After "Brokeback Mountain," We Kind Of Hoped All Other Gay Filmmakers Would Give Up In Shame.

So last year, during the Tribeca Film Festival’s annual onslaught on Lower Manhattan, we took our roommate to see the premiere of “Adam and Steve.’ It was screened at the Stuyvesant High School auditorium, and there were more cruisey gays there than on Sheep’s Meadow the weekend before Memorial Day. (You know, the last sunny Saturday before you have to start hiding in your house so people don’t find out you’re not in the Hamptons or on Fire Island?)

"Adam and Steve" is now set for wide release. The movie is made by the people who created “Latter Days.” We thought “Days” was a cute movie that ALMOST dug itself out of the ugly cliché k-hole of “gay romantic comedies.” It was certainly the best we’ve seen so far.

So we had high hopes for “Adam and Steve.”

Unfortunately, they were quickly dashed on the rocks of reality – just like our dreams about every Julia Louis Dreyfus “Seinfeld” follow-up effort.

The movie’s crap. The characters aren’t likeable, the story isn’t believable, the writing is bad, and you end up rooting AGAINST the protagonist, Craig Chester, because he’s such a weirdo.

But Parker Posey and Chris Kattan are both very funny and do their best to contribute some good moments. Still, if you’re going to invest in a gay romance involving Parker Posey, you might as well buy advance tickets to see “Superman Returns,” in which a gay icon battles a gay arch villain over the love of a thirteen year-old boy.

Another Sex And The City Post - If Only We Had Abs Like SJP's, We Wouldn't Be Asking These Questions

Can we talk about something?

We know we’re not the first people to bring this up, but it has recently become an issue in our lives, and we need some advice.

Why do people put nearly naked pics of themselves as their main photo on friendster?

Let’s be clear – we understand the basic, immediate appeal. If we run across a friendster thumbnail with some guy with a great bod, it is more likely to catch our eye.

But is that really the first message you want to get across? Not “I’m a happy, smiley person,” or, “I’m a funny, ironic person,” or even “I am handsome.” Basically, what you’re saying is “I HAVE PECTORALS” - nothing further than that. Do straight people do this? No.

Basically, internet dating for us has been reduced to the back pages of HX magazine. Abs? check. Pecs? check. Personality? Wait - there's no box for that. A naked pic, to us, is the same as using "u" and "r" instead of "you" and "are" in a profile, or saying you're looking for "NO DRAMA."

It ensures two things: 1) that you are most likely to attract the type of people who value pecs over happiness, funniness, or personality. And 2) people who care about other things will assume that YOU value pecs above all else. Especially if you took it yourself. And Trog help you if that picture is in black and white.

The reason we ask is this: among the boys we have dated of late is a shirtless friendster. He is sweet, shy, and kind. But on friendster he comes across as a maneating, high-end hooker. We think that having a shirtless shot as one or two of several friendster pictures is perfectly fine – after all, you want to look at the chassis before you hop in and ride. But as your main pic? How about leaving a little to the imagination?

The relationship, is it turned out, eventually came down to this: Can a shirtless-friendster-pic date a clothed-friendster-pic?

And if the answer is no – which one is really to blame?

We’re Living In A Powder Keg And Giving Off Sparks

We’d like to direct your attention to our favorite new pastime: Google Idol.

We work on the docks at night, so we can’t watch American Idol as much as we’d like. But this competition gets at what we really like about the competition. It’s campy, it’s gay, and it’s all about pop music and dancing.

We’re rooting for Anthony and Katy, who can be seen here, though we give snaps to anyone willing to try to out-ridiculous the original version of Europe’s “Final Countdown.”

It makes you wonder (no, it does NOT “beg the question”) why, though, the idea videotaping yourself lip-synching to pop music seems so, well, gay. Anthony and Katy are obviously just another fag and a hag in a trailer, but what about the boys from the Texas A&M basketball team? Is there something homoerotic in singing “Total Eclipse of the Heart” with your shirt off? (Is that like asking: is there anything homoerotic about grease-wrestling while listening to “My Heart Will Go On”?)

Which leads us to the next logical question - will YouTube and GoogleIdol eventually de-gay the art of the lip-synch?

And if so, what will all the drag queens do for a living? Is nobody thinking of what this will do to Ricky Martin??

And There You Were, Thinking That The Liberals Were The Biggest Bottoms Of Them All

We have a lot of faith in Sen. John McCain. In genereal, we love independently-minded Republicans (Leave us alone! We don’t get on YOUR back for sneaking hetero soft-core porn on Cinemax!). But McCain’s agreement to be keynote speaker at conservative crackpot Jerry Falwell’s Liberty University smacks of the kind of far-right pandering we hoped McCain would avoid in anticipation of the 2008 election. This bums us out.

We are very naïve, and we know it. But we couldn’t help but hope that the center would emerge as a force in the upcoming presidential election, to balance out the maniacal right and the hysterical left.

That is, until we were watching a Sean Cody double anal locker room orgy the other day and we realized: the middle never wins.

Why? Because we’re more reasonable. And reason never wins over anger. But even so, you’ll still find us in there, standing in the center, election after election, and here’s why:

1) We just aren’t as aggressive either way. We weren’t particularly in favor of the Iraq invasion, but now that we’re there, we’re not dumb enough to think that pulling out too soon will solve anything.

2) We like trying to bring people together. We know Jack was bad for politics, but also know that a little greasing of the palms helps the world go round.

3) We appreciate that you can always plunge into an issue from at least two different angles. Our nation should obviously welcome outsiders, but only through legal and accepted channels. And you should never cede control of your ports of entry to someone you have reason to mistrust.

But what no one on either extreme side seems to remember is that everything, eventually, meets in the center. Because only those of us there, who are tugged from side to side, truly feel it. In 2008, we realize, the battle royale will likely be waged within the narrow confines of the flexible center. It is the middle - coaxed, polled, and in the end, forced to fit the current prick candidates – that will eventually decide everyone else’s outcome.

And by the time it’s all over, like always, we’ll be left battered and bruised, feeling empty and used… with another Republican president, and buckets of cum all over our face.

Hermione Granger: Future Bulldyke

A lot of gay actors get into trouble because they realize that they aren’t straight after they are already on the way to being famous. So they’re still able to be pressured by agents, managers, etc, into staying in the closet.

Which is why we were pleasantly surprised to see the myspace.com profile of Tom Felton, aka Draco Malfoy, aka “Mr. Hotpants.”

On his profile, which seems perfectly normal for an 18-year-old, Felton lists his sexuality as “bi.” We won’t get into the whole “JUST WAIT TWO YEARS, HONEY, AND THEN TRY TO EAT PUSSY” philosophy, because let’s face it, he’s pretty young and it’s pretty bold to even talk about his sexuality at that age. So bravo, Draco! Too bad there’s no way in hell you’ll stay famous when you’re an adult.

But still, Felton is really set for life. Among gays, being a former child star will get you laid almost as much as being a porn star. With an equal probability of herpes!

Another One Bites The Dust

We’ve been trying to avoid thinking about this for a long time, but eventually the inevitable comes for everyone.

Just as ships must all eventually depart from the shore, and Paula Abdul must finally detach from all reality, so too, must we all leave our early twenties.

Yes, it’s true. We turn 25 on Sunday. Don’t cry for us, we’re already dead.

Gone are the days of fearless weeknight binge drinking. Long past are the mornings where it was okay to wake up and not know where we were, or who with. No longer are we able to use the excuse “but we’re just kids!” Time to cut up our parents’ emergency credit card, which they thought we chopped three years ago. Never again will we be able to use our age as a come on. From here on out, dating a college boy will no longer seem natural: it will be a triumph.

So long, Steak Frites - hello Seared Ahi Tuna with Mesclun Greens.

Farewell Pabst Blue Ribbon – Amstel Light, enter if you must.

Now is the time of Abyssine Eye Cream, Viking Ranges, and the consideration of small pets. These are the days of wedding toasts, condo shopping, and the catching up with your family. Of waking up at eight because you “just can’t sleep any later.” Of falling asleep at one because your eyes just close, no matter where you are in the house.

But it is not with regret that we doff the title of “twink.” No, it is with great eagerness that we leap into the void of “Mid-Twentydom.” Because we’ve only been on our own for three years now, and we’re just getting good at it. Our bodies have now been programmed to automatically steer us home safely, even if we are blackout drunk. We have restaurants that we know we like, in every neighborhood in the city. We know what to do when the L stops running. We cut off all those terrible friends we hated in college but hung out with anyway. And we’ve figured out how to sneak booze at work.

So here’s to the next five years. Because no matter how grim, soul-crushing, and emotionally stunting they may be, for every day of the next five years we will be able to raise a triumphant fist to the rampantly age-ist gay world and shout:

“Hey. At least we’re not in our motherfucking 30s.”

Like Sands Through The Hourglass, These Are The Gays Of Our Lives

So a wonderful and cute new/old friend of ours, Sam, has started a blog that's become quite popular in a short period of time. It's named in honor of the only soap opera we've ever become addicted to, Days Of Our Lives. Fittingly, it follows the very real tumultuous lives of a group of adulterers, murderers, and ghosts.

OK, not really. It's called Gayz Of Our Lives, and it's about all of Sam's hot gay friends, and the rest of New York Fabulosity. You should go check it out. There are even some pictures of us on there. We're the ones in the gogo swing wearing the adult diaper with the tear-stained mascara.


(PS - our coworker right now is on the phone with Gloria Estefan. She stepped away for the minute, and we discovered that yes, she is her own hold music).

I Try To Discover, A Little Something To Make Me Sweeter...

We are feeling sick today, so no posts. Except to say:

This is pretty much the story of our life.

"She Said, 'I'm From A Place Where We Don't End Our Sentences With Prepositions.' So I Said, 'Okay, Where Are Ya'll From, Bitch?'"

There is a very good article on the Nerve right now that ties together gay cowboys, the Abbey, and the nature of father-to-gay-son relationships. A great part is when the author’s father unwittingly takes his gay son to the gayest bar in gaytown (West Hollywood) and slowly realizes what he’s done:

“Finally, I blurted, "Do you realize what kind of place you're in? Do you know this is the biggest gay bar in town?" He nodded. Deep wrinkles, from years of narrowing his eyes — hard expressions I'd always seen as angry or suspicious — now looked softer, like traces of wincing and fear. He spoke carefully, as if the sentence were a thing he didn't want to drop: "I had begun. To figure that out."”

This reminds us of a time when we took our dad to a straight bar in our college town called Rudy’s. It was divey and a little bit punky, and the patrons were a well-pierced bunch. “Is this a gay bar?” our dad asked, after a few PBRs. “Oh Dad,” we said. “We go to gay bars to get husbands, not prison-grade tattoos.”

While the nerve.com article is well-written and touching, the best part is undoubtedly when the author finds himself at a gay cowboy bar, chanting along with many other macho hombres the lines of the best “Designing Women” monologue ever. We remember watching this, at the butt-clenchingly awkward age of thirteen - when Dixie Carter is uncharacteristically defending her sister, Delta Burke:

"…Suzanne was not just any Miss Georgia, she was the Miss Georgia. She didn't twirl just a baton, that baton was on fire! And when she threw that baton into the air, it flew higher, further, faster than any baton has ever flown before, hitting a transformer and showering the darkened arena with sparks! And when it finally did come down . . . my sister caught that baton, and twelve thousand people jumped to their feet for sixteen-and-one-half minutes of uninterrupted thunderous ovation, as flames illuminated her tear-stained face! And that . . . just so you will know — and your children will someday know — is the night the lights went out in Georgia!"

If you didn’t just get goosebumps reading that, you may want to try doing some shots of flaming sambuca until you do. Otherwise, you may call yourself gay, but you’re clearly not doing it right.

Asking And Telling = Bad. Gossip, Wishful Thinking And Conjecture = Maybe Okay.

The American military has stopped defending the logic behind their “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy and merely says that it follows the rule because it’s the law. Likewise, the number of gays bounced from the military on such cases has dropped significantly from 2004 to 2005. In some instances, soldiers have not denied being gay – they just say that they’re indispensable to the team, and are allowed to remain onboard.

We’re not saying this is great. As Jack Twist would say, “This is a god damn bitch of an unsatisfactory situation.” But it’s better than it was. We never expected change to happen on a given day. We hoped that, over time, discriminatory policies would be proven to be faulty.

And every day we get to keep one of our boys in that open-air shower room with dozens of other marines is, let’s face it, a victory for our team. As Joey Tribbiani would say about sharing soap: “Next time you're in the shower, think of the first place you're washing, and the last place I washed.”

Oh we will. And meanwhile, where’s that conditioner…

This Was, At Least, Not The Worst Thing We've Walked In On In Our Living Room.

The other night we came home to our apartment, which was curiously quiet, except all the lights were on. "Hello?" we said from the entryway? "Hello!" shouted our lady roommate, very quickly. "Is everything ok?" "Of course!" she shouted, with a clearly false chipper tone. We walked into the living room and saw her, surrounded by food, sitting in front of the television, which only showed the blank TV screen. She looked guilty.

"Were you watching our gay porn, again?" we asked.

"No," she said.

"What's going on here?" we pressed, very suspicious. She pressed play on the remote, sheepishly. After a moment, Jake Gyllenhaal appeared on the screen, holding his fist in his mouth, blinking back tears as he steered his blue pickup truck back toward Texas.

"You were watching 'Brokeback Mountain' again!?" we cried.

You see, in our house, we have a problem. A friend bought a Thai version of "Brokeback" and we have been wrecked ever since - particularly our female roommate. She watches the movie from beginning to end, fast forwarding through the parts with women in them (except for the "Jack NASTY" bit). And anecdotally, I understand we are not the only ones who watch and re-watch. Which makes us feel good about the film - it bodes well for the DVD release, and suggests that it wasn't just a controversial flash in the pan, among straight people.

This, of course, is a lot more heartwarming than the original reason we obtained the videotape, which was of course to lure naive boys back to our apartment. Make 'em cry, then make 'em strip, that's our motto. Then make 'em cry again.

Gay Is The New Guatamalan-ness.

We had a conversation with a friend yesterday about the fact that we often use the words "fag" or "queer" or "homo" in our regular parlance.

"Unlike you, I don't use those words," said our friend.

"It's reclamatory language," we shot back.

But our clever friend raises an interesting question. We may be taking the sting out of words like fag, queer, sissy, homo, buttpirate, cockgobbler, juice-in-the-loose-caboose, etc - but what can we do about the word "gay"? That's the larger problem. We are careful not to use words like "ghetto," or "retarded" for that specific reason, because we know how it feels when someone says "that's so gay" after someone does something lame. Is it a fad, as this article suggests? Or is that terminology here to stay?

We're not sure. All we can say is, we hope one day, the word "gay" will be used for its positive connotations. Like, you will see a well-designed apartment, or a pair of perfectly distressed, ass-flattering jeans, and say "Wow, that's totally gaytastic." Kind of like "that's hot," or "that is SO fetch."

We'll start right now. You read the FAGAT Guide? That is SO GAY.

Happy Saint Patrick's Day. We're All McQueens Now.

We are wearing green in honor of the day. Last night, we went to Patrick McMullan's annual gong show and watched midget leprechauns do a dance to U2's "It's A Beautiful Day." We couldn't have been more Irish (and by "Irish," of course, we mean "tanked").

We were thinking about how, on St. Patrick's Day, everyone in New York is Irish. Funny how the same does not apply for the Puerto Rican Pride parade. It's a subtle distinction.

As for the Gay Pride March (we don't say PARADE, mind you, because it's a very serious event), we've always thought that it could use a little bit more of the "everybody's invited" vibe. Wouldn't it be nice if people saw the parade and thought "Wow, those people are having so much fun, in a non-threatening way that appeals to me. I wish I was gay!" instead of "Oh my God, I hope my children and pets don't see those freaks."

Obviously, we recognize the flip side of that argument ("We should be proud of why we're different"). We're just throwin' it out there. Maybe we could have two celebrations - one nice picnic in the park with Pinot Grigio and toasted biscotti, and one tranny-fisting orgy circuit party at Roxy.

We can see it now: Mayor Bloomberg pumping his rainbow flags in Central Park, and Hillary Clinton at Roxy pumping... oh dear.

Losers Will Be Forced To Live As Second Class Citizens, Subjected To Close-Minded Stereotypes And Funny Looks On The Street. Winners To Get Same.

In The Netherlands/Holland/Ganjcentral, "officials" have decided to host a soccer game between gays and Muslims, because of the history of violence between the two groups across the pond. Knowing that soccer in Europe is always violence free, we think this is a good idea. They first came up with the idea for this kind of healthy frivolity at Dachau, didn't they?

We especially like this part:

"Gay Muslims can take their choice of teams," Suzanne Ijsselmuiden said. "People can have many identities."

Just they always wanted - the choice to be ghettoized as lightfooted pansies, or lightfooted pansies who are hated by their own God.

Even We Know That's Not How You Play Football

We went bowling last night, at Leisure Time, the secret bowling alley hidden in the Port Authority. They give you "Towers of Beer" at your table, and there is a DJ who asks Oscar trivia questions as you bowl. It might be the very strangest place in America.

We are very bad at bowling. We don't know why, but we imagine it is for gay reasons. Limp wrists do not lend themselves to proper form, it seems. For some reason we just can't manage to bowl "straight." The balls we are used to handling are usually a bit smaller. The last time we rammed a candlestick, we were shoving it up the ass of a huge black man named Yummy, etc, etc.

But it made us think about sports. In high school and college, we excelled at crew, track, and cross country. The connection between all of those things? No balls. We, like many gay people, cannot interact properly with baseballs, basketballs, soccer balls, or footballs.

So this brings us to FAGAT Guide Rule #2:

Do not throw things to gay people.

If you're in the office and need to pass the tape to the fag across the cubicle, for God's sake, get up and walk over there. Lending a pen? Slide it across the floor. Scissors? Just get him his own pair, he's just going to use them to trim his happy trail, anyway.

Because gay people, as a race, cannot catch. Go ahead and test this out. Find a queer and say "Hey, CATCH!" Will he toss up his hands in basket formation? No. He will shriek, cover his face, and crouch in terror.

Obviously, there is one situation where this catching theory does not apply. But even that involves a fair share of crouching, and shrieking...

We Would Have Gone To The Met, But We Used That Up The Last Time A Friend Got Engaged.

On Saturday afternoon we went with a group of friends to the “BODIES” exhibit at South Street Seaport.

It was very compelling/educational/revolting, and we enjoyed it until we got to the “Fetus” section, at which point we felt our eyes wandering. At first we thought it was the Freak-Show style aborted babies in jars that caused our distraction, but we quickly realized it was something quite different: the museum gallery was filled with strikingly hot gay men. Who were cruising like it was going out of style!

We were unable to concentrate for the rest of the exhibition because of all of the eyeball pingpong. What on earth could have brought all that man candy to such an informative and scientific show? To better understand how to tone their muscles? To giggle at the fun-sized Asian penises on display? To help them figure out where exactly is the prostate” (we swear we overheard the younger half of a gay couple exclaim “I TOLD you!” as they both examined the appropriate slice of Chinese.)

Then we remembered why WE were there. Because, lacking children, a spouse, a pet, or wedding plans, we wanted to have something to talk about at cocktail parties other than our job. We can see it now:

MARRIED COUPLE: Did we tell you we’re pregnant?!!?

FAGAT: Your baby right now is the size of a Raisinette, and looks like a Beaker, the scientist Muppet.

MARRIED COUPLE: We wonder where the bar is.

On The Flip Side, It Might Be Kind Of Nice To Be Able To Date Brad, Angelina, AND Maddox.

And we’re back.

So we had the chance to ask the "Omnisexual” about what the hell that title means, recently. And he dutifully explained that it does indeed mean that he would date “anything, boys, girls, animals, vegetables…” He went on to explain that for a lot of judgmental gays, that causes problems. Boys, apparently, see this attitude as a half-ass way of trying to explain an underlying confusion about simple homosexuality. “Queers can be very homonormative,” we said sagely, sympathizing with the plight of our date/friend. We are polite and always try to make people feel comfortable.

But then, on the way home, we realized something. WE belong in the category of “judgmental gays.” For us, the idea that you “just love someone for who they are, regardless of gender,” DOES sound like a half ass way of trying to deal with a sexual identity that a person is unwilling to accept.

Say what you will, do what you want, put whatever objects in your various orifices as you see fit – more power to you. But don’t expect people who are comfortable with their (singular) sexual identity to want to date you. We were supposed to stop having sixteen-year-old “crises of self” when we turned seventeen.

We just want to be an old, fat queen with Slavic-adopted twins, living in Brooklyn Heights, with a lawyer husband and a hot English nanny who summers with us on the Vineyard while on break from Smith. Our babies will wear matching short lederhosen, and so will the pool boy.

Call us old fashioned, but whatever happened to traditional family morals?


(Did you notice we switched back to the royal "we" in this post? Coincidence? Irony? Faggotry? You decide.)

Must…Resist…Obvious…

Last night at Marc Jacobs’ party honoring Debbie Harry’s induction in the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of fame, Jacobs dragged his boyfriend Jason Preston onto the red carpet so that the paparazzi could snap Preston’s funky new tattoo. Preston had emblazoned “MARC JACOBS” permanently on his forearm, in the exact Georgica font that Jacobs uses on his merchandise.

Immediately, of course, all of the gays in the press line short-circuited with glee and hilarity. We won’t attempt to transcribe all the jokes here, but we can tell you that they all ended with two words:

Label.

Whore.

Thumbnail courtesy of Patrick McMullan

Maybe Oprah IS Our Best Hope For Representation In The Senate

Sometimes, the UK seems like a more fun country than the US.

Take Michael Cashman, the English European Parliament Minister who is about to get gay married tomorrow. Cashman became famous as an actor on that country's absolutely ridiculous soap "EastEnders," became a human rights activist, and then an elected official. Imagine if James Denton from "Desperate Housewives" came out, joined HRC, and then became a Senator. Would it spell the end of civilization as we know it? Probably. Would C-Span skyrocket in the coveted 18-25 demographic? Definitely!

If you get a minute, check out Cashman's official website bio . Highlights include:

"Michael was born in the East End of London in 1950. His birth was premature by three weeks, primarliy due to his mother attempting to defend her husband in a street fight outside Stepney East station."

"During his career he worked with luminaries like Lionel Bart, J. B Priestley, Sir Alan Ayckbourn (who directed two plays which were written by Michael), Sir Ian McKellen, Elizabeth Taylor, June Brown, Sir Elton John and David Hockney."

Can you imagine a US Senator's bio including zingers like the above? How about this one:

"Michael lives with his partner, Paul, and they have been together for over 20 years."

Ha! The British. What'll they come up with next?

Gay Sperm - The Best Investment You'll Ever Put In Your Vagina.

New Zealand has finally wised up and started allowing gays to donate sperm.

It raises the question, though: will fag jizz be labeled appropriately? One would hope so.

The Murphy Browns of New Zealand are wise enough to know that gay cum is worth its weight in gold - like Prada shoes, graduate degrees, and so many of the other things things we work so tirelessly to earn, exploit, and then heedlessly discard.

And in the end, would you rather have a son who gets married and forgets about you because he has a wife and children? Or would you rather have a son who has plenty of time and extra income to concentrate on keeping you away from Talbots and chunky Zales jewelry?

And you'll finally have an excuse to watch every episode of "Designing Women" all over again!

Christine Quinn Squats Down, Pisses On St. Patrick’s Day Parade

New York’s first gay City Council Speaker faces an interesting dilemma this coming St. Patrick’s Day – whether to march with the drunks, or whether to continue to protest (as she has in years past) that the parade does not include gay groups.

It’s an interesting problem, for many obvious reasons. The City Council Speaker usually marches in all such parades (Puerto Rican, Gay, etc). But most of the other parades are all-inclusive.

Quite frankly, it’s not necessarily a bad thing we gays aren’t allowed in the St. Patrick’s Day Parade. It just heightens the distinction that, while the Gay Pride Parade is offensive and oppressive to most city dwellers, when the Micks take over 5th Avenue, it’s way worse.

Sweeping up body glitter is ten times easier than mopping up green beer vomit, it seems. Say what you will about us – we are fastidious.

And we would never drink beer.

Seriously, All They Wanted To Do Was Get Y'all To Stop Wearing Black Jeans

The Rev. Jerry Falwell has turned away a group of gay college students interested in meeting with their counterparts at his Liberty University, in an effort to spread understanding. The student group, Soulforce, has met with some acceptance at other schools, and was even greeted with cookies at Liberty last year. But this year, no way, flambé.

“For Falwell, once was enough. "The parents of our students have entrusted their sons and daughters to our care," he said in a statement. "Liberty has an obligation to these parents not to expose their children to a 'media circus' that might present immorality in a positive light."

That’s right, Jerry. We know how you hate a media circus.

“Will & Grace” Inspires Comical, Painful Real Life Spin-offs.

I’ve been trying to figure out how to parse this article in the New York Times, about women who are married to gay men. The problem is that there isn’t enough outrage. There are women who accept their husbands lying to them, there are men who stay with their wives, even though they want to be with other men – and there are therapists that say nobody is to blame.

According to the article, “2 to 4 percent of ever-married American women had knowingly or unknowingly been in what are now called mixed-orientation marriages.” That’s an awfully nice euphemism for “one in roughly thirty three American women is married to a fag.”

Everyone in the article is very understanding of one another, which is good, since they’ve all been married and are trying to make the best of a really tough situation. So where’s the anger? Why no quotes saying “Why the fuck did I grow up in a place that made me feel I had to live a lie, which has caused me to devastate my best friend and partner?” The Times didn’t happen to record any of the women saying: “Thanks, America, for helping me build the perfect life. My especially favorite part was when, after ten years, I found out it had been phony the whole time!” The article almost makes this really tragic problem seem like another mundane aspect of family life in the USA, like arguing over who takes out the garbage, and trying to figure out who actually like ‘Everybody Loves Raymond.”

If I’d written this article, I think the headline would have been “I Married A Queer, And I’m Really Fucking Pissed About It.” The sub hed could then be a hubby response, like “Hey, You Think I Fucking Enjoyed All Those Times I Had to Stick My Face Down There?”

FAGATS Continues To Turn Into Towleroad, Gains Decades, Loses Vertical Feet

To further my post-Oscars Brokeback bemoaning, I refer you to this article by critic Roger Ebert, which responds to the Ken Turan article that I appreciated yesterday. Ebert goes on and on about how there is a pro-“Brokeback” conspiracy to denigrate “Crash” as a film. As if people who think that “Crash” is a bad movie must be part of some evil gay agenda:

“It is not a "safe harbor," but a film that takes the discussion of racism in America in a direction it has not gone before in the movies, directing attention at those who congratulate themselves on not being racist, including liberals and/or minority group members. It is a movie of raw confrontation about the complexity of our motives, about how racism works not only top down but sideways, and how in different situations, we are all capable of behaving shamefully.”

This makes me upset about Roger Ebert. Is he kidding? “A direction it has not gone before?” It was the most contrived piece of crap I saw all year. You’d think Roger Ebert would have know how to recognize stock characters, hackneyed 1970s racial themes, and clichéd plot twists by now.

But as a wise and handsome friend pointed out, this was not the most upsetting segment of the article. Rather, this was:

"'Capote' was a brilliant character study of a writer who was gay, and who used his sexuality, as we all use our sexuality, as a part of his personal armory in daily battle.”

The image of Roger “Mr. Magoo” Ebert using his sexuality as a weapon every day makes me want to sandpaper my genitals.

Gay Firefighters: The Last Taboo.

The Washington Post predicts the success of “Brokeback Mountain” will ease the development of more mainstream gay movies.

THIS IS THE PAPER THAT BROKE WATERGATE, PEOPLE. Listen up.

Included on the list are adaptations of gay classics like Patricia Neal Warren’s “The Front Runner,” and “The Mayor of Castro Street,” about the late, great Harvey Milk.

Which made me wonder – what great gay stories would I like to see made into movies?

How about…

“The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay,” starring Jamie Bell and Benjamin Mackenzie
“Brideshead Revisited,” starring Jude Law and Paul Bettany (oh, wait…)
“The Clay Aiken Story,” starring Topher Grace and Vin Diesel
“Ulysses,” starring Harry Connick Jr, Jake Gyllenhaal, and Cillian Murphy as Molly Bloom.
“The Vin Diesel Story,” starring The Rock and Cole Hauser
“The Boy With Clawz,” starring Heath Ledger, and introducing Chris Pine, as the nubile assistant.
“Missy Elliot,” starring Queen Latifah.
“Massage Oil And Me: Inspired by a True Story,” starring John Travolta.
“Vatican,” starring Ian McKellan.

My number one favorite new gay movie that will clearly become a blockbuster, though, definitely has to be “Silence of the Clams: The Jodie Foster story,” starring Dakota Fanning. It’s the role she was spawned to play!

He's Just Not That Into Jew

In the interest of service journalism, I am going to start issuing some rules. (Also, I'm doing away with the royal "we," until I can find someone to write this site with me. Don't question my reasons! It only will bring us closer.)

So you can periodically expect some issues from the FAGAT on high.

Today's Rule: NEVER GO TO A GAY PLACE ON YOUR FIRST DATE

I had a lovely date two weeks ago with a perfectly tall, handsome-enough, non-freak guy. We ate at a Chelsea restaurant, where he had slept with and/or dated a handful of the waiters. Once came up to stare at me so many times, that when asked if there was a problem, he said: "Oh, no, I was just thinking you'd make a really beautiful drag queen."

Then, we went to a popular gay night at a big bar, where we both knew a lot of people. From a relatively intimate evening, it turned into a smorgasboard of cruising, air kissing, and drink tickets. My date ran into more ex-boyfriends. In the bathroom, I was accosted by a friend who spotted us together and tried to stage a dramatic, coke-fueled intervention. "He is bad NEWS!" our friend cried. We shook him off, unnerved, and continued peeing.

Then, the death knell sounded: I ran into someone cuter, younger, and more charming, who asked me out.

This situation was not of my creating - I suggested neither the dinner location nor the visit to the gay party. My date had unwittingly crafted his own downfall. Had we been on our third date, and someone tried to pick me up, I probably would have ignored it.

So today's lesson is: Don't go to gay bars on a date, because sluts like me will ditch you in a hot second if something better comes along.

Also, if you can, it's best to be younger, cuter and more charming than everyone else.

But you already knew that.

Jake, Oscar Boast Asses That Are High, Tight

The Los Angeles Times' Kenneth Turan, writing on their "Envelope" website, vocalizes eloquently exactly the way we feel about last night's "Crash" win. We were expecting it, and even resignedly picked it on our ballot for the Oscar pool at our party.

"Sometimes you win by losing, and nothing has proved what a powerful, taboo-breaking, necessary film "Brokeback Mountain" was more than its loss Sunday night to "Crash" in the Oscar best picture category.Despite all the magazine covers it graced, despite all the red-state theaters it made good money in, despite (or maybe because of) all the jokes late-night talk show hosts made about it, you could not take the pulse of the industry without realizing that this film made a number of people distinctly uncomfortable...

"So for people who were discomfited by "Brokeback Mountain" but wanted to be able to look themselves in the mirror and feel like they were good, productive liberals, "Crash" provided the perfect safe harbor."

The whole article is dead-on and a really good read. But we think it misses another point: People really DID like "Crash." People like Oprah, Joel Seigel, and Katie Couric. And it wasn't because it was good - it wasn't. It was obvious, cliched, boring, and formulaic. Frankly, it was patronizing. It shouldn't have even been nominated (the actors, perhaps, but not the film). The problem is that a film doesn't need to be GOOD (like "Brokeback"), it just needs to be about something important.

What we basically mean is that we've finally realized the Academy voters are just dumb.

Which has left us feeling, right now, the way we felt when we found out that bears indeed DO shit in the woods.

We Know There Is A Lot To Say About Last Night's Oscars

But this headline that appears on MSNBC.com right now is a little bit much, don't you think?

SPOTLIGHT ON THE OSCARS• ‘Crash’ tops ‘Brokeback’

That's just poorly-crafted and unsubtle, guys.

Just like "Crash," actually.

This Is Worse Than That Time That They Cut Off The End Of "24" Because Of Football

We're so sorry we haven't been posting. It's been quite an eventful week for us. Today we came down from a four day nerve/adrenaline rush and fell asleep on our keyboard.

We think you all should be aware of a potential disaster that has occured for the gay community. No, we're not talking about the fact that people now identify us with Clay Aiken. It's worse:

The Dylan has broken his cell phone.

Take a deep breath. Sit down. Have some Poland Spring mineral water and an Emergen-C.

If you have to ask who "Dylan" is, or what is "last name" might be, you're clearly the kind of person who is allowed to donate blood in the US. And you shouldn't be reading this blog. Dylan's phone had a whopping 1800 numbers in it. We didn't even know that was possible. 1700 of them belong to cute boys. It was a nexus of gay - sort of like the Barney's Warehouse sale, but digital.

GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF PEOPLE! NO NEED TO PANIC! We all just need to calm the FUCK down around here.

Now, there is a chance the numbers from his phone can be retrieved. There is a chance that the party will go on. There's a chance, that through the work of a grumpy Arab phone technician who is working frantically this very minute, that this center of the gay universe can be brought back to life.

All we can do is hold our breath, and pray to Allah. It should be easy - you're all on your knees at least five times a day anway.