches Cher of the Land of Burlesque and Samantha Jones of New York told her that she needed to grab the next plane to a far away land called Capitol Hill---not before getting viciously patted down by the TSA monkeys, and traversing the dangerous territory called Phelpsland.  However, being the sassy, resourceful bitch that she was, she managed to give those TSA mongers the time of their life since she was more than "open for fun".  Needless to say she out-did wicked machinations of one three-headed hydra of the odd name of Shirley Phelps.  Thus, the men and women of Phelpsland, heretofore caught in a perpetual nightmare of hate, hailed Dorothy their Patron Saint and embraced their inner queens, turning the land into one gigantic discotheque.  Oh, happy day!

However, when Dorothy reached the forbidden walls of Capitol Hill, she was greeted by Obama of Oz and patiently listened to her demands, which were simple.  Ineffectual (but swollen head) he, Obama kindly and eloquently told her:

Legerdemain

I wish I could have something clever to say about Up and Over It's take on We No Speak Americano, but my fingers are typed out from watching these hands practically Riverdance themselves to viral fame.

Thanksgiving: Dinner for Eight

This is a turkey I could get into. Lean, no fat, all protein, but still in need to be basted.

[Image from Mr S Leather.]

Margaret Cho at the Wellmont

Earlier in the month Karen and I went to go see Margaret Cho perform at the Wellmont Theatre in Montclair, NJ.

Montclair is one of these just-out-of-the-Metropolitan-area towns I like and would move into in a heartbeat should it be in the cards for me; it certainly is affluent, trendy, and artsy: three things this ole' muscle-queen likes.  Judging from the muscular stud who politely served us food at Mexicali Rose (three guesses of what ethnicity this cuisine might be, and no cheating!), she and I both were happy as Cheshire cats eyeballing prey.  Needless to say we devoured our dinner while staring at his delectable body clothed in tight-fitting black T shirt and slacks, then angrily eyeballing each other like rabid cocks about to fight to the bitter end over who got the stud. Then again, his flauta would have tasted so yummy inside my mouth, and I sure can move a tongue.  Um-hum. It's getting hot in here....

Okay---I took a detour wa-a-a-a-y to the left and forgot what I was talking about. It's Age. And Horniness. Two things that don't bode well with me although I don't look a day over twenty-one. My bones, however, are another matter.  Oh-oh-oh! I got it! I'm back---Margaret Cho, with a pre-show dinner at Mexicali Rose, hot stud, yums. [Thank you, brain pills!]

Could you believe we were practically on stage for her performance? And this time she was nasty---just how I like my humor, raunchy and stanky.  You could smell the funk a mile and a half away.  Dogs could yelp at her comic antics without knowing quite why.  Not too political this time---barely a passing mention of the ridiculous Palins and her manifesto in Peachtree, GA, stacking up gay books over religious hate-mongering---but boy, did she let it rip.  We were ecstatic.  I screamed more than once.  And peed a little.

However, leave it to me to try to take pictures with a fucking iPhone camera, flash included with zoom this time. This is what I produced (and the other ones look just as terrible):

I mean, seriously---what the fuck is this, an apparition that belongs in some reality-TV ghost show? I could see everything down to minimal gestures and the sweat emanating from her skin and this is what I get?

Fuck it. Chelsea Handler is coming to the Pru Center in Newark in 10 days and I am not going to do a repeat of this shit.  Hell no.  I'll be placed five rows away from the stage and I plan on snapping as many pictures with my digi-cam this time. And filming the crap out of her.

Pop Goes the Synth

Whenever I think of the term 'synth' I think of artificial, which is perfectly suited for music: ergo, Synthpop and its relevance even today. Arms are another story, and usually that story has a sad ending.  That is why when I see guys deforming their bodies in ways only a non-degradable posing oil can do I get the giggles. Often it's landed me in uncomfortable situations where the guy in question will catch me shaking uncontrollably, soon to explode in cackles at his expense, but I tend not to fear anyone who looks like they basically attached themselves to an air machine and blew themselves up. And besides, the majority of these people have the most fragile of egos, they couldn't harm a blind five year old kid with polio and a weak voice if they tried.

New Music: Better than Today - Kylie Minogue

A little bit country... and a little bit euro.

The Pas-de-Deux that Went Splat!:

I guess that after you pop a baby out of wedlock whilst in your teens and you happen to be the daughter of America's most ridiculous politician, the only way to (wo)man up and perpetually save face is to force-feed yourself into America's (sort-of, kinda there, doubtful) consciousness. 

Now, I don't watch Dancing with the Stars because frankly, I have better things to do with my time, like watching that adorable train-wreck that is Sarah Palin's "My Alaska" which by the way needs to stay on the air even if no one watches.  It's a mirror image of her political career.  She talks to the masses, and only her rabid followers who don't represent the majority listen.  She's more interesting than her talent-less daughter in ways that she might not think she is because she seems to, like Kanye West, believe that the hype is a sequel. She also compares herself to Ronald Reagan and Shakespeare, and in my world, if anyone can bust that concept out with a straight face and no sense of shame, I'm totally cool with that. And I want more. 'Cos my tummy sho' iz hummy. For Palin-pie.

Now, I have to deviate my attention to her less-interesting daughter Bristol.  If anyone of you read Pride and Prejudice, she's very much like Lydia Bennet, the crazy sister that spoiled the family name by running away with a ne'er do well.  Because really, when you don't know how to "press-play", you get a little delivery in the mail 9 months later and a lifetime of regret no amount of money can hide.

Bristol made a PSA video with that equally colorless guido Mike "The Situation" Sorrentino, who has the subtlety of a pimp bitch-slapping one of his hoes while asking her for his money. Now, he seems to be aware that he's a walking joke and that's okay because it shows that one or two neurons are working inside his head. But Bristol has to marm it up with her holier-than-thou attitude and that is what makes this so... delightful to watch.



From delivering her "I'm sorry, America" lines she quickly goes superior on Sorrentino.  Because of course, as she puts it, "I avoid situations."

Dance, Bristol, Dance... Um... I Think

For the past couple of months I've been wondering what in the world Bristol Palin might be doing in a show called Dancing with the Stars.  After all, she can neither dance, nor is she a star.  She is not even a celebrity.  Her mother, that ole' good chunk of Alaskan spitfire we, conscientious bloggers, love to throw darts at, is.  And we love her for it.  We love that she makes her inane ramblings our daily food.  We love that she continues to romance the spotlight with the tenacity of a drunken idiot who's two seconds away from barfing, the beginnings of his upchuck drooling out from the corner of his mouth, but who still thinks he's One Hot Stud.  We love that from her, and we expect more, because that is how God and America wants it.

But her brood? Hardly, and this video shows it:

The Fortune Cookie Spoketh

Oh, that's not all true... after a quickie with my trusty righty over the delectable images of Xerxes pumping his leanness onto a younger model courtesy of Raging Bull, I crawled out of bed and met my friend S. at the PF Chang at Port Imperial for some Asian yum-yumsh.  And whilst there we there, we caught up on some much needed gossip of the who-who's and the what-what's.

And then, fortune cookie time came up.  I was expecting some obscure but enlightening image that perchance gave me a prognosis of a brighter, sunnier future filled with quiet wisdom and a Chinese ideogram that I could learn from.

This was what I got:

Sunday Movie Night: Audition (1999)

For the past decade most of the best horror films being are being made not in Hollywood but overseas: namely, Asia. Stories not about ghosts, but about the simplest of acts, are being told with horrific overtones, and Odishon ranks as one of the best.

Takashi Miike, the true star and ringleader of this disturbing foray into terror this side of Cronenberg, brings us a deceptively simple set-up about a TV producer, Aoyama (Ryo Ishibashi), who is looking for a bride by the use of an ruse: an "audition" for a "film." (It all has the lighthearted tone of a romantic comedy of manners, depicting sexual attitudes in a totally different culture.) Once he settles for a shy girl dressed in complete, virginal white, Asami, (Eihi Shiina), the stage is set for their subsequent meetings as he is drawn closer to her allure despite the fact that her resume has some seemingly glaring holes -- people she's been associated with have gone missing.

When Aoyama decides to call Asami, we're introduced to the most disturbing scene in the movie: her empty apartment, her figure seen sitting by the phone and a large canvas bag (seen near the background). Once the phone rings, the canvas bag suddenly jerks, Asami coldly smiles, and from here on the film makes a screaming left turn into what can only be considered a surrealistic nightmare or a bad acid trip that is devoid of "true resolution" -- by Miike's own words. And by doing so, Odishon becomes Asami's story, her re-enactment of a trauma inflicted on her by a sick older man, with Aoyama as her newest victim. Repetition upon repetition.

Sleaze and Sympathy

On a splendid late-autumn day in November I took a leisurely stroll with a mt friend Dane across the West Village.  Whilst there, I made the decision to walk into a porn store and look for a double-headed dildo of a specific size for my play collection and see if I could procure me a pair of butt plugs in the meantime.  Not surprisingly, I didn't find either items there.  Chalk it to my rather particular taste.  I like my sex toys the same way I love my furniture: high quality, striking, and something I'd be proud to show off to the world.  So it was no surprise when Ahmed, the guy who worked at the cash register, pointed me to The Leatherman NYC.  Says a lot for a store to direct you to a place that is also competing for men looking for alternative ways to pleasure themselves.  What a nobleman.  What an altruist.  And then I realized something.  And asked this important question after we left The Leatherman with a shit-eating, self-contented grin and a sense that tonight would be a rather productive night:

"Didn't that guy, you know, the president of one of those countries that really really hate us---"

Dane, a wealth of knowledge, said, "You mean Mahmoud Ahmadinejad?"

"Uh, hmm... yeah, let's stick with that. My tongue muscles can't overwork themselves yet.  I have a sex party to attend to later."

"Lucky you."

"I know, right? I'm slow-w-wly getting back on my gay track. Who said a dry spell had no end?"

"Bring on the carnage!"

"Absolutely!  Momma's hungry.  I feel like a stick-figure with nipples who suddenly discovered that trying to look thin all this time was making me miserable.  But anyway.  Didn't he say that there aren't any gay people in Iran?"

"Uh, yeah.  The audience chuckled.  I was there."  Dane's a reporter for ____ magazine.

"Don't you register any sense of important irony in the fact that Ahmed (and a lot of other Middle Eastern men) have to earn a living by selling dildos, poppers, and piggy videos to sex-hungry gay men?"

"Maybe he's juggling his career opportunities."

"Oh, I'm sure.  Or maybe he escaped because he didn't want to get what is it now, twenty years plus 500 lashes to the back and---" I suddenly reached out to grab Dane's crotch, making him flinch, "---a possible snip-snip of a certain body part!"

"Cut that out!"

"That's what they said to the last of the gay men they eunuched and then killed off to be able to pull off that statement."

"Praise Allah, for a clean country!"

We laughed, and made it towards 7th Avenue to grab a bite at Garage.

Dunking for Specimens

Self-explanatory.

New Music: Barbra Streisand by Duck Sauce

I heard this song a little over a month ago while looking for new music to add to my collection.  Being a music lover I had to have it even when I didn't even know who Duck Sauce was.  Turns out, it's a duo comprised by none other than Armand van Helden (U Don't Know Me) and A-Trak (no clue who he is).  They came together, created this little disco ditty, and attached Barbra's name to it.  Clever move: the song has already hit number 1 in several European countries and made a 21-10 jump on Billboards Dance Club/Play chart due next week.  I could only hope for a crossover into pop.  Sometimes music just has to shake things up a bit and let loose and Barbra Streisand, for all its irony as a title, does just that while the real person has never been known for being anything less than uber-serious.

The Unbearable Being of Kanye

I'm so glad I don't Twitter.  At least, I'm glad that I don't follow Kanye West.  Can you imagine, me following that spectacle?  Having to see his drama-filled, self-obsessed ramblings about nothing the world cares to know of?  I'd consider shooting myself.  Scratch that---I'm scared of guns.  I would probably just unplug the modem from the laptop and avoid anything to do with entertainment news.  And make sure my nights were filled to the brim with Franzia.

Kanye West appeared on The Today Show to talk about George W. Bush's angry response to West practically calling Dubya a racist.  Now I don't care for Dubya anymore than anyone does, but West isn't the most composed person when it comes to saying things that don't explode into train wrecks.  And apparently, he believes his own hype.  Note to interviewers: never, EVER, play a video of Kanye doing something inappropriate on camera, even if it's the norm, because that is how television interviews work---you play the short clip as the interviewee talks.  However, Kanye goes by the motto that "the rules don't apply to me" and fires back at the studio and at Matt [Lauer] because he can't talk while the video is playing.  In his own words, he doesn't need that jazz.  Neither does jazz, Kanye.  That is a genre best suited for true musicians---not for personality wrecks with an ego that can't see beyond its own self.  Take a chill pill, man---no one really cares.  You are not that important.

PS: Of course, thanks to a little thing called an RSS Feed I got to see one of his more recent tweets.

All positive energy ... all smiles. Much love to Matt and the whole Today Show. I accept ya'll future apology in advance LOL!

You keep waiting for that apology, bub... keep waiting.  It's right around the corner.

Return of the Mack: Keith Olbermann

I love this man....

 

Shirvell: Things that are Fired

Shirvell: Undateable

Chris Armstrong: Totally dateable.  He owes Shirvell such a muffin basket for making him a hero.

Well, well. It turns out that using your own aggrandized sense of self to harass a student for the sole reason that you're an mentally unstable adult bully with the creep factor turned on HIGH can get you fired.  Who'd've thought? Of course, one just has to sit back and watch this severely repressed, self-hating weirdo with the Pee Wee Herman looks, wandering, evasive eyes and possible inclination to all things unsavory start his claim that he's a patsy, a victim in the world of politics, and that he's in his right to do as he wishes because Chris Armstrong is practically the spawn of Satan.  Or the reason he might have a hard-on that needs to be put down. Or something.  Methinks he could benefit from a little savage man-love as a bondage sub with a little religious interplay thrown in for dramatics. He could atone for being a guy-fucker, and have loads of repressed, angry, demented fun.  He is so missing out.

Days of Our Lives: Buried Alive

I'm not sure if it was Poe who started the trend of telling stories where some unfortunate characters were buried alive, either to die or make their way out and exact some kind of vengeance. It has been an interesting plot device featured in some movies---most recently Buried and most memorably, and chillingly in 1988's Spoorloos (The Vanishing).

Soap operas aren't known for adhering to reality in lieu of spinning a good quantity of intersecting storylines. Days of Our Lives ventured into the "buried alive" plot lines years ago with the character of Christy Manning.  The woman who put her in a coffin, alive but in a state of catatonia, was uber-villainess Vivian Alamain (played by Louise Sorel).

Well, in a turn of events, Vivian, who had decided to put yet another character in a coffin due to the fact she still has active vendettas, was herself thrown into a coffin inside a mausoleum, with a camera in order to survey the world.  She's been there for two months now. Watching it all, like a Greek chorus.

My only wonder about this, is: wouldn't she after lying prostrate non-stop develop mind-splitting back pain?  How does she manage to still retain a flawless visage and perfectly combed hair?  But most of all, wouldn't she be drowning in her own mess?  A woman has to urinate and defecate, after all.

Maybe that would be the way to get noticed... by the smell.

Oh well. Again, it's just a soap.

O'Donnell, Move da Fuck Out... Sarah Palin's Back!

"Together (minus the gays, blacks, wetbacks, Catholics, and any other undesirables including Democrats and Libs) we will take back America! Together (except for those pesky people in the media starting with Tina Fey) we will take America back to when slavery was the norm and whites ruled Our Nation! Together we will go back to a time when sex education was a myth and women, starting with the example that is my daughter and myself, got preggers sans a husband! And if it takes a renegade politician "going rogue", even if she can't comprehend the definition of the word and continues to think it means "red" which technically might brand her a Commie, we will do this!  RAWWWR!"

[Note the man in a bear suit... or a very clumsy animatronic-looking-something at the end.  Mama Grizzly hath spoken!]

[Also note the near-total lack of anyone not of the WHITE race... and by the way, these white people are quite the upper crust, aren't they? Of course we're taking America back, Sarah.  Al-l-l-l the way back.]

O'Donnell Is O'Gonnell

This might be her best shot yet. If you look closely, you might see a tear.

Bye bye, witchy-the-pooh, it was great knowing ya! I'll be moving on to juicier targets.  And masturbating with loads of lust.  Praise the Lord.

Men I'm Not Married to

Of course, that never stopped me from dreaming.... and I won't go for anything less.

Disclaimer's note: All pictures have been "found" on the net. If you believe this is your likeness I will be more than happy to remove it from this posting.

The Pick-Me-Up that Never Dies

November Sexy: An Unfulfilled Bromance

Tonight I did what I hadn't done in a long time: flirt, and not with just any ole' guy but a cop.  Dressed in midnight blue, clearly my height, with a frame that whispered "wouldn't you want to know the amount of beef that's right below the uniform", he stood there ordering a gigantic sub from Subway as I waited my turn, taking bold peeks at him.  He didn't seem to mind, either.  A grin and a twinkle and then he was off to his precinct at Penn Station.  I stood there hoping he'd have found me guilty of something---anything---so he could have handcuffed me to a post, patted the crap outta me, and made me feel the strong hand of the law as he bodyslammed me into a wall and ripped me to shreds.  We'd be like two pit bulls battling it out in a pen hosted by Michael Vick. Oh well, a gal can only dream... and later on under the covers, cream.