While scanning The Times of India yesterday, I stumbled across a couple of curious photographic essays, and I began to wonder if such straightforward, sex-tacular features would fly in the New York Times. What would they look like? Would they involve a bikini-clad William Safire lolling about Bryant Park? Maureen Dowd wrapped provocatively in naught but newsprint in the middle of Times Square? Frank Rich in a loincloth, posed suggestively atop a lion at the public library?
I smell a calendar…
Apparently, all those conflicting reports about the size of Justin Timberlake’s, uh, timber can be put to bed. I can hear his publicist now: “It’s okay, man. Who cares if you cheated on Cameron? She’s second-tier softcore skeeze. What’s important is that the world knows you’re a horny, heterosexual male and you’re hung like Colin Farrell!”
Idiots Ruined My Day
Well, I finally got around to seeing the much-ballyhooed Fahrenheit 9/11. Frankly, I wasn’t too keen on going, but Jonno wanted to see it, and I’d taken the day off (having planned to go on vacation with my family, but backing out at the 11th hour), so we went.
That was a waste of $7.50.
I don’t know why my expectations were so high. (Maybe it had something to do with that Palme d’Or.) I should have known that the film would be painfully, unapologetically biased. I should have known it would be far more suggestive than scathing. I should have known that, like Mr. Moore’s wardrobe, it would be a bit too big and very, very sloppy. But hey, I was craving popcorn–clearly, I wasn’t in my right mind.
Some two hours later, I left the theatre neither enlightened nor enraged. The bit with the mother who lost her son did little for me–I mean, of course she’s going to change her tune after her son dies. Who wouldn’t? Why aren’t parents like her picketing the White House before their children are killed?
The footage of fired-up combat soldiers was nothing shocking, either. I may not have served in the military, but I have worked as an expediter in a French Quarter kitchen on a Saturday night. Trust me, there’s very little difference.
Nor was I shocked and appalled that military recruiters target the young and poor. Obviously, it’s not the Harvard-bound kids that are gonna drop everything and shave their heads for Uncle Sam just so they can spend four years earning about half of what they’ll need to attend a decent university.
Bottom line: with the exception of Moore’s tantalizing but ultimately vague assertions about Bush’s ties to foreign oil and his skillful re-creation of September 11, 2001 (poignantly evoking the sense of horror that most of us have long forgotten), Fahrenheit 9/11 was about as surprising as a Bob Hope/Bing Crosby musical. Set up, set up, punchline. Set up, set up, punch line. Preaching to the choir, indeed.
After I got home, I wondered if I might be getting too old and complacent to get angry about anything, but then Elizabeth sent me a link to this article about homos and fascism, and Sturtle got his groove back.
Mr. Hari claims that there’s a link between fascism and homosexuality. Most of his argument centers around Ernst Rohm, who, as we all know, was a devoted cocksucker and, for a while, Hitler’s #1 ass-kisser. Hari cites a few other examples–one from England, one from Holland, one from France. Then, he wraps up his argument with a startling conclusion: that fascism is bad and ought to be avoided.
There are a few problems here.
1. Hari is laboring under the assumption that gay rights activists should automatically align themselves with civil rights activists, when there is significant disagreement about whether gay rights and civil rights are, in fact, the same thing.
2. Hari completely ignores the fact that all of his examples are European, failing to wonder why fascist movements in other parts of the world haven’t included homos, too.
3. Hari brings up, then swiftly drops the question of lesbians and fascism–much in the same way that religious conservatives assert that AIDS is god’s way of punishing homosexuals while conveniently overlooking the fact that lesbians have one of the lowest infection rates of any definable population.
4. Hari’s favorite cited source is the largely irrelevant Bruce LaBruce–who, along with Greg Araki, is one of the few filmmakers whose work could be considered sloppier than Michael Moore’s.
I’m not saying that gays are immune to fascism. Since the heyday of Al Parker, gay men have been fascinated with the “clone” look. And whether it features twinks or bears or Falcon exclusives, gay porn is all about fascism of the body. And of course white gay men can be racist (I see it all the time). But come on–if you’re going to make an argument that fascism represents a serious threat to the glbt rights movement, you’re going to have to do better than that.
IN THE GREEN ROOM…
BRITNEY SPEARS: (Sauntering up to JENNIFER. Tauntingly) So…what do you think of my new fiancé?
JENNIFER LOPEZ: (Flaunting her wedding ring) I prefer my husband. You know what they say: one in the hand is worth two in the bush.
BS: Oh, I’m sure you can fit a lot more than two in that bush.
JL: I’m sorry, did you say something? I can barely hear you through the Great Wall of silicone embedded in your chest.
BS: Really? Well, why don’t you turn around and let me say it to that Grand Canyon of an ass you’ve got. Maybe you’ll catch one of the echoes.
JL: Oh, Brit-Brit, I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve got to go home and fuck the shit out of my highly successful husband.
BS: Is that supposed to mean something?
JL: Only that I didn’t have to stoop to marrying a freaking backup dancer.
BS: No, you just went for the choreographer.
JL: At least Cris has some rhythym.
BS: At least Kevin and I are in love.
JL: As in love as you were with that fatass in Vegas?
BS: So in love that I’m not even going to make him sign a pre-nup.
JL: Well, that’s good news for your future husband’s divorce lawyer.
BS: Oh, please, bitch. Look, I’m sorry if your crappy upbringing and disastrous marriages have made you bitter, Jennifer–
JL: Mira! How many times have I told you to call me J-Lo? It’s in my fucking contract!
BS: Um, hello? You don’t have a contract with me, freakazoid. In fact, I don’t think you have a contract with anyone right now.
THE GHOST OF MARIAH CAREY: (Entering through wall, above the hors d’oeuvre tray) Beware! Beware!
BS & JL: Who the fuck are you?
TGOMC: I am the ghost of Mariah Carey! I am a cautionary tale to all pop princesses whose heads grow larger than their talents!
JL: Mariah? Bitch, you’re not dead.
TGOMC: Aren’t I, J-Lo? Aren’t I? When did you last see me on the cover of People magazine?
JL: Well, I–
TGOMC: When was the last time they dissed me on “90 Second Pop”?
BS: But that’s not–
TGOMC: WHAT WAS THE NAME OF MY LAST SINGLE?
BS: Hey, c’mon.
JL: Yeah, you’re starting to scare us.
TGOMC: That is my mission, bitches: to freak you out. Now go! Go home and throw yourselves into the arms of your meagerly talented lovers. Go into the recording studio and do not emerge until you are sure you’ve gotten it right. And most of all, avoid all movie offers–all of them!
BS: But–but they’ve asked me to star in Glitter 2!
TGOMC: BE GONE!
(BS and JL run screaming from the room, clutching each other for dear life. TGOMC floats toward the buffet.)
TGOMC: Oooh! Shrimp!
HILLARY DUFF: (Entering) Hey, where’d everybody go?
Note to the man who just disturbed an otherwise delectable Sunday morning merely by driving in front of my house: owning a Corvette with bass speakers the size of newborn elephants will not make your tiny, tiny penis any bigger.
Forget me, darling–go vote for my boyfriend!
Dave Eggers may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but damn, he can find some funny writers.
Personally, though, I think they missed a few one-hit follow-ups–namely:
Speaking of low-rent one-trick-ponies, I ask you all to take a moment of silence and thank your goddess of choice for the prolonged absence of Carrot Top from the airwaves. (What? Hadn’t you noticed?) With any luck he’s in rehab, where he and that Olsen twin will fall in love, move upstate, and have dozens of little craggy-faced, coke-addled babies who’ll shill anything for a buck.
UPDATE: I have been informed that the aforementioned Mr. Carrot Top (aka “Brian”) will likely not be procreating with either of the Olsen twins because he is, in fact, a fudgepacker. To paraphrase my source, who shall remain nameless, just in case he’s way wrong: “Well, dearie, he hasn’t sucked my cock, but…”
It is terrifying, no?
Nevertheless, it’s amusing to wonder if Carrot Top is really a bottom–and, conversely, too, too disturbing to envision him a top.
ANOTHER UPDATE: I’ve received a second email asserting CT’s penchant for cockgobbling. In the words of my source, who alleges that CT likes to party on his knees, “Dial down the center, indeed.”
(No, I don’t know exactly what that means either, but my source is admittedly smarter than I, and it sounds terrifically nasty.)
Is the boss at lunch?
Are the kids at school?
Is your volume on your computer turned way down?
Good. ‘Cause my sister’s new video for her kick-ass single, “If I’m in Luck, I Might Get Picked Up”, is loud and nasty.
So nice to know it runs in the family.
P.S. In case you’re curious, Tiff explains that the song was originally performed by Betty Davis. “Not the actress, Miles Davis’ second wife, who was the baddest funkiest bitch to ever walk the planet! She was soooooooo funky, the Pointer Sisters & Sylvester sang back up for her!”
It’s not surprising that celebs lie about their age. It’s not surprising that Welsh wench-turned-trophy wife Catherine Douglas (formerly Jones, née Zeta) would consider 35 “old.” What’s surprising is that Irene Cara has a publicist. [thanks Marty]
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