We'd Even Settle For "Conviction's" Stephanie March

We were watching the gay marriage appeal hearings in New York today online (Queerty has the link) and we were frustrated by two things. First of all, the streaming was bad so you couldn’t really make out what was happening. And second, the dowdy attorneys on our team weren’t nearly as eloquent or attractive as we’d hoped. Have all those hours of watching “Law and Order: SVU” given us the wrong impression about lawyers? We had sort of imagined that our counsel would be like an Anderson Cooper meets Dylan McDermott from "The Practice." Is that too much to ask?

Sometimes we wonder whether we’re focusing on the wrong issue.

If You Called A Gay Bar “The Grundle,” Would It Still Be Just South Of The Bundle?

So we noticed a very familiar sign in the window of a bar only one avenue block away from our house last week. Even though The Cock moved into The Hole on 2nd Avenue last year, it looks as though it will at least spiritually maintain a presence on northern Avenue A. COCKtail appears to be the name of the new joint, and according to reports it is smaller and cleaner than its ancestor. We can’t wait to, um, test it out.

But it really makes you wonder: Is there a limit to the amount of graphically named gay bars one neighborhood can handle? With COCKtail, Dick’s Bar, and The Cock (in the Hole), the East Village is pretty much full up. And is that kind of thinly veiled explicitness really necessary, anyway? If we wanted to get the point across, we might as well call them: “A Place Where They Sell Stella Artois And You Can Check Out Other Men,” or “We Have Plenty Of Lingering Eye Contact, But You’ll Be At Home In Two Hours, Drunk, Looking At Internet Porn,” or maybe just “Sticky Floors, Sticky Faces.”

Or, as Margaret Cho pointed out when thinking of renaming Edinburgh’s “CeCe Bloom’s” tavern, why not just call it, “Fuck Me in the Ass, Bar and Grill?”

Hatred Causes Wrinkles. But Then Again, So Does Smiling. Hm.

We feel the need to coin another term here at Fagats. The phrase for today is: "Irrational Gay Hatred."

Irrational Gay Hatred, or IGH, is a phenomenon that has been around for years. It's when two gay men dislike, or even loathe, one another, for no logical reason. The gays will bristle when in one another's company, but will of course act very pleasant on the surface and exchange a lot of air kisses. They will dispense catty gossip about one another, and exchange passive aggressive remarks, but when asked will say "What are you talking about? I think whatsisname is great. I just love his enthusiasm when he tries to pull off horizontal stripes!"

IGH is similar to when two women meet one another and inexplicably share an immediate hatred. Have you ever noticed that? Isn't it weird? Well, we do it too.

Possible roots of Irrational Gay Hatred can be a shared fag hag, shared an ex-boyfriend, or even a common group of friends. It rarely occurs between gays who know one another well; it's usually relegated to gays who have only met a few times. We begin by marking our territory ("Oh, how do you know my friend Mike?"), then we quietly size one another up ("Oh, those Diesel sneaks are adorable. I totally noticed them on the sale rack at the store last time I was there!"). Finally, of course, comes the silent judging ("...").

When the two gays get to know one another, the sentiment usually passes. But as soon as we let down our guard with one twink, another one comes along. Just beware, because "Irrational Gay Hatred" can become "Irration Gay Hair-Pulling" quite easily. And nobody likes that.

Do Any Of Us Realize How Crazy We Actually Are?

So there are a million different kind of gays in this city, and we all have different needs and different goals. Yadda yadda. But if there's one thing we have in common, it's this: we're looking for a man. And for most of us, that man has several things in common. If we were to write Santa to ask for the man we all want, our letters would probably all sound a little like this:

Dear St. Nick,

We need to talk about that outfit...

[Sorry, allow us to skip ahead a bit]

I am looking for a man.

I want this man to like me, so much that he will agree to live with me. When I get home from work, he will be in the house, wearing a cute outfit. His smile will make me smile, and it will cause me to forget the stressful day I had from work. Sometimes, he will cook me a yummy dinner, or have opened a nice bottle of wine.

All I really want from his is companionship. I want a man who will always make me laugh, no matter what the situation. I want a man who has cute outfits that I can share. He should be smart, handsome, and athletic. It wouldn't hurt if he liked to go out, too. See, I'm looking for a man who is the life of the party - who is so fun to be around on a night out, that my friends email me the next day and say "Wow, that guy is just amazing." Who everyone meets and thinks "Where did you find that guy? He is the best. I am jealous." Because then, at the end of the day, we will go back home together, and I will be able to say that he belongs to me.

He should be sexy and fun, but is also my best friend. The kind of guy who you don't want to see once or twice a month for a wild time, but the type who you wish was around every morning when you woke up. Someone who is always in a good mood, but can understand when you're not. Because I've looked around Santa, and I can't say that there are many guys that fit this criteria. I've had trouble finding one, and I've begun to wonder whether there are any of them in the world, at all. Can you help me? I didn't even get mad last year when you didn't get me the fabulous duplex apartment on Perry Street that I asked for. Throw a bitch a bone.

Love,

Gays Everywhere

Well, dear readers, I'm gonna be honest. Santa can't help you - a perfect man is something you have to find on your own. BUT, if you need a HINT, I can maybe help you out. I know a guy like that. In fact, I test drove him for two and a half years. He was my roommate. He just moved out this weekend. Now he lives alone on the Upper East Side, and maybe soon it will be someone else's turn to be the lucky guy. Hopefully, for his sake, you'll put out a whole lot more than I did. But if you really want to know where to find the perfect boy, I'd keep your eyes peeled in the vicinity of 69th and 3rd.

I will miss you, A. You were the best roommate a gay could ever ask for. Love, F.

Headline Writer Cuts To The Chase... Almost

Wow, this article did not turn out to be what we expected at all:

“Penelope Cruz Turns Gay Man Straight ... Almost”

We wish that headline writer worked on more stories. For example, a better header for a recent Us Weekly article we saw would have read:

“Ian Somerhalder Gets New Beard.”

Remember How Fat SJP Looked In The “Sex And The City” Episode About This?

It’s that time in New York again. When the citizens of this great city flock to our version of the “beaches” to watch the ships go by. When tight white pants with flared bottoms, neckerchiefs, and sailor caps are acceptable on straight men. When “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” becomes “HEY EVERYBODY! I GOT FUCKED BY A MARINE!”

That’s right… It’s Fleet Week!

What strikes us about this annual celebration (of form-fitting polyester blends) is that sailors actually show up at gay bars. Not anything grotesque or obvious like Beige, but we’ve seen them duck their heads into Nowhere Bar, or lurk, out of uniform, at Barracuda. And we’ve certainly seen them strutting themselves down 8th Avenue in the early evenings, which, for a man in uniform, is akin to walking stark naked through The Ramble at midnight.

See, we’ll do anything to sleep with a sailor. And we don’t just mean us here at Fagats. We mean all of New York City, especially the gays.

But here’s the thing – the Navy won’t accept us into their bunkrooms, but we’ll stain our duvet cover for them any day. What gives? It’s a one-way valve that we have, for years, been trying to make work both ways. Will we ever be successful?

Normally, in this political climate, we’d say probably not.

But then again, if there’s one thing we gays are good at, it’s shoving ourselves into one-way valves.

A Word About Short Shorts.

There has been much ado made about the New York Times’ devotion to bathing trunks lately, and just how short they can go. We, for one, didn’t really have an opinion for a long time. We wear shorts all the time during the summer, and have never thought twice about it.

But in the past year or so, we’ve come across an interesting phenomenon: gays who don’t wear shorts. Many men, fag or otherwise, don’t wear them as a rule. Even if it’s hot out. Sure, they might throw on a pair of old college lacrosse shorts to go running or play basketball (HA! Imagine gays playing basketball), but board shorts? No way, Jose. Cargo? Nope. Seersucker? Not even in P-town.

And why this fear of short pants? Two words: chicken legs.

Gays, who spend so much time toning their upper bodies, often are frustrated by the difficulty of growing quads, hammies and calves. So they give up. After all, you barely notice them in the bedroom, so why bother? Just keep ‘em under wraps for the rest of your day. As a result, many of us have oddly skinny legs.

But now that bathing suits are getting shorter, what are those gays going to do? This could be a serious problem. What happens if we go all Euro, and box-cut boyshorts become the norm? Will everyone need to add an entire hour to their already crowded gym routine of chest presses and lotion applying? Will beach bunnies begin comparing calf implants?? Will everyone start waxing their LEGS as well as their chests??? WHAT IF OUR LEGS GET SO BIG WE HAVE TO GO BACK TO PLEATED PANTS, PEOPLE?!?!


The New York Times: Causing Gay Panic Since 1851

PS – This is hilarious.

We’ll Go See It For The Dialogue

We have, for a long time, been wondering whether John Cameron Mitchell’s long-hyped sex movie would actually be made. For a while it was entitled “John Cameron Mitchell’s Untitled Sex Project,” but now it has the slightly mysterious title “Short Bus.” In college, we were in a student film with one of the prospective cast members. We asked if he felt uncomfortable having sex on screen. He said it wasn’t about sex; it was about “communication.” We noticed he didn’t make the final cast – perhaps he needed to work on his oral skills?

Then we ran into JMC over the holidays at a formal party at a friend’s townhouse. We were wearing a sweater and jeans, and he was wearing a flannel shirt and corduroys. Everyone else was wearing suits and gowns, so naturally we spent the evening hanging out. He said everything was going well but they hadn’t had much luck finding a distributor. Sounds like things haven’t changed. While JMC seemed like he was made of gold after “Hedwig And the Angry Inch,” we’re not sure this project sounds as well-crafted, or will have as much, um, staying power.

But it does remind us... When we were in middle school our next door neighbor was in a wheelchair, so we would ride the short bus on the way to school. The bus would go from neighborhood to neighborhood, all over our little town, picking up all of the handicapped kids and some of the kids who lived nearby. There was a kid named Cory on the bus, who was severely handicapped in several respects. The un-handicapped high school students quickly discovered that if they all whistled, Cory, who was probably 18 at the time, would think the bus was full of birds. He would begin clapping, which would get the bus driver angry and get Cory in trouble.

We think a movie about THAT kind of short bus would be much more compelling.

We Apologize To The Eight FAGAT Guide Readers Who Do Not Work In Our Office

Our co-worker Patsy informed us that we don’t write about her enough on our blog. So here goes.

A series of haikus, devoted to Patsy:

Thin, smart and pretty
Like a tall drink of water
Except with vodka

Always there to laugh
To cry and to lend support
And sometimes to punch

We like “The Goonies”
“Ducktales” and “Saved By The Bell.”
Not “Say Anything.”

This one time we sang
“Downtown” by Petula Clark.
People were staring.

We learned from Patsy
That revenge is a cold dish
Served best with champagne

A New York legend
And she is just twenty five
We get drunk at work

She likes this fat guy
Who is not nearly worth it
Against our advice

“Hag.” It rhymes with “fag.”
And the word “Booze” sounds like “schmooze”
That is our whole life.

We love you, Pats. Stoli Bolli?

See The Cat? See The Cradle?

So we visited the Scientology Center in New York today and took a tour from one of their reverends. When we walked in, we were immediately struck by the fact that everyone was walking around smiling. Naturally, we felt completely alienated.

We were shown promotional videos (lots of bright colors, soothing music, and ridiculously impossible imagery like minority children running through open fields of grass), and given a lecture. It was really something, certainly too much to describe here.

But we did ask our guide (who is relatively high up in the organization) about the Church’s policy on homosexuality. The marriage, the family, and procreation are very important to the religion. In addition, celebrities like Tom Cruise and John Travolta are often rumored to have joined the religion to curb those impulses, so it seemed like an obvious question. But our guide was stumped. It made us wonder whether the Pope ever says things like "I don't know." He stammered and said that Scientology didn’t really deal with sexuality.

We pressed the issue, and eventually got him to concede that while gays are allowed to join, if they WANT to stop liking men, the Church has WAYS of making that happen. In other words, they have a cure. Since Scientology techniques are all about improving your life, it follows that one such improvement would be ridding yourself of the handicap of loving members of your own sex.

We were, understandably outraged. Who did they think they were, discriminating against us just because of our sexual orientation? Thank goodness we also have Catholicism, Judaism, Islam, and Mormonism to fall back on.

…

In case you were wondering, yes, we are already drinking.

These Posts Make Our Sex Life Seem More Exciting Than It Is

We’ve just discovered a new website.

It’s a blog that reviews underwear and related accessories like jock straps, spandex, and penises. Warning to our older brother, who is the only straight man who reads this sight – you probably don’t want to click on that link. But it is very illuminating, among other things.

We’ve come face to face with a plethora of new kinds of underwear recently, and we’ve decided that you people need some advice. For example:

On a recent date with a handsome young man who is related to a prominent conservative senator, we were surprised to discover that he wore an orange thong. Like, a banana hammock. Grape sack. Kiwi container. Made of some sort of non-flexible lycra. We were aghast.

After the encounter, instead of calling the boy back, we spent time considering his choice in under-apparel. We decided that aggressive underwear is perhaps NOT your best bet for a first hookup. For example, if you’re a gogo boy (you know who you are), maybe save your performance costume for later in the game. It can be alienating, and even alarming. If you’ve waited for three dates to take your pants off, why blow it by wearing underwear that makes you look like a stripper? And plus, thongs are never flattering on any real person. Not even you, Damon. They’re barely flattering on that guy from the “Tarzan” TV show who models on all the Calvin Klein Underwear boxes.

Don’t pretend you don’t know who we’re talking about.

For a first underwear encounter, it seems like one should try and find a middle ground. We’re not saying give up and go with boxers. There’s room for a little creativity. Some square cut briefs, perhaps? Maybe a boxer brief with a little color? Ain’t nothing wrong with plain old tighty whities, either.

But just like using hand lotion as lube, a using a pair of socks to clean up, or using your teeth in any way - the use of a thong is definitely not a crowd-pleaser.

Can you tell we really have nothing to write about today? This is getting pretty grim.

Breaking News: Gays Suckers For A Pretty Face

We feel the need to talk about Dangerous Muse, because lately, we’re the only ones haven’t been.

Dangerous Muse, for those gays outside of the NYC-LA gay orbit, is a technopop "band" of two with an inexplicable level of success after only three "songs."

Now, we recognize that Furey, the band’s lead singer is very good looking and well-liked (even if he lies about his age). We understand that after the wild success of the Scissor Sisters, twentysomething ‘mo culture is yearning for a gay mainstream dancepop follow-up. And we appreciate that Muse makes a pretty story and an even prettier photo montage (we hear their latest shoot lasted 17 hours).

But we just DON’T LIKE THEIR MUSIC. Check them out on iTunes and we guarantee you’ll agree. Sure, they’re widely downloaded on the dance chart. But their sound is probably best described as “mid-nineties computer synthesizer meets enthusiastic tequila karaoke.” Their two songs are poorly produced and have lagging beats. So why are they so popular in our community? Why are all the fagblogs RAVING about them? (And what is that fucking guitar/piano instrument that other dude is always playing? Speaking of Jem and the Holograms…)

The answer is clearly because everyone already knows them. Our people are drawn to celebrity like moths to the flamer. So they want Dangerous Muse to be a success, so they can say incredibly, well, GAY things like: “Oh, have you heard about Dangerous Muse? It’s my friend’s new band and they’re at the top of the iTunes chart.” Or, “You’re just hearing about Dangerous Muse NOW? Furey was sucking my cock when he was thirteen years old.”

There are so many struggling and talented gay artists. It’s such a shame we need to gather around the flashiest, rather than the best. That doesn’t happen in the straight world.

That being said, we’re OBSESSED with Paris Hilton’s single. OMG! LOL! Viva La France!

Try As They Might, British Filmmakers Just Can’t Ruin Literature As Well As Americans.

We were surprised to learn that the BBC has adapted Alan Hollinghurst’s “The Line of Beauty” into a miniseries.

The book centers around a boarder named, aptly, Nick Guest, who stays with the family of a wealthy MP. What’s gotten the Brits all in a tizzy is the fact that Guest, in the midst of a cocaine-fueled bender, dazzles Prime Minister Thatcher by dancing with her at a party. If you know Hollinghurst’s writing (The Swimming Pool Library, The Folding Star) at all you can probably figure that Guest is gay, and the book concentrates on the house of cards he builds around himself to convince him and everyone else that he is loved and accepted. We won’t tell you what happens, but needless to say, there’s a fair amount of heavy breathing.

What surprises us about the fact that they’re making it a series is that NOTHING REALLY HAPPENS in the whole book. What’s great about it is the way that Hollinghurst writes about people and how they interact. It’s like being stoned and watching a polite conversation where you notice the little giveaways in people’s intonation and delivery. The analysis is charming, but hardly translatable to the screen.

That is, we were surprised about the movie until we saw pictures like these:



And we realized – a cloudy drama of manners, full of tousle-haired boys with soft bodies in short trunks, and a cameo by Margaret Thatcher?? In the UK, that’s pornography!

We Won’t Even Get Into Jams and Jelly Slippers (Not That We Had Any)

We are very busy and important today, so let us direct you to a funny Slate column that ruminates on the gay gay gaeity of He-Man. When you think about it, pretty much everything about him is homotastic. Make sure you check out the links – “Brokeback Snake Mountain” is especially priceless.

Upon further consideration, pretty much everything was gay about childhood in the 80s. AC Slater’s wrestling outfits? Brad and Ted’s romance on “Hey Dude”? Neon, well-accessorized Trapper Keepers? Lion-O’s eyeshadow? Shirtless underage slime sessions on “You Can’t Do That On Television”? Everything about Pee Wee Herman??

No wonder we grew up to be so truly, truly outrageous.

Oprah Pretends To Defecate Like The Rest Of Us.

Yesterday Oprah had the cast of “Will & Grace” on her show. The appearance was notable for several reasons. To begin with, whenever we see Eric McCormack, Debra Messing, Megan Mullally and Sean Hayes, we are struck how NOT FUNNY they are in person. Amazing what good writing can do. Also, as the Malcontent points out, Oprah asked Eric about being a straight man playing gay, but notably did not ask Sean Hayes the same question. Hayes has never commented on his sexuality either way, and unsurprisingly Oprah wasn’t going to go near that mess. Hayes made a joke to change the subject, about pooping, and thereby introduced our favorite part of the segment.

“If you’re ever going to meet somebody and you’re intimidated,” Oprah admits, “you think ‘they poop too.’”

This harkens back to our younger days, when we used to date girls. Whenever we brought a new one home, our brother, to torture us, would say at the end of a lovely evening “Hey, just remember, she poops too.” Um... Thanks for making us gay, bro. Now not only do we think girls are gross, but now when we date people, we end up pretty thoroughly checking their plumbing.

The talk show host went on to make a very good point:

“Isn’t a poop so freeing?” she asked, to applause.

You know what else is freeing, Oprah? Coming out of the closet.

Elitism, In Its Many Forms, Makes Us Horny.

“Conservative” Dartmouth elected its first openly gay student body president this semester.

We think this story is funny for a couple of reasons. One, Dartmouth may have vestigial right-wing institutions, but on the whole, the student body there is about as conservative as Tara Reid at an open bar. The student body voted overwhelmingly Democratic in the past few national elections. And two, if this were at Brigham Young, or Liberty, or another university where discrimination was written into the charter, that would be one thing, but somehow the headline “Charming Gay Is Popular At Ivy League University” doesn’t really knock our socks off. After all, this is the school that recently trumpeted the achievements of their gay All-American lacrosse goalie.

We’re not sure how we feel about this new marketing tactic on the school’s part. But then again, we suppose “Dartmouth: We Don’t Have Black People But We Do Have At Least Two Homosexuals” is an improvement on the old slogan, “Dartmouth: You May Not Have Gotten Into Princeton, Harvard Or Yale, But At Least You Don’t Have To Go To Brown.”

David Blaine – Not Magical After All.

We were very excited to watch “Magician” David Blaine drown last night, or at least hold his breath for 9 minutes, and were quite bummed to be treated to neither success. As we sat with our roommate on our couch during the stunt, flipping through New York Magazine’s 100 Influentials list (her boss was on it, ours was not), we wondered what record WE would like to break.

There’s clearly no amount of eating, jumping, fucking, pogo-ing, dancing, sleeping, growing, hemorrhaging or frottaging that we could perform that hasn’t already been done more extensively. So we had to get creative. What about the World Record for Most Intense Hatred Of A Fleetwood Mac Song? Or World Record For Amount Of Cute Shirts That Looked Good Until They Got Washed? How about World Record For Longest Period Of Not Fucking?

Eh. We may be good at things, but we’re willing to accept that we will never be the best in history at any one particular thing. It was only a matter of time and vodka sodas anyway...

On A Related Note, We Have Begun Trying To Find Pictures Of Ourselves Where We Look Straight

The datalounge has a funny forum today about photos of celebrities looking gay. Not gay celebrities, particularly, but any ones who look faggy in a particular image.

Some of the pictures are funny, some are lame, and an inexplicably large number of them are of “CSI: Miami” star David Caruso.

We were trying to think of our favorite recent gay celebrity photos (the Ricky Martin beach photos are the all-time high water mark), and then we realized it was definitely a tie between every single recent photo of Nick Lachey.

So Why Is Everybody Stressing Over This Thing? I Mean, It’s Just Plastic…

Today the Pretty Boy’s Club has hit upon a topic that we have been considering for a long time. That is, the issue of “A Gays.”

An ex of ours recently attended a packed houseparty in Washington, DC, and noticed that the crush of boys was actually putting a physical strain on the floor of the apartment. Apparently DC architecture isn’t designed to withstand hordes of men with cartoonishly overtoned torsos and underdeveloped leg muscles. It was one of those parties where the cream of the city’s crop was in attendance, and he turned to one such handsome friend and said “If this floor collapses, the B-List DC gays are movin' on up to the A-List.”

In DC there is an A-list. In New York, there are “Gays To Know.” The difference probably comes from the size of the population. In DC, the A-list is a group. But in New York, there are too many gays and too many groups for there to be one reigning clique (sorry HBP). It’s like going from a small middle school to a huge, anonymous feeder high school. So out of all of those myriad groups, there emerges a class of GTKs.

Examples of GTKs, who are almost exclusively known by one name, include: Dylan, Drew, GoGo, Richie, Traver, Jasen, Charlie, McCabe, Benjamin, Damon, Sparrow, Prabal, Richard, Furey, Fabian, Warren, Luigi, Horacio, and JonJon. There are some two-namers, too, like: Will M, Andrew F, Martin M, Sam S, and Zach E.

Does anyone outside of our community know the GTK’s? Doubtful. Are you DYING to be one of them, anyway? Probably.

But let us warn you – with fame comes consequences. Like, for example, Matthew H’s penis is bent at a right angle.

Would we know this if he wasn’t a GTK? Doubtful. Is he going to be pissed we’re writing about this on a blog? Probably.

We Would Never Be Able To Do What They Do. We Haven’t Remembered Anything Since 2002.

We would like to take a moment and give a shoutout to all of our gays who are studying for law school finals right now. LL, Charlize, Tom O, Dean C, Nick H, and most importantly, our dear and soon-to-be departed roommate Aishwarya. Good luck you guys, and keep on studying! Go Go Gadget Con Law!

For those of you NOT in law school, I highly recommend you check out our roommate’s blog and the coverage of LibraryIcedCoffeeMeltdown5/3/06. Follow the entries with pics of a spilled coffee cup. It’s a conflict that has captured the hearts and imagination of an entire esteemed law institution.

Read it (especially the enthusiastic comments), weep, laugh, and reminisce about the days when phrases like “book collecting,” “running out of time,” and “public library” made you think of more than just how dreamy Jake Gyllenhaal was in “The Day After Tomorrow.”

Let’s Just Hope More Print Journalists Don’t Follow This Guy’s Example.

When we wrote a couple of recent stories about Clay Aiken-outer John Paulus for work, we befriended Michael Lucas, who invited us to take a tour of his film studio someday (it’s in Times Square – who knew?!). We thought to ourselves “Oh, wouldn’t that be a funny story to tell our friends.” And then we forgot all about it, and never called him to take him up on the offer.

Until we read THIS towleroad post, about Details writer Mark Simpson, who was covering those members of the 82nd Airborne that appeared in gay porn. Here is an eyebrow-raising portion of his coverage, concerning his visit to the set of their porn studio:

“As I sat on the sofa watching Jason and Carl perform while I hid behind my notebook, Dink started suggesting, first in jokey fashion, then more seriously, that I join in. "Just for ten minutes or so. It would be great for your story."
I laughed it off— "Oh, I couldn't, I'm English, after all." But soon the guys too started egging me on.
"C'mon, man," Jason implored, like someone inviting you to arm wrestle or to a drinking competition. "Show us your uncut English cock!"
And almost before you could say "God save the queen!" I was stripping down to my foreskin.
…..
We went through the gay-porn "foreplay" repertoire in almost every Rubik's Cube possibility. But it felt more like horseplay than gay sex.

This made us wonder: if you appear in pornography as part of a journalistic effort to really get to know your subjects, does that make it any less seedy?

We’d have an answer for you, but we keep getting distracted by Michael Lucas’ hold music.

What Good Is Drinking Alone In Your Room? Come Hear The Music Play…

We met Liza Minnelli again last night, at the premiere of “The Drowsy Chaperone.” Now, we’re do not count ourselves among the gays who obsess over Judy, or Bette, or Ethel or any of those musical theater divas. But we have to say, Liza is really a piece of work, every time we see her. Last night she was running around the afterparty at Tavern on the Green, leaning on a young gay like he was a human cane. “She was unbelievable!” she screamed at us, in reference to Sutton Foster’s star turn in the show. “When she was there, she was THERE!”

Of course she was, Liza.

Our favorite part of the night was near the end, when she sat at a table surrounded by young homosexual admirers, loving every minute of it. She was babbling nonsense, of course – we wouldn’t have it any other way. In front of her on the table was a big water glass full to the brim of ice and liquid. At the end of the party, she instructed her main gay to drink all of it before the two of them left – but he forgot. Could it be alcohol? But Liza’s on the wagon! How would we ever know?

Thankfully our friend, who IS one of those gays who obsess over Judy, Bette, and Ethel, grabbed the glass, chugged it and quickly deduced that it was white wine, on ice.

That’s our girl! Class all the way to the liver-failure grave.

Maureen Dowd Was Also At This Party, Being Awesome.

Before the below-mentioned party, we had the pleasure of attending the White House Correspondents Association annual dinner. It was very crowded and exciting (George Clooney was there! And someone named Henry Kissinger!). The president was hilarious, Stephen Colbert bombed, and Mayor Bloomberg told us to stay away from his daughter, Georgina. (Whatever, she’s fierce and we love her).

Later, we attended the Bloomberg afterparty at the Macedonian Embassy. The party is best described as Washington Media Elite meets Failed Alcoholics Anonymous, meets Midnight at the Oasis. Anyway, there were clumps of flirty fags everywhere. At one point we actually said aloud the sentence: “God, look at those gays by the bar, they’re totally cruis – Oops, that’s Bill Hemmer!”

We kept catching RNC chairman Ken Mehlman’s eye, probably because we were continually sending baleful looks in his direction. Eventually left our friends for a moment, and accosted him.

BIGMOUTH: Hi. I wanted to introduce myself. I write for [redacted] and I’ve reported out some crazy stories in my time. But it’s funny, I’ve never been bitched out by a publicist more than when I was bitched out by [White House Deputy Spokesman] Steve Schmidt, when I was reporting a story about whether or not you were gay.

KEN MEHLMAN: I’m not gay.

BM: It just struck me that his anger over the issue was innappropriate, given the subject matter. It shouldn’t have been something to get mad or offended about.

KM: I didn’t tell him to get angry. I wasn’t angry. The reason I didn’t answer the question is because there ARE a lot of people on the committee and in the campaign who are, and they said ‘If YOU answer, we will all have to.’”

BM: I wish your office had returned our calls so we could have had this conversation then.

KM: Well, it did do a number on my dating life for six months.

So there you have it. Angry, tall gay meets duplicitous, short RNC chairman. Did we further any understanding? No. Did we continue to receive lingering glances for the rest of the night? Yes.

Sigh. Small victories.

The More Things Change, The More They Stay The Same

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