Ladies and Gentlemen.....Cher!

I'm writing this blog today on three hours sleep, so if I lose my train of thought, start rambling incoherently or nod off in the middle of it just bear with me.

Last night was a reminder that I'm not so young anymore.  Not too long ago, I was able to go out after work, have a few drinks, dance a couple hours, sleep a couple hours, get up, rinse and repeat.  Weekends were a marathon of drinking, dancing, and partying until the sun came up, usually followed by an afterparty at somebody's house until Sunday afternoon when thoughts of the dreaded work week started creeping in.  Last night, my forty-two year old self tried valiantly to resurrect that spirit with mixed results when my boyfriend and I decided to go to Suzanne Bartsch's party at Marquee.  Billed as the grand opening and timed to coincide with gay pride weekend, the big draw, and what got me off the couch and onto the dancefloor when I should have been home sleeping was a 'SPECIAL LIVE APPEARANCE BY CHER!'  In town to promote her new single Woman's World, she's performing at the Pier Dance on Sunday, but the last couple times I've gone have been horrible with sweaty, cracked out queens with body odor dancing on top of each other or spilling drinks everywhere when they're not flailing their arms wildly in every direction or going into a K-hole in the middle of the dancefloor, so I'm not going.  Plus it's supposed to rain. 

When we got to Marquee around midnight, the line wrapped around the corner and down the block.  Good thing I bought tickets ahead of time, and we breezed right in like VIP bitches.  'Miss Thing, there IS no guest list tonight' my ass!  The club was packed, and there was no way half the people in line were going to get inside.  Surveying the club, we navigated our way through the crowd to a spot toward the end of the catwalk and waited.  And waited.  And waited.  And waited.  Uninspiring drag queens, worn out club kids and tired go-go boys dancing to shitty music entertained the crowd, most of whom were there to see Cher since there was absolutely no room to dance.  And we waited.  And waited.  And waited some more.  When I called ahead to check the camera policy, I was told that Cher was going on 'around 1:00', which slowly turned to 1:15, then 1:30, then 1:45. 

Finally, around 2AM a gasp from the crowd, as up the stairs behind us to a roped off private booth stepped the dark lady herself, CHER!  OMG!  Escorted by Andy Cohen, who is basically me with wonky eyes, a cooler job and a better rolodex, she stood at the railing like Evita as the drag queens lipsynched to her greatest hits in a montage of her greatest fashions.  At least that's what I THINK was happening behind me, because I couldn't take my eyes off Cher.  The guy standing next to me kept telling me it wasn't her, but I know Cher when I see her and that was Cher!  'She does that all the time with an impersonator, but she'll pop up on that stage.  I know her tricks.' he kept saying, as I snapped away.  Bitch please!  And then divine intervention stepped in, as someone with the microphone invited Cher down to the stage to introduce her new single.  I GAGGED!  Making her way down the stairs and through the crowd, which probably parted like the red sea although it was so crowded I couldn't tell, she stepped up to the stage, gave a heartwarming speech about how the gay community has stood by her through thick and thin, and played Woman's World as the crowd went wild and the fucking dancers kept getting in the way of any good photos I might have gotten.

And then, without singing a single note, in a whirl of sequins, fishnet and leather, she was gone, escorted off the stage and out to her SUV in the blink of an eye.  And all I got was this fabulous photo.

Big Girl (You Are Beautiful)

When writing about Melissa McCarthy, the obvious thing to be snarky about is her weight.  If you've been reading my blog and appreciating my less than gentle tone, you'd expect me to make fat jokes at her expense, compare her to something big like a house or a blimp or a planet or something like that.  But Rex Reed has already called her 'tractor sized' and 'a female hippo', so that would be reductive (look it up).  Besides, on a day where the Supreme Court declared a 1996 law denying federal benefits to legally married same-sex couples unconstitutional, I'm not feeling so cunty.  Come back tomorrow, because I'm sure it's only temporary.

Anyway....Melissa McCarthy was at Good Morning America on Monday to promote The Heat, her new film with Sandra Bullock that I will probably watch on demand because I can't stand Sandra Bullock and don't feel like wasting $15 on a ticket when I can watch it in the comfort of my own home a few months from now for $4.99.  Just as you'd expect if you fell in love with her in Bridesmaids, Melissa is FABULOUS!  Smiling and waving to the crowd as she was escorted into Times Square, she looked genuinely happy to be there.  And the crowd smiled and waved back, as if they were all old friends of hers, thrilled to catch up after so much time, like some kind of hillbilly Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion set in the middle of Manhattan at 8:00 AM on live television.  From my vantage point, I had to reach waaay above a lady with the tallest hair I've ever seen, all teased out like Liz Taylor back in her eighties White Diamonds days and her husband with the obligatory baseball cap and fanny pack that's all the rage in the flyover states in order to get a shot of Melissa, which normally isn't a big deal except that I just came from the gym and my arms were still shaking from my workout like Michael J. Fox on a particularly bad day and I had a hard time holding the camera steady.

Melissa posed for a few photos with fans after the interview, and is actually much prettier in person than this picture would have you believe.  And before you get on my ass about the title of this post, it's the title of a Mika song, a disco-filed exhaltation to the delights of the larger ladies.

Warn the male masseurs, John Travolta's in town!

John Travolta made the rounds last week, promoting Killing Season, his new movie with Robert DeNiro.  It looks like shit, and so did John Thursday at Good Morning America.  I'm not sure if it's the hair plug/spray on hair mix on his head, the funeral home palor, or the singular patch of black spike on his chin, but it was a little unnerving seeing him up close.  The autographers were lined up at the barricades like a wall, edging out two female tourists trying to take a picture with him.  John signed, he posed, he worked the crowd like a showgirl on opening night, never once giving off a particularly masculine vibe.  It was more like a middle aged Danny Zuko after getting dumped by Kenickie.  Oddly fascinating and equally disturbing.

People's Sexiest Man Alive (?) and one of my musical idols

I don't understand the appeal of Brad Pitt, but man can his milkshake bring all the girls to the yard.  Or in this case, every middle aged, hair teased in a thousand different directions but the right one, comfortable shoe wearing, large purse or fanny pack carrying yenta in the tri-state area who could waddle her fat ass to Times Square Monday morning for his heavily-hyped-to-ensure-that-the-Today-Show-remains-number-two-in-the-ratings Good Morning America appearance.  Except for the Ocean's Eleven franchise (which is an ensemble and shouldn't really count), his films are insufferable, and he only got interesting when he started fucking Angelina Jolie, but you would think he was the second coming of Christ the way these women packed in like a Chinese subway to catch a glimpse.  Looking like a haggard puddle of grease and dirty bong water that just rolled out of bed, got the child army off to school, and toked a blunt on the way to the interview, GMA dragged him outside in a massive security effort, sat him right down in the middle of Times Square, and forced the normally hard news reporting George Stephanopoulos to blow smoke up his ass about his new movie World War Z, which he and Angelina have been promoting all over the globe while holding auditions for their next child.  I guess she was too good to get up early and drag herself to GMA, or maybe security just told her 'bitch stay home, we can't handle that.'

I positioned myself right at the edge of the crowd, next to the rope and right against the makeshift walkway, the perfect spot to get a clear shot of Brad leaving the interview.  If he didn't stop to sign autographs, I'd have to snap quickly, but it was possible.  Thankfully it didn't matter.  Ever the professional, Brad stopped, signed autographs, and took pictures all the way down the line to the waiting SUV.  The crowd went WILD.  Lady shrieks in every shape, size and accent filled the air, people pushing and shoving to get a better glimpse.  It was total madness!  A lady next to me kept pushing me.  In my million years of clubbing and paparazzi-ing (I made that last word up) I've learned how to stand firm like a statue, but this bitch wouldn't let up and I had to lean hard toward her and knock her off me and off balance.  Whoops!  Bitch started getting mouthy, complaining that I pushed her, and I had to point out that lady it's crowded and everyone's pushing but she didn't like that so much and started crying out 'assault, I need an officer.'  As if!  I walked away laughing at what a cosmic, overreacting cunt she was, and silently pleased that she didn't get her picture.  Kevin, like karma, is a bitch.

A determined bitch.  At 1PM I headed over to Saks Fifth Avenue to pick up Kylie Fashion, a coffee table book recounting Kylie Minogue's history with the world's top designers.  Express elevator up to the eighth floor designer shoe department where the event was being held, and there were the books in glass cases like artifacts at the Smithsonian or the crown jewels of some long-forgotten royalty.  Yeah, um...they're books.  Speaking with the manager, Lisa, I was informed that Rizzoli's was putting the books on sale at 2PM, instead of 1PM as I was told, and that Saks had nothing to do with the event except for providing the space.  FUCK!  I had three hours of unnecessary computer training at 2PM, so there was no way I could wait around.  Lisa told one of the associates to put a book aside for me when they went on sale and leave it in her office, then told me get back to the store around 4 because it would be crowded.  I thanked them profusely, rushed back to work and rescheduled my computer training.  Anyone who knows me knows I LOVE KYLIE MINOGUE and there was no way in hell I was going to miss the chance to meet her!  Windows 7.  Who doesn't know how to use that?  I mean really! 

Finishing my lunch, I started questioning the wisdom of relying on someone else, and decided to march back over to Saks at 2PM and get the book myself.  A line had formed by the time I got there, so I waited.  And waited.  And waited.  Finally someone from Rizzoli's showed up, took their damn time getting everything set up, and eventually started selling books.  When I finally got to the salesperson, I was given a ticket along with my book and informed I was 24th in line, and that the lineup would begin at 4:45.  Sweet Jesus!  Number 24 in line, and they were going to honor the numbers!  Thank you!  Thank you!  Thank you!  It's a good thing I went back to buy my own book or I would have been FUCKED!  I floated back to the office on cloud nine and couldn't tell you one thing I did at work the rest of the day.

At 4:30 I made my way back to Saks for the third time in as many hours.  The step and repeat was set up off the fifty first street entrance, just before the elevators, and I was tempted to wait there and snap some shots on the red carpet, but something told me get upstairs.  Nothing is guaranteed until you're in that line, so don't fuck it up now.  As the elevator door opened, I'm glad I did.  The line of queens wrapped all the way around the floor and back again!  It was gay, gay, gay in shoe land!  Someone showed me my place in line (yeah!) and we waited.  And waited.  And waited.  4:45.  5:00.  5:15.  As it got closer to the 5:30 scheduled start, the anticipation grew.  The girl behind me kept gasping everytime the elevator door opened, both of us peering down the line to see if it was Kylie. 

And then, like a vision of champagne bubbles and pixie dust, there she was!  And boy was she TINY!  I mean, I knew she was petite, but she always looked taller on stage!  The crowd went wild, flashbulbs going off in all directions, queens trying to navigate the columns and shoe displays and store decor for a glimpse of the goddess!  Kylie took time to chat with each person as she signed their book, and the line steadily moved along like a well-oiled machine.  I happily snapped away as the queen in front of me was all chatty cathy with Kylie about something or other, keeping her looking up the whole time.  Thanks girl!  And then it was my turn!  Kylie took my hand (yes, I touched Kylie Minogue!  I am SO gay for being excited about that, but I am and I don't care what you think!) and thanked me for coming, as if there was any other option.  I thanked her for putting the book out and for her music, which I discovered when I was laid up in a Spanish hospital after an unfortunate incident with a bull, a story I've told a few celebrities over the years because it makes good conversation but is a little white lie because the only music I remember from those lonely nights in the hospital is 'Angels' from Robbie Williams and Sonny and Cher's 'I Got You Babe.'  And just like that, my moment with Kylie was over.  The hours of preparation and anticipation, the build up, the running around and rescheduling and stressing out and waiting, waiting, waiting.  And it was ALL WORTH IT!

Today's secret word is DOUCHE

You all remember what to do whenever anyone says the secret word, right?  For the rest of the day, whenever anyone says the secret word, SCREAM REAL LOUD! 

If the same is true when someone's acting like a douche, Laurence Fishburne's ears should still be ringing.  He must have been channeling Ike Turner this morning at Good Morning America, looking down at the ground as they trotted him into Times Square for his segment, scowling while waiting for it to start, and barely acknowledging the audience.  He was always so happy as Cowboy Curtis on Pee-Wee's Playhouse, taking Pee-Wee camping, teaching him how to square dance and make slow-cooked steak, and getting shy as a prarie critter when Miss Yvonne asked him on a date, so this was an unpleasant surprise.  Dressed in his finest burgundy suit, he was giving overweight J.J. Evans pimp realness while promoting Man of Steel.  Refusing to sign autographs after the segment, he walked right back to the waiting SUV, completely blowing off Marie walking beside him telling him what a huge fan she was ever since his days on One Life to Live.  Laurence Fishburne, you are not the One.

A manwhore, a real whore and a gold digger were walking down the street...

There are certain things in life that just can't be explained.  What happens to one sock every time I do the laundry?  How did anyone ever take Sarah Palin seriously?  Why do I find Russell Brand sexy?  There, I said it.  My name is Kevin, and I find Russell Brand sexy.  I don't know if it's the hobo Jesus hair or the quick rapscallion wit or unapologetic manwhore personality, but I am oddly drawn to this freak in the same way that I used to think Dave Navarro was the sexiest man on earth way back in his Red Hot Chili Peppers days, before he married Carmen Electra and started suspending himself in the Chelsea Hotel by his piercings (I'm not kidding....google it).  I used to think Russell Brand was an annoying asshole, but one day I was stuck in LA traffic driving home from work listening to him tell Howard Stern about conquering alcoholism, heroin and sex addiction with brutal honesty and humor, and I got sucked into the S&M Willie Wonka cult of Brand.

Anyway, Russell Brand was at the Today Show this morning, and I was determined to get a photo.  Thanks to a second cup of coffee, I arrived at Rockefeller Center after he'd gone inside.  Rick was there and gave me the heads up...he was real cool going in, signed autographs, posed for pictures, yada yada yada....basically it was worth waiting around for him.  All the paparazzi disappeared after he arrived, so it was the two of us and this girl who had her book signed but wanted a picture with him.  Rick and I shared info about upcoming celebrity appearances, and he mentioned seeing another guest with some bad plastic surgery arrive with someone in a Bunny Ranch cap and a skanky looking girl, but wasn't sure who it was.  It didn't seem like very long, maybe 20 minutes or so, before the lanky, sexy Brit rounded the corner and slinked down the corridor toward us.  Very chipper, he posed for the girl, and I snapped away trying to get her out of my photo while he looked every direction except toward the camera.  I finally got him looking over his shoulder all Christie Brinkley Prell shampoo commercial circa 1986.

A few minutes later, a trashy looking bleached blonde in a tight mini dress and stripper heels came around the corner with the man in the Bunny Ranch cap and the guy with the surgery.  And just as I suspected, it was Scott Thorson, Liberace's ex lover and the subject of the fascinating recent HBO flick "Behind the Candelabra" fresh from jail after being bailed out by Dennis Hof, owner of the Bunny Ranch brothel in Nevada and one of his whores.  RJ arrived just in time, and Scott and Dennis were thrilled to praise the film, invite us to the Bunny Ranch and introduce us to the hooker, whose name I can't recall and whose photo I should have taken, because all I kept wondering was if she was one of the girls Eric the Midget fucked, and if you don't know who Eric is then you're missing multiple layers of absurdity in this story.  So yeah, it's Monday and I met a legit whore on my way to work this morning.  How was your day?

It's all about the Money, Money, Money

The folks at Fox and Friends are hardcore.  While the pussies at the Today Show and Good Morning America yanked Lionel Richie and Emblem 3 (who?) inside for their summer concert series because of the weather, the right wingers on Fox were all 'ain't nobody got time for that' and threw Eddie Money to the elements, forcing him to sing for his Crispy Cremes like some county fair version of Gene Kelly in Singin' in the Rain.  You remember Eddie Money, right?  Yeah, me neither, but we all know his songs...."Baby Hold On", "Two Tickets to Paradise", "I Wanna Go Back" and "Take Me Home Tonight" which he sang with his daughter, and let me just say right now that NOTHING is creeper than hearing a guy sing a duet WITH HIS DAUGHTER about a one night stand at 8:45 AM on live television.  How's that for family values Fox?  Plus he's looking a little haggard these days, like a cross between John Goodman and Meatloaf with a little electroshock therapy thrown in for good measure.  He sounded good though, and got the umbrella wielding blue hairs to their feet once the Crispy Creme sugar rush kicked in.  Did I mention Crispy Creme was a sponsor of the morning's festivities?  Well someone should have mentioned that to Eddie, who, from the stage, told the crowd that Dunkin' Donuts was his favorite.  Way to go douchebag!  That's why you're singing in the rain.

PS - I skipped the donuts.

Stand by Me Mystique

I don’t know what’s worse, knowing that John Stamos used to fuck your chick or waking up and realizing that you are Jerry O’Connell, who despite landing a hot piece past her prime and having all kinds of Stand by Me royalties, still can't keep a job.  Jerry is a huge Howard Stern fan, and used to be schoolmates with Beetlejuice, so I can't give him too much grief for being the Generation-X Ted McGinley TV show killer, but I will say that he was pretty cool to me today outside Sirius studios, shaking hands and chatting about the Stern show with me while wife Rebecca Romijn signed autographs in spite of the cunty publicist trying to rush her into the SUV.

Speaking of Rebecca, she's holding up well after popping out two kids, bouncing back to a 40 year old version of the hot model she was for about a day before becoming an 'actress' as Mystique in the X-Men franchise, which thankfully didn't require much more than getting naked, covered in blue paint and spitting out a few lines.  She used to be a lot more fun when she was married to Stamos, running around naked and letting Howard Stern photograph her and name his dog after her. 

If you've got cataracts and squint real hard, they're the C-list Brangelina.  I don't know what they were promoting, but it probably won't last and you'll be seeing one of them (Jerry) on Dancing with the Stars real soon. 

Miranda Kerr is all over NYC

Miranda Kerr, whom we have all grown to love as the seeming star of the Victoria's Secret catalog before Candice Swanepoel swept in and stole her billion dollar bra wearing glory, was on Fox & Friends this morning to peddle some shit that she probably gets a percentage of sales on because why not use your celebrity like you're a Kardashian and branch out into everything to push the 100,000,000 dollar mark because that $10 million a year contract just to pose in your panties was yanked out from under you and when you’re a model the window is only so big that you gotta plan for a retirement.  Stepping out of the car, she was surrounded by a throng of horny paparazzi, all pushing their cameras and flashbulbs and boners in her direction, hoping she'd blow them a kiss or whip out a tit or leave her husband for them or even just look their way.  And she did.  Look their way that is.  Stunning in a pale pink Herve Leger and Lanvin shoes (I know!), you'd have thought it was the Jesus Christ back from the dead the way the photographers and autographers went wild for her, and she made good on her promise, posing and signing autographs when the segment was finished. 

Later in the day, Miranda was in Times Square promoting Gillette something something something yawn who cares, and like a true supermodel she changed into a stunning canary yellow Reem Acra lace dress (I KNOW!) and looked incredible in the heat!  Stuck behind the press bleachers, I couldn't get a shot of the whole look, and it was much brighter than the last time I saw her at GMA in February, when it was pouring down rain and the girl standing next to Marie would have poked Miranda's eye out with the umbrella if she wasn't wearing sunglasses (Who wears sunglasses in the rain anyway?  Miranda Kerr does!) She seems like a lovely person and not the least bit hungover from the CFDA awards last night.