Hello Angel!

As a gay boy growing up in the 70's, nothing was more glamorous than being a detective at the Charles Townsend Agency.  You got to have great hair, wear sexy clothes (unless you were the 'smart' one and got stuck in the turtleneck), drive a cool car and go on new adventures every week with your two best friends and the old guy who paid for everything.  Charlie's Angels taught me SO many useful life lessons: I learned that problems could always be solved in an hour, a swift karate chop to a bad guy works every time, and it's important to always stay glossed and perfectly feathered in case an evil hypnotist sends you wandering the streets at 4 AM.  Thank you Sabrina, Jill, Kelly and Kris for teaching me that the right outfit can distract a man and get you what you want, and that your girlfriends will always come to the rescue, even if you have to halfway collapse in a seductive, helpless posture until they do.  And thank you Jaclyn Smith for being as sweet in person as I imagined you'd be all those years ago.

Who Shot John Ross? Thank You!

I wanted to post this entry earlier, but I'm still recovering from the first five minutes of last night's Dallas season three premiere.  Shit was on fire right out of the gate, with the camera lingering over the luscious physique of a sleeping John Ross Ewing like a lover savoring every moment of the afterglow after the most passionate night of their life!  That chiseled chest!  Those washboard abs!  That morning wood!  Wait, WHAT?  Yes kids, John Ross had a bulge in his briefs that would make his daddy, Calvin Klein and the state of Texas proud and had me reaching for the remote and a glass of water to cool myself down!  That bulge was so beautiful it should have been in the opening credits!  Hell, it should get it's own spinoff: Phallus!  I'd like to thank Josh Henderson for being a method actor during that scene and for being a cool dude in general, and I'd like to thank the network for airing that episode after I met him, because I don't think I'd be as calm in the picture if I'd seen that scene first!

Live From New York....It's Saturday Night!

Because really, what else can you say about Kevin Nealon? 

Putting The Err? In Glamour

I never thought I'd say this, but thank God New York Fashion Week is over!  The malnourished models are off to Milan, the Bangladeshi garment factory workers are cranking out the Canal street knockoffs, and the true beauties of New York are stepping out again to promote things that really matter, like the Mob Wives: New Blood season finale.  Straight from Donatella Versace's back alley plastic surgeon, the Staten Island glamazons tucked it, sucked it and puckered it Wednesday morning on the Today Show.  Drita D'Avanzo and Alicia DiMichele were giving fergalicious realness, sneaking out the side door for a quick cigarette and reminiscing on days when they had a mustang like a couple 42nd street hookers in the pre-Giuliani years

 while Renee Graziano, who scares the shit outta me with her hair trigger temper and violent outbursts, couldn't have been nicer, posing for photos and chatting up a truck driver who happened to be passing by.  Go ahead....clean up the fragments of your blown mind.  I'll wait.

Guitar Hero!

Does anyone else have a freaky crush on Dave Navarro, or is it just me?  Sure he's a former heroin addict with a fetish for suspension bondage (you've got to Google it because I can't even try to describe it!) and a body resembling an x-rated coloring book, but that otherwordly beauty and his penchant for dark eye makeup get my boy parts quivering every time!  Here's Dave and me at Sirius yesterday, just before I rushed to work, covered myself in antibacterial soap and called my doctor to make sure my immunizations were up to date, because you know there's a good possibility some funky shit is crawling around on him.  He's like a shame fuck - so dirty and filthy but I still love him!

The Real Housewives of Everywhere But New York

It's New York fashion week, that magical twice-yearly time when malnourished girls imported from the unpronounceable, phlegm sounding Eastern European countries parade around in impossibly high heels and ridiculously overpriced, mostly unwearable clothing for the amusement of opinionated fashionistas, bitter queens and anyone who's ever ordered an Orange Julius from the food court at the mall and thinks that makes them a fashion student.  The front rows were filled with Real Housewives, Disney singers and stars of WB shows you might recognize when you're fast forwarding through the commercials.  It's like Christmas all over again!

First up is Yolanda Foster, the former model and fourth wife of shitty music producer and extraordinary douche David Foster, whose sole responsibilities are planning the seating arrangements for dinner parties featuring The Canadian Tenors (who?), keeping the world's most immaculate refrigerator filled with lemons handpicked from her personal lemon grove, and lounging by her infinity pool sipping master cleanse, which is this thing when girls with eating disorders look like they're carrying their piss around in a Poland Spring bottle for a week.  I LOVE HER, especially now that she cut the fried looking messy platinum randomness she called hair.

Speaking of messy platinum randomness, rich bitch NeNe Leakes is still sporting hers, along with that dreadful She by Sheree muppet vest thing from a couple weeks ago.  She was nice enough to pose for fan photos after walking in the Heart Truth Red Dress Collection fashion show, and her new nose makes her look a lot less like Jamie Foxx as Wanda in person.

No stranger to the runway herself (a dozen plus years of Ebony Fashion Fair shows and Essence covers counts for something), Cynthia Bailey showed up to support her Real Housewives of Atlanta castmate, although nobody asked her to walk in the show (or pose for photos afterward) because she is as boring in real life as she is on television.

Far from boring, self proclaimed 'gone with the wind fabulous' shit stirrer Kenya Moore was also in town looking for a sugar daddy and couldn't pass up the opportunity to smile and pose for the camera no matter how late she was running, because low-rent hookers like her crave attention.  Someone should tell her that getting drunk and spreading your legs don't count as life accomplishments, so aside from a 20 year old Miss USA title and a few men's magazine covers, it looks like she has none.  Nice smile though.

Colin Farrell: Still Fuckable

It's always nice to see a familiar face again, especially if it's been awhile.  I first met Colin Farrell in an elevator in downtown Miami, back when he was a busted mess party boy enjoying fame and strange pussy.  We shot Miami Vice together (him more than me, although I did get two days off work for a great boat chase scene that ended up on the cutting room floor) and he went on to become a boozy womanizer with a string of shitty movies that tested your patience more than his acting skills and not nearly enough nudity.  Fast forward to 2014 and the rehabbed father of two is back with a new film, which he promoted yesterday at Good Morning America.  He's still hot in a dirty way, and I bet that stubble smells like lady parts, but my advice: skip this movie and google his sex tape instead.  It's his best work, and you'll thank me.

Barkhad and the Boy

Today's Saturday Side Eye goes to the publicist accompanying Barkhad Abdi on his recent NYC press tour.  Honey, if he wants to stop and sign autographs for fans, don't rush him off.  The man was driving limousines in Minnesota a year ago for christ sake!  This is all new to him and he's basking in the attention, so let him enjoy himself!  He may be up for an Oscar this year, but if he's driving someone else to the ceremony next year it's on YOUR head!

Special mention also goes out to Boy George for his hysterical performance yesterday at Sirius.  Queen, I've been a fan for thirty-plus years, and I get that you're not fond of (the two) paparazzi waiting for you, but it wouldn't have killed you to sign one photo for one fan that hung in there during the pissy tantrum throwing years, the arrests and the heroin binges.  At this point you should be happy anyone still cares, but watching you walk down the street and get into the WRONG car, then wait on Sixth Avenue in the middle of rush hour WITH A BIG RED HAT COVERING YOUR FACE while an assistant called the right car was better than any concert I've ever seen you give.  Karma Chameleon indeed.

And I WILL get this signed.

Come On Take Your Time And Dance With Me!

Joan Jett is a rock goddess who can do whatever she wants.  If she wants to jam all night at a club in the east village, she'll do it.  If she wants to drink too much and smoke too much and party with the band, she'll do it.  If she wants to date Carmen Electra then claim it never happened, she'll do that too.  And if she wants to blink in this picture with me, then she can do that too.  Cause she's Joan Jett, and she doesn't give a fuck.  

But because I do, (and her publicist was a dick trying to rush her off without a retake), here's one with her eyes open that I'm not in. 

From Hillbilly to Haute Couture - A Day In The Life

At any given moment, New York City is a magical mixture of high class and crass - a mess of Breakfast at Tiffany's meets every episode of Jerry Springer meets Wall Street meets the end of civilization.  Never was that more apparent than today. 

Catering to every Larry, Daryl and Daryl in those brown, square states, Honey Boo Boo and Mama June were at Good Morning America to promote another season of hilarious hillbilly hijinks and that kid was either high on the sizzurp or eyeing the table full of Girl Scout cookies like they were the last supper, because she could not sit still!  Dancing and making faces and running around like some kind of "Anna Nicole Smith: The Early Years", it was oddly fascinating, and I'm sure my therapist will have a field day dissecting this one.

At the other end of the spectrum was Papa Legba herself, Anna Wintour, who was at the Apple Store on the eve of Fashion Week to suck the youth out of a 12-year old model's mouth discuss her career.  This woman hasn't eaten or smiled since 1984 and everything she does is condescending.  Everything.  I want to be her when I grown up!

And then THIS happened!

Oh New York!  It's like living at the end of the rainbow!

That's Super!

New York is a hot mess right now, infested with tourists from the fifth ring of hell wandering midtown like a zombie apocalypse with their game jerseys and backpacks and accents, marveling at the bright lights and tall buildings y'all.  Apparently, there's some kind of football game today after last night's Blondie concert.

Joe Theismann's in town for the game.  You remember him right?  Used to date Cathy Lee Crosby back when she was on That's Incredible! .  Probably did some other stuff too, but I don't know about that.  Anyway, I was walking home from Barneys yesterday and some guy on the street corner handed me a flier and told me "Joe Theismann's in that store for a few more minutes" and since I wasn't in a hurry and recognized his name I stopped inside.  Good thing I did, because nobody was there, and he was standing alone with a football, his memories and a slice of humble pie.