I had no idea that 70s hunk and Carol Burnett Show regular Lyle Waggoner was Playgirl’s first centerfold model. But, yeah, apparently:

Weird that with all that paneling and beadboard, I’m still left wondering: WHERE’S THE WOOD?

[via Jacqueline Bouvier Meriwether Longwell III]

One day, this will happen to me. Even though I have nothing scandalous on any work-related computer or jump drive, somehow this will happen to me. And as I leave the room, I will realize that I am completely naked.

A US school has been forced to apologise after its students were accidentally shown pornographic images during a school assembly.

The incident happened at Norwin High School in Pennsylvania during a presentation to 400 students about the importance of donating blood, the Associated Press reports.

According to school officials, “a few pornographic pictures” were shown on a giant TV screen after a Central Blood Bank representative plugged in his personal USB drive and clicked on the wrong file.

[full story at MSN]

I don’t read McSweeney’s every day, but  when I do, I am happy to find pieces like this:

SPOILERS FROM THE ENDINGS OF FUTURE REMAKES OF THE 1970 FILM LOVE STORY.

BY DUSTIN KURTZ

In the seventh remake of Love Story, as in the original, Ali MacGraw dies of cancer.

The next five versions feature a cast made up wholly of dogs of varying breeds, boating and fucking and quipping, but then in the twelfth remake McGraw is back. Until, that is, she dies of cancer.

The next dozen or so iterations featured neither MacGraw or her original costar Ryan O’Neal, but in ten of them it is the male lead who succumbs to leukemia.

The following version is a shot by shot remake of the original, with the exception of a smear of sputum on the lens of the camera shaped like a drowning ape or, in scenes with lower lighting, a Moche amphora.

In the next version Ryan O’Neal is a hallucination, in the next he dies of cancer again.

[continued at McSweeney’s Internet Tendency]

According to some, it was a dark and stormy night.

According to some, she dashed from the house, saying, “Je vais a l’amour”, or, poetically translated, “I am going into the arms of Love”, or, less charitably, “I am going to get freaky in a well-appointed villa by the seashore”.

According to some, she was in a Bugatti with her dashing Italian lover, a mechanic several years her junior.

But in fact, none of that seems accurate, even though it makes for a very good story.

The truth is, Isadora Duncan was heading home after an evening stroll in Nice. She was in a convertible, and the top was down, which probably means it wasn’t raining at all. And except for her chauffeur, Isadora was alone. (Though some reports indicate that her chauffeur was, in fact, the aforementioned lover.) She may have said, “Je vais a l’amour”, or she might have instead said, “Je vais a la gloire”, which would turn out to be grimly ironic, but doesn’t have the same ring.

Oh, and she wasn’t in a Bugatti, but an Amilcar, which also lacks a certain poetry.

However, the most important bit, the story about her cause of death, is indisputable and true: after the car began moving, Isadora’s trademark long, silk scarf became tangled in its rear wheel. By the time the car hit full speed, she was yanked from her seat and hurled to the cobblestones. She was dragged for some distance before the driver fully realized what had happened.

* * * * *

Personally, I don’t care much for Isadora’s dance, her style of improvisation. I’m all for historical recreation, that’s fine, but looking at a few amphorae and mimicking the poses of the dancing girls does not a recreation make. Then again, I’m not an improv fan in any genre, so who am I to judge?

But that image of Duncan flying from her car? The free-spirited artist having become the victim of her own glamour? That’s the sort of tragedy that’s got legs.

I don’t know what it is about us — The Gays — and our tragic ladyfigures, I only know that (a) there’s something to it, and (b) countless queer theorists (remember them?) have tried to figure it out, and no one’s hit it on the head. Edina Monsoon had a nice quote about it in one episode of Ab Fab; speaking to her gay ex-husband who was enthralled by some hot lady mess or other, she said (and I paraphrase), “You’re so predictable. A bitch with a drug habit, and you’re anybody’s, aren’t you?”

I’ll leave the debating to the scholars. All I know is that we love a good heroine. I also know, as Gertrude Stein said about Duncan after her death, “Affectations can be dangerous.”

For anyone who’s interested, here’s the New York Times notice of her death — well, the first bit of it, anyway. If you can find the rest, lemme know:

PARIS, FRANCE — Isadora Duncan, the American dancer, tonight met a tragic death at Nice on the Riviera. According to dispatches from Nice Miss Duncan was hurled in an extraordinary manner from an open automobile in which she was riding and instantly killed by the force of her fall to the stone pavement.

Affecting, as was her habit, an unusual costume, Miss Duncan was wearing an immense iridescent silk scarf wrapped about her neck and streaming in long folds, part of which was swathed about her body with part trailing behind. After an evening walk along the Promenade de Anglais about 10 o’clock, she entered an open rented car, directing the driver to take her to the hotel where she was staying.

As she took her seat in the car neither she nor the driver noticed that one of the loose ends fell outside over the side of the car and was caught in the rear wheel of the machine.

Dragged Bodily From the Car.
The automobile was going at full speed when the scarf of strong silk suddenly began winding around the wheel and with terrific force dragged Miss Duncan, around whom it was securely wrapped, bodily over the side of the car, precipitating her with violence against the cobblestone street. She was dragged for several yards before the chauffeur halted, attracted by her cries in the street.

Medical aid immediately was summoned, but it was stated that she had been strangled and killed instantly.

This end to a life full of many pathetic episodes was received as a great shock in France, where, despite her numerous eccentric traits, Miss Duncan was regarded as a great artist. Her great popularity in France was increased by the entire nation’s sympathy when in 1913 her two young children also perished in an automobile tragedy. The car in which they had been left seated started, driverless, down a hill and plunged over a bridge into the Seine River.

Copyright © New York Times, Sep 15, 1927

[AintNoWayToGo]

I know this is gay sacrilege, but just between us, I’m not a huge fan of Mildred Pierce.

Yes, I’ve watched it from beginning to end. Several times. It just doesn’t do much for me.

I feel the same way about Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte, which one of several of my friends turned into an amazing stage play, but the movie? Well, it does go on.

Anyway, I’d heard there was a remake in the works for Mildred Pierce. What I hadn’t heard was that it’s been directed by genius director (and occasional acquaintance) Todd “Superstar” Haynes. And it features Kate Winslet, whom I’ve liked ever since Heavenly Creatures, with a brief interlude around Titanic, not because she was bad, but because it was a comic book, and I like my comic books animated, thank you.

The trailer also gives me hope:

[via Towleroad]

According to NOAA and our own personal experience, September 10 is the peak of hurricane season:

So hooray, it’s all downhill from here. Let’s just hope the ride down that hill ain’t too bumpy.

This may be the best thing I have seen in the long history of EVER.

[via DangerousMinds]

While traveling in Mexico, two Vatican prelates have criticized Mexico City’s new gay marriage law.

The marriages of gay and lesbian couples are an imitation, the bishops said, Mexico’s El Universal reported.

“A gay relationship is like decaffeinated coffee, you do not wake up,” Father Gonzalo Miranda, a bioethics professor at Regina Apostolorum University, a pontifical university, said.

[OnTop via Towleroad]

Miranda’s statement was made from the balcony of the hotel room he shared with Confirmed Bachelor #2, Monsignor Elio Sgreccia. Both seemed a little groggy.

I should be out on the streets, enjoying Southern Decadence and getting my fill of eye candy. (With all the fur, it’s very fuzzy candy, but lollipops are lollipops*.)

Anyway, I should be doing all that, but I can’t stop watching this. OMG, I can’t stop watching this.

* Speaking of: the word “lollipop” has some very curious origins. FYI and all.

You know, I’ve tried. Crunches, knee-lifts, that stupid bicycle thing my mom always did on the dining room floor. (Maybe she wanted to make it feel used, since we didn’t ever eat in there.) I’ve tried them all. None of them worked.

Push-ups, preacher’s curls, squats? Fine. Love ’em. They offer some results. But sit-ups? Go fuck yourself, sit-ups. You’ve been nothing but a disappointment and a pain in my gut since Mrs. Himmelstein* sang your praises in elementary school. And that goes double for all your ab-defining friends. When things get too bad, I’ll get kiss-assy finding some local Mr. Liposuction in Melbourne. Adieu.

* The Himmelsteins were the only Jewish family in Laurel at the time, and possibly the last Jewish family the town has seen. They lasted about three years. No one burned crosses on their front lawn or anything, but between all the revivals and BBQ, they probably felt a little left out.