Don’t let the release date fool you: it’s far hotter and sexier than you’d expect from something that debuted in 1950. It is not what I’d call safe for work — unless maybe you work for Athletic Model Guild.

http://video.google.com/googleplayer.swf?docid=-2191169673913401693&hl=en&fs=true

Of course, this film and a smattering of Jean Genet’s written work inspired the “Homo” section of Todd Haynes’ also-wonderful Poison. Unfortunately, the only relevant clip I could find on YouTube is this terribly converted monstrosity. Still, it features Scott Renderer having his way with the late, great James Lyons — who went on to edit Velvet Goldmine, Far From Heaven, and of course, The Virgin Suicides — so that oughta count for something.

[via the boyfriend]

I’ve never met Flickr user Brother O’Mara, but he’s easily one of the best photogs in New Orleans (along with a certain boyfriend, of course). I mean, anyone who can make Jackson Square look new and exciting after two centuries of snapshots, postcards, etchings, and watercolors deserves serious credit.

Also: his recent “Owlman” series? Scary-licious.

I am not a ginormous fan of Glee. I mean, it’s cute and funny, but so was Ally McBeal, once upon a time, you know?

That said, Jane Lynch is a crazyawesome lady:

I know this is a couple of days late and several dollars short, but just for the record: I didn’t do my homework on the healthcare bill. I don’t know the ins and outs of the president’s controversial plan, despite the fact that every news agency in the country has picked the bill apart, line by line. I’ve had ample time and opportunity to get informed, but like many of my fellow Americans, I’m lazy that way.

Here’s what I do know, though:

1. Smart people — people I trust, like our president, some of my nonpartisan friends, and even my moderate Republican father — support the bill.

2. Stupid people — people I most definitely do not trust, like, say, David Vitter — are adamantly opposed to it.

3. The one thing that I do know about the bill is this:

The massive healthcare reform bill passed by Congress and headed for President Obama’s signature includes language requiring restaurant chains with 20 or more outlets to provide calorie labeling on menus, menu boards, drive-through displays and vending machines, reports the Center for Science in the Public Interest. [MediaPost]

And I love that. If you’ve been to New York in the past year or two, you know what a difference seeing nutritional values right on the menu can make in your eating choices.

Add all that up, and I’m inclined to support the healthcare bill. Not like my opinion matters, not like I get a vote, but whatever. I’m just thinking out loud.

Everybody admits that the current system isn’t working, and conservatives — by definition, those who wish to uphold tradition and avoid radical change — are never going to address it. As a progressive, I think someone has to make the first step, and as a liberal, I think it ought to be the government. It may not be perfect, but I’m not a perfectionist. That’s what amendments are for.

As for the wingnuts and their various lawsuits over the legislation…well, despite the protestations of Ken Cuccinelli and his sour-grapes buddies, I think there’s precedent for federal law trumping state law. In fact, I believe there’s a clause in the constitution that insists upon it. Then again, the Supremes are weighted slightly to the right, so who can say? Except the Supremes, I mean.

The only downside, as far as I can see, is Obama’s signature on the bill. Is that the way he signs everything? Looks like someone’s been practicing that one since second grade.

Last week, a commenter by the name of Will mentioned the Upstairs Lounge. For those who don’t know, the Upstairs Lounge was a gay bar in French Quarter, and on June 24, 1973, it became the site of one of the deadliest fires in New Orleans’ history. In all, 32 people died — most in the blaze itself, a few others from injuries sustained while trying to escape. Among that number were many members of the city’s MCC congregation.

There’s been a good bit written about the Upstairs Lounge (though it doesn’t have a Wikipedia page of its own yet). There’s been a lot of debate about the cause of the blaze that engulfed the second-story bar. (It’s generally believed to have been set by an angry hustler who was thrown out of the place earlier that night.) And there’s been much discussion about media coverage of the event, which was pretty minimal. (I’d like to think that was an act of compassion, sparing grief-stricken family and friends the additional trauma of having their loved ones’ names and faces dragged through the news at a time when it was not terribly cool to be gay in most of America.)

There’s also been a good bit written about the what-ifs of the Upstairs Lounge: what if there hadn’t been bars on the windows, what if people had known about the emergency exit, and so on. That’s the morbid stuff I tend to dwell on. As a child, I was always replaying tragic news stories in my head, working out ways for victims to go back in time and come out alive. At one point, I think I’d even sketched out a map of tunnels that the kids of Jonestown could’ve used to escape into the jungle.

But despite all that discussion and coverage and debate, it took artist Skylar Fein’s installation at the Prospect.1 biennial to put the Upstairs Lounge in context for me. Yes, he made use of camp elements, bits of art and inference: his work was not direct, it was not a documentary. And yet somehow, Skylar — who wasn’t there, who was barely alive at the time of the fire, if he was alive at all — managed to evoke the bar and the tragedy in a way that straight (and straightforward) news stories never could.

For those who missed it, here’s a clip of the installation, followed by archival footage of what may have been the only national news coverage of the fire. There are also stills of the installation at Jonathan Ferrara Gallery, which represents Skylar.

I’d heard rumors about a new fragrance called “Vulva”, but I hadn’t given it much thought (for obvious reasons). But now there’s a video for it, which raises a couple of questions:

• Are people supposed to wear this junk or just huff it?

• If it’s wearable, who’s doing the wearing?

• Women? Why would they shell out for such a thing? As the ad clearly demonstrates, ladies who want to smell of eau de nether region can just hit the stationary bike for ten minutes and dab the seat behind their ears.

• Men? Maybe, but do guys really want to reek of reverse-gangbang when they sit down with Bob from Human Resources to hear about changes to the company’s 401(k) plan?

Then again, if SJP can launch a fragrance modeled after body odor, I suppose anything goes. This is just one more skid down the slippery slope that ultimately ends with all of humanity cannonballing into a sweaty puddle of non-bathing.

[via Copyranter]

I’ve often said that I have one superpower, but in fact, I have two.

The first I’ve already mentioned: my uncanny ability to identify, with a fair degree of accuracy, voiceover actors in commercials and documentaries. It is perhaps not the most awesome of superpowers, but it’s mine, and I own it.

My other superpower is far more important, but I only recently began to recognize it. My second superpower is this: I can listen to the elderly talk. In fact, I love it. Hanging out with people a couple of generations older than me, hearing their stories, the details of their long lives, letting them vent: I can’t get enough of it. I can’t explain it, either, but there you are.

Case in point: my former landlord, who used to drop by unannounced, or who’d call me over to his house on some pretense, like helping him change a lightbulb, or getting my opinion about a piece of furniture he wanted to sell. Either way, we’d end up chatting for hours — or rather, he’d end up chatting, while I tossed out the occasional open-ended question. I think he drove Jonno crazy, but all his stories about World War II or traveling in the Holy Land or French Quarter gay bars in the 1960s made me giddy, even the ones he repeated every time we got together. I don’t want to sound twee or [more] affected or whatever, but, really, everyone’s life is pretty interesting, isn’t it? Everyone has some intriguing details to share, I think.

Anyway, as I said, I didn’t really understand that this was a superpower until earlier this week, when I went to help my friend, George, pick out some photos to be shown during a memorial service for his partner, Mickey, being held this weekend. And what was supposed to be a 20-minute project turned into three hours of reminiscing.

I would’ve enjoyed that anyway, but it was especially interesting to hear about Mickey. I don’t feel right, talking too much about him here — it feels a bit weird and soon, like I’d be talking about Mickey behind his (or George’s) back — but here are a few tidbits:

• Mickey’s father was an authority on holistic medicine. Baron Edmond James de Rothschild helped him relocate from Russia to a village in what was then Palestine called Menahemia, probably during the Third or Fourth Aliyah.

• Mickey was a young boy when Israel achieved statehood, and in his teens and early 20s, he served in the Israeli Air Force.

• Eventually, someone — possibly one of Mickey’s less-pleasant family members — tipped off Air Force commanders that Mickey was gay. He was discharged from the service and expelled from the country.

• Mickey moved to Vienna and re-started his life. Before long, he won a trip to America in a contest, landed in New York, and met the man who would remain by his side for the rest of his life. Together, they opened a cabaret in New York that helped launch the career of Karen Akers, Joy Behar, and others.

• After they grew tired of New York, Mickey and George came to New Orleans, where Mickey became a major player in gay Carnival krewes and a centerpiece of the gay balls. The traditions were foreign to him, but as someone who’d lived through a range of identities — Palestinian, Israeli, Jewish, military, civilian, Austrian, American — he took to it like a gay duck to water. (NB: this is a recurring theme of Jewish identity.)

I heard many, many other stories during the evening I spent with George, but this is my favorite remembrance: Mickey in his coronation costume, when he was named Queen of the Krewe of Petronius. There were live fireworks behind the skirt, which shot off as he made his entrance:

Beautiful, no?

Related note: my friend Glenn pointed me to this article at Joe.My.God about the difficulties facing elderly LGBT folks. Give it a read, then find and practice your own superpowers.

When asked how [closing her Twitter account] has affected her life, [Miley Cyrus] thinks about how it has changed some of her privacy issues. “So I was that person who was like, ‘I’m so sad. I have no real, normal life, everyone knows what I’m doing.’ And I’m like, well that’s my own fault because I’m telling everyone,” she said. “And then I’d tweet, ‘I’m here,’ and I’d wonder why a thousand fans are outside the restaurant. Well, hello, I just told them.”

[SocialiteLife]

Genius.

While we’re on the subject of Southerners (like me) and IQ, here’s Miley discussing boyfriend Liam Hemsworth:

She stated, “I don’t know who had a bigger crush on him at the beginning, my mom or me. I was like, ‘No, maybe he’s just too pretty. I don’t want to be with someone who’s better looking than me. That’s like awkward.'”

[OnTheFlix]

Hmm.

In related news, why is it that the image of Miley and mom in bed together gives me hives, but I’m not quite so weirded at the thought of Liam cuddling with his brother, Chris?