Saturday, June 02, 2007

Instant Convertible

The height limit for the Lincoln Tunnel is exactly 13 feet. Not 13 feet, six inches. Now you know. And so does a certain Texan plumbing supplies deliverman.

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Bookies

Last night I trekked down to Soho to meet From Boys To Men editors Ted Gideonse and Rob Williams at the launch party for Bob Smith's new book Selfish And Perverse. Great party, tons of gay lit bigwigs in attendance, with Michael Musto lurking in a corner. The loft was stiflingly hot, but I lucky enough to spend a few sweaty minutes chatting with Edmund White about his new book Chaos, during which he confessed that he'd read the comments here on JMG when we gave the book away on Swag Tuesday. I also got to chat with comedian Judy Gold about her upcoming appearance at the Commercial Closet Awards. She kills me. By the way, From Boys To Men lost in its category at Thursday's Lambda Literary Awards. Rats. But Famous Author Rob Bynes won in his category, go Rob!

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Friday, June 01, 2007

Google Sees All, Including Your Cat

Google Map's new Street View feature is quickly raising privacy concerns from people dismayed to find they can zoom right in on their homes, with one woman even spotting her cat sitting in her window. At the present, Street View only has complete street-level images of New York, San Francisco, Denver, Las Vegas and Miami, with more cities to be added. Some dismiss privacy concerns, saying that anything that can be seen from a car on the street cannot be considered private, but others are worried about stalkers and other forms of internet harassment. I just checked my own address and instantly found a panoramic image of my street and my front door. Neat, but also kind of creepy.

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Unharmonious

A California lesbian is suing dating site eHarmony.com for discrimination because it does not offer any not-hetero options. Linda Carlson is citing California law that prohibits sexual orientation discrimination in business and is moving to make hers a class-action suit, with a jury trial and unspecified damages requested. Recently, competing dating site Chemistry.com launched a widely praised ad that mocked eHarmony for not allowing gays to use the service.

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Grey Gardens

After viewing RuPaul's Starrbooty yesterday afternoon, I hopped an uptown train and met Aaron to attend Grey Gardens, currently celebrating 10 Tony nominations, including Best Musical, Best Score, and Best Leading Actress (Musical) for Christine Ebersole. Looking around the gorgeous Walter Kerr Theatre, I tried to remember when I was last there. Could it have been waaaay back in '91 for Angels In America? While the show wasn't exactly my style (all those affected New England accents get on my nerves, paging Mayor Quimby), the cast was marvelous, especially Miss Ebersole, who is my pick to win her category at the Tonys. Xanudu, Starbooty, Grey Gardens: possibly the 24 gayest hours of my life.

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RuPaul's Starrbooty

Yesterday I attended a screening of RuPaul's new movie Starrbooty, which makes its debut at NYC's NewFest film festival this Saturday. Produced by RuPaul and directed by Mike Ruiz (above right), Starrbooty follows the title character, the world's leading supermodel and secret agent, as she goes undercover as a Meatpacking District hooker to find her adopted niece Cornisha who has been abducted by evil cosmetics mogul Anika Manner (Candis Cayne) who plans on selling Cornisha's clitoris to the highest bidder. Along the way there is kung-fu action, gun play, dance routines, and lots and lots of raunchy, perverted sex with full-frontal engorged male nudity. Got all that?

Starrbooty pays homage to blaxploitation icon Pam Grier, John Waters, and Mommie Dearest with appearances from porn stars Gus Mattox and Micheal Lucas and several notables of NYC's drag scene, such as Lady Bunny, Candis Cayne, and Sweetie. (I particularly enjoyed seeing Micheal Lucas machine-gunned to death while holding his hard cock in his hand. Sweet.) Before the screening, RuPaul cautioned us that the film was still being tweaked before its Saturday debut and that we were the first audience to see Starrbooty. If you go, set your faces on stunned. Mine still is.

UPDATE: The official site for Starrbooty is now online. Check out the trailer and the music video on YouTube.
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Morning View - Brill Building

Built in 1930, Time Square's Brill Building, at 1619 Broadway, is where a massive amount of American pop songs were written, home to the offices of such luminaries as Leiber & Stoller, Bacharach & David, Carole King and Neil Sedaka. By the early 60's, the work done in this single building so influenced American pop that many music historians charcterize the sound of the time as the "Brill Building sound". My favorite Brill Building song: Burt Bacharach and Hal David's The Look Of Love.

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Thursday, May 31, 2007

Adam Kokesh Fights On

Remember Cpl. Adam Kokesh, USMC? Last month I blogged about the sexy Iraq war veteran, photographed here at the Alberto Gonzales hearings. Because of his anti-war protests, Kokesh is now facing a revocation of his honorable discharge from the Marine Corps and a discharge from the Individual Ready Reserves.

On June 4th, Kokesh will face a military tribunal in Kansas City who will hear charges that he disgraced his uniform by wearing a "stripped-down" version in his numerous protest appearances and that he later "disrespected" an officer investigating the uniform charge. Kokesh says the he loves the Marine Corps but, “As we waste our time on such petty issues, our fellow Marines continue to die in futility.”

UPDATE: Visit Adam Kokesh's blog here. Princess Sparkle Pony has a great shot of our hero here.

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Piercing The Veil

David Hyde Pierce's publicist confirmed yesterday that the multi-Emmy winning actor is a homosexual. Was there ever any doubt? Previously Pierce had declined to discuss his personal life, taking the Sean Hayes "my private life is personal" route, although his gayness was well-known to friends and industry associates. I think Pierce is a fantastic talent, yet I can only offer slight applause for this cautious, declaration-by-lackey, sort of self-outing.

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HomoQuotable - Beth Ditto

"If there's anyone to blame for size zero, it's not women. Blame gay men who work in the fashion industry and want these women as dolls." - Lesbian rocker Beth Ditto, lead singer of The Gossip, saying that gay men are responsible putting anorexic models on runways.

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New Hampshire Get Civil Unions

New Hampshire Governor John Lynch signed that state's civil unions bill into law today. When the law goes into effect in January, NH will join Vermont, Connecticut, and New Jersey as the 4th state with civil unions available to same-sex couples. A total of 10 states now offer gay couples some sort of state-level recognition.

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Xanadu: The Musical

Last night Little David and I attended a preview of Xanadu, joining an audience that seemed to be 50% gay men. When the house lights went down, a roar of anticipation went up. David said, "Rowdy crowd!" And they were not disappointed.

Thanks to brilliant book by Douglas Carter Beane (The Little Dog Laughed), a show that could have been a dreary Electric Light Orchestra jukebox musical is instead hilariously clever. Lead by Kerry Butler, who channels Olivia Newton-John with a loving wink, and James Carpinello, who David describes as "totally sponge-worthy", Xanadu has one of the strongest ensemble casts I've ever seen. It is also, easily, the gayest not-about-the-gays show I've seen.

The show runs without an intermission, with fourteen songs including two ELO hits that weren't in the movie version and ONJ's own Have You Never Been Mellow. (No, really, and it totally works.) Mary Testa and Jackie Hoffman (love, love her) continuously steal the show as evil muses. And forget about the fourth wall, this show knows who's buying tickets. When an evil muse describes the action as "children's theatre for 40-year old gay men", the audience went wild.

As you can see from the photo below, the stage is rather simple, necessary perhaps, because the Helen Hayes is one of Broadway's smallest houses. A few lucky audience members even get to sit ON the stage. I won't give away any more of the show and you should read David's review to get a proper theatre queen's take. I am still in training for that title, but Xanadu has pushed me much closer to graduation. Highly recommended.

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Open Thread Thursday

What languages do you speak?
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Wednesday, May 30, 2007

Bush To Double AIDS Budget

George Bush asked Congress today to double the amount spent fighting AIDS to $30 billion a year, beginning in 2008. In 2003, Bush requested a $15 billion annual allocation, a five-year funding that expires when the new amount would kick in. The 2003 budget remains the largest annual AIDS funding in the world. Critics complain that even the new amount is far too little to meet worldwide needs and that any AIDS funding tied to abstinence programs undercuts its effectiveness.

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You Da Man, Gerle

Over the weekend, Mikel Gerle of Los Angeles was crowned Mr. International Leather 2007 at Chicago's annual gathering of SM/BD enthusiasts and fans of the couture. Gerle will use his title year promoting world peace, fighting third world hunger, and smacking around anybody that seems to like it. Perennial favorite Mr. Trinidad-Tobago did not make the final round. After the contest, contestants and audience members gathered in the Palmer House lobby for drinks, cigars, and a heated discussion of Maria Callas.

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Hotel, Motel, Holiday Win

With an appletini in one hand and a Marlboro 100 in the other, Lady Random spun her glittery wheel and landed on Fog City Mike, this week's Swag Tuesday winner. Mike, a music writer who has just written the liner notes for the upcoming Sugarhill Gang reissues, will be getting a copy of Mike Jones' I Had To Say Something, courtesy of Seven Cities Press. Mike sez: "Wow! As an abject but admiring fan of JoeMyGod and someone who never wins anything, I am most appreciative." Publicists, if you'd like to participate in Swag Tuesday on JMG, please email me.

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Blind Item

Tonight I am going to a place where nobody dared to go.

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Morning View - BridgeMarket

My favorite supermarket is the BridgeMarket Food Emporium, cleverly wedged under the supports of the Queensboro Bridge with a fabulous tile vaulted ceiling. Just outside is Terrence Conran's Shoppe of Expensive Whimsy, where you can pick up such necessities as a $2000 molded plastic sofa.

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Gays Gone Wild!

Two weeks from today I'll be performing at Gays Gone Wild, the annual gay pride edition of WYSIWYG, alongside JMG blogroll pals Joel Derfner and Rod Townsend . This will be the final Wizzy, after four years the promoters are burned out and decided to pull the plug on a high note, as the pride show is always a smash. As usual, I don't know what I'm doing for the show yet, it usually comes to me a couple of days before. If you're in NYC on June 13th, come on by.

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Tuesday, May 29, 2007

Swag Tuesday

Courtesy of Seven Stories Press, today's Swag Tuesday prize is a hardback copy of Mike Jones' brand new autobiography, The Art Of Ted Haggard's Fall: I Had To Say Something (cowriter: Sam Gallegos). The book ships this week.

I can't imagine that any regular reader of this or most any other gay blog would not know who Mike Jones is, but on that odd chance, go here or here (or click on his topic label) to read about Jones' stunning revelation, which earned him being voted by the readers of this and many other gay blogs as 2006 Queer Of The Year. The political fallout of Haggard's disgrace continues today.

Mike sent me an advance of the book last week and I raced through it one evening after dinner. And what do you know, gentle readers? Y'all are in the book! Mike gave the readers of JMG a very heartfelt message of thanks in the final chapter, the classy guy. The book's a breezy read, Mike and his co- writer have delivered a simple, personal recounting of the story, complete with juicy sex tidbits about the Reverend sprinkled here and there. Ugh. But I still loved reading it.

Enter to win I Had To Say Something by commenting on this post. Only your first comment counts and please include your email address. Publicists, if you'd like to take part in Swag Tuesday on JMG, please email me.

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HomoQuotable - Peter Tatchell

"I'm not deterred one iota from coming back to protest in Moscow." - British gay rights activist Peter Tatchell, who was beaten by suspected neo-nazi protesters at this weekend's Moscow gay pride event. Unbelievably, after he was beaten, Tatchell and other marchers, including Moscow Pride organizer Nikolai Aleksee were arrested by Moscow police. Tatchell delivered the keynote address to Moscow Pride before the attacks began. Read his inspiring comments here.

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Charles Nelson Reilly, 76

Charles Nelson Reilly, the campiest creature ever to challenge Paul Lynde's chiffon sash as TV's first mean queen, died yesterday in Los Angeles at 76. Most probably know Reilly from his trademark evil snigger, which he delivered for many years on game shows such as Hollywood Squares and Match Game.

However, Reilly's fame first came many years earlier, in 1961, when he won a Tony Award for the role he originated in the first production of How To Success In Business Without Really Trying. In '64, he earned a second Tony nomination for Hello, Dolly! His third Tony nom came much recently, for his direction of the '97 revival of The Gin Game. Reilly is survived by his husband of 25 years, Patrick Hughes.

I have a couple of personal memories of Charles Nelson Reilly to add. First, he was a huge cause of disagreement between me and my father, who died a little inside everytime he found me cracking up at Reilly's antics. It may have been then that I unleashed my first of many accusations of hypocrisy towards my father. Why was it that I was not to watch a dirty homo like Reilly (and worse, worship him), when my father had rearranged his bowling night, just so that he would be home to watch the Flip Wilson Show? My dad's favorite bit was when Wilson performed in drag as Geraldine, his widely loved mankiller character. Men in drag playing hookers: OK. Smart, sharp, icy gay wit: banned. Granted, 10-year old JMG couldn't quite parse the obvious ungayness of of a straight comedian doing drag.. Dressing like a woman = gay. (For the record, I did a mean impression of Geraldine myself, something my father would drunkenly wake me up late at night to perform for his friends.)

My other Reilly anecdote merely involves the time he was standing at the end of the bar at Copa in Fort Lauderdale, and I may or may not have accidentally kicked his foot, which was in a gigantic cast. Apparently I was so horrified that I may have kicked him as I sailed by, Reilly felt sorry for me and had the bartender send me a couple of drinks. Classy guy.

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Monday, May 28, 2007

Mr. Fleet Week

Mr. Fleet Week is climaxing. Waist-deep in the Hudson River he stands, back arched, toes curling, straining...UGH...to blow his patriotic load of bipedal cannon fodder one last time over America's well-fingered g-spot, Midtown Manhattan. The spot, after six nights of polite (compared to the locals) but woefully unskilled (ditto) attention, is currently wavering perilously between grateful, exhausted satiety and "not tonight fuckwads, I have a headache." As I watch the streets of Gotham swell a final time with jarheads and swabbies - all of them young perfect happy bounding eager horny puppies, their arrival again strikes me with feelings of envy and apprehension. They also make me think of boobies, but we'll get to that in a bit.

The enlisted men, who comprise a mammoth proportion of the visiting servicefolk, trod confidently, five abreast, down the almost deserted streets of midtown, streets that only hours earlier were abandoned by legions of locals fleeing to their summer refuges in the Hamptons, Fire Island, Newport, Cape Cod. The swabbies walk past posh drinkeries, where the smiling men in suits stand at the open doors, welcoming all. (They have spirited away the "not you, maybe you, never you" ropes. ) Hey Navy! No cover! Fleet Week specials! The jarheads that come inside are probably well-aware that if they were employees here, they'd likely always be "back of the house" material to most of these beaming restaurateurs, who this week are eagerly waving Puerto Rican gunners and Mexico-born supply clerks into their depopulated VIP sections. But it's OK. Everybody who's anybody is out of town.

The swabbies don't know that the folks who live behind the darkened-till-September windows of that fly penthouse duplex (with roof garden access!) consider Fleet Week the start of the "stink season", an expression that means exactly what you think it doesn't. These are the Ugly New Yorkers, the folks who spend a rilly, rilly unappealing amount of their time making it loudly known that Manhattan is the only place in the world to live if you are a Worthwhile and/or Important Person. (Except, you know, in the summer, when it isn't.) We hate them. And if we had a bajillion dollars we would go right out and buy a ginormous house in Upper Hamptaukategue Bay-On-Ocean and spend all summer long glaring at them from the cabana on our private beach. We'd give those plus-one Conde Nasties and guest list Viacommies a frowning they wouldn't soon forget, we tell you what. 'Course, all that frowning would be one way, cuz...well, you know.

Sorry. Back to reality. On the corner of 10th Avenue and 50th Street, street vendors have cagily created a push-cart gauntlet, an obstacle course of crapola. Later tonight, this Spanglish Armada of bootleg reggaeton CDs, counterfeit Yankee hats and Twin Towers snow globes will prove irresistible to beer-goggled ensigns as they stagger towards the forbidding superstructure of the U.S.S. Wasp, which intimidates even the nearby Notable NYC Landmarks, and they are Official Kodak Photo Spots (™), so that there's some high-end intimidatin', missy. Must be the nuke-tipped missiles. The vendors lie in wait, confident, relaxing. It's way early. It's gonna be a while before that first Tupac Lives t-shirt gets airbrushed, before somebody gets their baby mama's name burned onto a plaque bearing the likenesses of the Holy Trinity: Mother Teresa, the BVM, and Jennifer Lopez. Don't be mad at the rocks that they got.

But, you know, fuck all that noise, dude. Because right now, on this last night, especially fucking tonight, dude, Fleet Week has better things to do with its money.

Bro, we gotta roll. Leave dat shit on the table, son. We get it the way back, aiight? Long as you ain't throwed you money at every bitch you seen. (HIGH FIVE!)

See, right now, most of the men in Manhattan who are wearing white bell bottoms are likely carrying a fat roll of singles. A rubber-banded roll of dollar bills smirkingly acquired from the too-bored-to-be-disgusted tellers at every midtown branch of Chase or Commerce or Citibank. The tellers know where those singles are headed. Walking away from the bank, the roll of ones is fingered anxiously in each man's pocket. This is everything left over from his entire leave, savings harvested via hot dog carts, bottom shelf whisky, and walking back to the Wasp instead of taking a cab, even though there's five of you and it woulda only cost about 4 bucks each. Five, tops.

But, ah, five extra dollars to add to the roll of singles means five extra individual opportunities to place those dollars where they been destined to go. And that's to UNICEF's Feed The Children Fund. Snort. No. Actually, like Boy George, those singles are headed for a very short but closely scrutinized life on the NYC stage. There they will be shoved into the gaping orifices and glittery sweat-soaked thongs of the most popular and well-paid dancers of the New York City stage. Just like Boy George. Hah! Hey, the drummer just give me a rim shot! Just like Boy George! You're. Welcome.

The "gentlemen's establishments" 'round here seem tireless in their efforts to direct testicle-owning Gothamites to their nipplistiscated nightclubs, but even with their Howard Stern promotions, their taxi ads, their billboards, and their vampiric army of creepy Night Of The Steve Buscemi Living Dead guys handing out flyers all over Times Square, nobody seems to know where the strip clubs are. I can tell you without exaggeration that over the last week I have been asked, "Where the pussy at?" about a hundred million jillion times. Wait, it was three times. Whatever. The third time you mention pussy to the average gay man, his spam filter has kicked in. You can keep talkin' all you want, but like that guy who wants to share his Nigerian lotto winnings with you, you're just lying there unnoticed. Just like Boy George! (Yeah, still funny.)

I'm just about to cross Broadway when the intersection becomes flooded in a sea of white. An ill-organized flotilla of swabbies, perhaps one hundred in number, is milling around, anxious, excited, wanting to get somewhere really fast but having no idea where they are going or how to get there. It reminds me of a certain comic-book themed gay activist group. Some of the sailors shout conflicting directions to the others but they do not appear to be in charge. Again, I am reminded. One of them says, "Dude, this sucks. We're almost outta time. Let's just all go do our own thing." Reminded.

Then the light changes, the sailors surge, and somebody shouts, "Don't nobody know the fuck where the pussy at?" And I die a little inside. At least they didn't ask me. Somebody says, "Ask the hot nuts guy!" And still they don't ask me. How rude. Some dude cups his hands and shouts, "Fellas, y'all just gotta stay going on 7th Avenue down to 23rd. It's 'bout a thirty minute walk, fifteen if you double-time it." And in a Broadway choreography miracle that is the stuff of which Tonys are made, one hundred young men instantly coalesce into a united multi-legged creature, a single-minded, purpose-driven, white bell-bottomed Naval sperm in search of an egg, probably one named Autumn, or maybe Summer, who is currently working her way through law school by stripping.

I stand there smiling, thinking there can't possibly be enough ho's in da house for when all those boys arrive. I watch them disappear past Red Lobster and I turn back to 42nd Street, thinking how I hope those boys at least get a good thrill from the dancers. And how I hope that a lot of them get to shove their damn singles wherever they want. Then I realize that all the titty bars I happen to be familiar with seem to be on 11th Avenue, not 7th Avenue, and I wince at the thought that those boys may have blown the last hours of their last night in New York City swimming up the wrong Fallopian tube. I can't imagine what grim nightmare the U.S.S. Wasp may have in store for her crew. But I hope every. single. one. of them got this pussy thing that intrigues them so. The ones that wanted it, anyway. Including the girls. Especially the girls.
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Sunday, May 27, 2007

On Bear Hill

Father Tony took this shot at yesterday's picnic on Bear Hill in Central Park. I'll post some pics of my own after the weekend is over. In the meantime, Father Tony has lots more over at his place. This photo is now embiggen-friendly.

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