Full Nelson

Remember Nelson, who had a big hit back in the early 90's with that one song neither of us can remember because we were distracted by their ridiculously luscious blonde locks and the novelty of their dead famous father rather than any talent they might have?  Well a lot has happened to Nelson since then, and by that I mean they finally got a haircut and....well.....nothing else really.  Just in time for the holidays, Nelson were on Fox & Friends this week to promote another Christmas album the world doesn't need before heading to their day jobs busking for change in the subway.

I Wish I'd Shaved Today

It's always the days that I sleep in, am running late, or just feeling lazy and don't shave when I meet someone incredible and wish I'd taken a few extra fucking minutes in the morning or had a little more self esteem at 6AM and attempted to look presentable.

Shootin' At The Walls of Heartache

Breaking up with someone is one of the shittiest, most painful things a person can go through unless they're Taylor Swift and make a career out of writing songs every time a relationship ends.  The confusion, the sadness, the loneliness, the endless pints of ice cream....it all fucking sucks.  Thankfully, my girl Patty Smyth is helping me shoot at the walls of heartache (bang, bang).  Patty IS the warrior, and if anyone can guide me through it she can.

My Big Fat Greek Brain Fart

Sometimes when I'm writing these blog entries I have a very clear idea of what I want to say and the words come effortlessly, and other times I'm staring at a blank page (because I still write in long hand and type it out afterwards a la the late great Jackie Collins) struggling to come up with a train of thought.  That's when my mind wanders into surreal John Waters territory and I start wondering crazy shit like whether Stevie Nicks even owns a pair of jeans or what the original angels at the Charles Townsend Agency are up to these days.  I mean, can you imagine a senior citizen version of Charlie's Angels starring Sally Field, Dolly Parton and Cher as Sabrina, Jill and Kelly, solving crimes on the Sunset Strip in between concerts at the House of Blues or the Troubadour?  The Barbie-like dazzle of lots of makeup, tons of fake hair and the cumulative effects of plastic surgery could make this the gayest thing on television since the Miss Universe pageant or Battle of the Network Stars and it would probably sweep the Emmys in every category that exists and some that haven't even been created yet, but this is really just a long winded way of saying I can't come up with shit to write about Olympia Dukakis, who has already worked with all three women and should play the voice of Charlie.

Itchy Gitchi Yaya

Sweet potato pie gives me the shits, so I had no idea that Patti LaBelle's face is on boxes of pies that sell for $3.48 at Wal-Mart until some queen's YouTube review went viral this week, and now Patti LaBelle sweet potato pies are all the rage this holiday season.  I know Miss Patti is a good cook (I don't REALLY know since she's never cooked for me, but it's one of those things you just accept like 'The sky is blue' or 'Don't eat corn if you're a bottom'), but folks are losing their minds over this pie - its selling for $60 on ebay and flying out of stores like some kinda Black Friday midnight madness doorbuster shit while Miss Patti adjusts her wig and "Thank You Baby"s all the way to the bank. 


Here's the original drag queen in NYC yesterday reminding us all that our Thanksgiving table will be naked without her pie, and then the terrorists have won.

Who Shot Annalise Keating?

Damned if I know, but I sure as hell didn't, though not for lack of trying.  Viola Davis and the cast were in town last week to promote the midseason finale (tonight at 10 on ABC), and girlfriend couldn't stop moving, clapping and turning her head at Good Morning America, which would explain why there's not one clear shot of her looking in my direction dammit!

At the Paley Center for Media later that night she rushed through the gauntlet of fans waiting with a giant bouquet of flowers in her face like she just stole a funeral arrangement.  Again, no clear photo, though I did manage a photo with Liza Weil, who was incredibly nice despite the sociopathic, uptight doormat bitch in pearls she plays on TV.

But let's talk about the men, because if you think the men on this show are hot I can confirm they're even better in person.  Resident scruffy bad guy Charlie Weber is smoldering, even in a pair of jeans and hoodie,

and Billy Brown is a chiseled chocolate He-Man masterpiece.  Godiva ain't got shit on this man!

I'll Have What She's Having - The Christie Brinkley Edition

Christie Brinkley must be sipping from the fountain of youth or something, because at 61 years old she looks better than women half her age.  (I'm talking to you Kate Upton!).  Either that or she has much better luck picking surgeons than she does husbands.  Capitalizing on her looks, Christie made the talk show rounds promoting Timeless Beauty, her instruction manual for looking and feeling your best at any age.  If you follow her regiment you probably won’t look like this…but you can pretend, or she can pretend, because why not make the money on this freakish condition she has called winning the genetic lottery?

The Ice Queen

Cate Blanchett is an absolutely ethereal woman who pretty much nails every red carpet she steps onto with her fearless sense of style and connections to the right designers willing to loan her $15,000 dresses if she'll talk about them.  I've always wanted to photograph her but she detests selfies, rarely poses for photos with fans and seldom signs autographs because she's played the Queen so damn many times it's gone to her head or something so I had to settle for this through-the-window shot at Good Morning America this morning and button my jacket tight for the icy chill she threw ignoring everyone when she left. 

The Royals Take Manhattan

The cast of The Royals were in town this week to promote the season two premiere (tonight at 10 on E!) in the unlikely event you missed the billboards in Times Square, ads on every bus and cab in the city, nonstop commercials on E!, Bravo and MTV or the popup ads in your Facebook feed and weren't aware the show was back again, and damned if they're not the nicest, most attractive cast on TV right now!  In addition to being the most glamorous billionaire dick rider on the ho stroll Elizabeth Hurley may also be the nicest, taking time to sign autographs and pose for photos all over town while professing to be 'in a hurry,' 'late,' or whatever other bullshit excuse her publicist could come up with to hurry her inside and avoid the riff raff on the streets. 

Alexandra Park looked absolutely flawless and has incredible taste in shoes, which you can't really see from this photo but trust me on this,

and the men on the show.....well......see for yourself.  #hotties

Tootie, Is It That Bad?

By now you've probably heard that Kim Fields joined the cast of The Real Housewives of Atlanta and we're both scratching our heads trying to understand why considering The Facts of Life still airs in syndication and the checks are probably still coming in.  Maybe she's bored?  Maybe the Tootie money ain't what it used to be?  Or maybe they needed another big tittied Kim in Atlanta?

Meet Terry Richardson, The World's Most Fucked Up Fashion Photographer

Terry Richardson is a brilliant fashion photographer who has shot advertising campaigns for Marc Jacobs, Tom Ford, Yves Saint Laurent, Sisley and Supreme among others.  His work has appeared in Rolling Stone, GQ, Vogue, Vanity Fair and Harper's Bazaar, and he's shot everyone from Beyoncé and Miley to Lady Gaga and Barack Obama. 


He's also been accused of some super shady casting couch shit involving naked models and cum facials, so I was half expecting Chris Hansen and the To Catch a Predator camera crew to pop out from behind the non-fiction section and cuff him before I could get this photo. 

You Take The Good, You Take The Bad

Nobody rocked a loose bun while dispensing words of wisdom at an upstate girls' school quite like Edna Garrett, Eastland's unflappable house mother in '80s television jewel The Facts of Life, and no memoir in recent memory promises as many juicy nuggets as Charlotte Rae's.  There's alcoholism, an autistic son and a husband who decided he liked to ride the peen after twenty five years of marriage, but I'm probably going to skip over all of that and get to the part where she caught Cousin Geri going down on Jo in Blair's trailer, watching for a few seconds while softly stroking her pearls before she broke it up with a yardstick.

That's Italian!

Some of my fondest memories of my grandmother involve the incredible aromas wafting out of her kitchen whenever I was at her house.  Whether it was blueberry buckle or rhubarb pie, homemade meatballs and sauce or pastina on a cold autumn day that woman was one hell of a cook, and you never left her table hungry, disappointed, or without leftovers stored in a Polly-O ricotta container "for later."    Holidays were insane, and we'd pull out the extra leaf in the dining room table (and throw a card table in the living room) for all the aunts and uncles and cousins and cousins of cousins and aunts and uncles who weren't really aunts or uncles at all that gathered around to celebrate, my grandmother feeding us all as if we'd never eat again, then giving us a moment to catch our breathe before dessert.  She cooked with love, and when she passed the only thing I asked for was her box of recipes, which I've never come close to replicating no matter how many times I've tried because her 'pinch of this and a pinch of that' is different than mine I guess.


Someone keeping the Italian traditions alive through her own recipes, public television cooking shows, restaurants and Eataly, the 50,000-square-foot Manhattan emporium devoted to the food and culinary traditions of Italy is Teresa Giudice Lidia Bastianich, who I almost missed yesterday morning because I had to pee so bad that I gave up waiting for her, only to see her car pull up as I got to the corner to leave.  That look on my face is part smile and part full bladder grimace.

A. Rose - By Any Other Name

Friday I was fortunate enough to meet Gloria Steinem, the face of the women's rights revolution, who championed for social change in pay disparity, reproductive rights and equal opportunity in the workplace since the 1960s, and today I met another feminist icon, the always tasteful and demure rap star ho Amber Rose.  In addition to shamelessly fucking Kanye West and Wiz Kalifa and wearing absolutely ridiculous outfits in a desperate grab for attention, (and not in a Lady Gaga/I'm creative and weird sort of way) she's the namesake of the Amber Rose SlutWalk targeting 'the double standards and victim-blaming that underline a pervasive culture of sexual violence.'  Imma leave that right there and not even pretend I understand what it means.


What a difference a (few) day(s) makes.

G–L–O–R–I–A

This blog is usually filled with bitchy witty commentary about celebrities peddling their latest assembly line product and how they respond to fans while on the promo stroll.  Rarely do I get the chance to meet someone notable who has actually done something meaningful in the world, so when the opportunity does come along I seize it, which is why I don't care if Gloria Steinem is blinking or trying to hold her hair down against the wind in this picture.  She's Gloria Fucking Steinem!  I'm just happy she stopped for the photo because I was slightly intimidated to ask her, what with the me having a penis thing and all.

C'mon Vogue!

I was seduced by the glamor of Vogue magazine at a very young age.  As a kid I used to pore through my mom's copy each month staring at the photos, reading every article and absorbing every ounce of sophistication I could.  While other kids were into sports or heavy metal music I covered my locker with photos of Paulina Porizkova and dreamed of going to extravagant Robert Isabel designed parties in exotic, hard to pronounce locations like Gstaad and St. Tropez with Comtesse Jacqueline de Ribes, Gloria von thurn un Taxis, Diane von Furstenberg and other assorted socialites dripping in diamonds and glamorous gowns with giant bows and shoulder pads designed by Oscar de la Renta, Valentino and Yves Saint Laurent.  Vogue took me out of Fredonia, New York (population: three chickens, a few cornfields and a rusted dump truck) and into the world, exposing me to incredible possibilities just beyond the horizon and teaching me to dream big, and it's been my bible ever since, so you can imagine my excitement meeting legendary photographer Arthur Elgort, whose iconic images so mesmerized me as a teen (and who I quite frankly thought was dead).  Like meeting the Wizard of Oz. 

So Delicious

She may have taught us all how to spell "glamorous" and added every variation of Fergalicious to our vocabulary, but could someone please teach Fergie how to tell time?  Bitch was an hour late to her 6PM meet and greet at Lord & Taylor last night, even though she'd been in the store since 4PM.  To be fair, maybe it took that long for the makeup artist to glam out her hard meth face?  Or maybe the photographer needed the extra time to adjust the vaseline on the lense for the 'professional' photos so she looks like a soft focus photobomber instead of a gargoyle?  Yeah, that must be it.

Frankie Say Relax!

Just last week my mom bought tickets to see Frankie Avalon in concert at the retirement community where she and my dad live.  Or maybe it was Frankie Valli?  Frankie Goes to Hollywood?  I can't remember, but I doubt she'll get this close.

And Now, Ladies and Gentlemen.......Here's Grace!

There's a hurricane heading toward NYC right now, which can only mean one thing.....Grace Jones is in town.  Last time she was in town we got hit by Hurricane Sandy a few days later, so I'm calling in sick tomorrow and stocking up on milk, eggs, bread, peanut butter and batteries (you know, all the things I would never normally eat) like I learned to do living in the cone Miami years ago, cause if Sandy was any indication we are FUCKED!  Speaking of fucked, Grace was everything you'd think she'd be and more leaving Sirius just now, slightly drunk and still carrying her empty wine glass, demanding to keep my friend Rick's Poloroid camera, and licking my ear while these photos were taken.  That's right, I was sexually harassed by Grace Jones!  And I LOVED it!

Putting the Super in Supermodel

Today I was reminded what a real supermodel is.  Not the generic, personality deficient girls that pass for 'supermodels' these days thanks to a million twitter followers and an active instagram account,but an honest to God George Michael Freedom! '90s glamazon who rocked through her 40s and still has that look that can stop a motherfucker in their tracks, thinking to themselves, what the fuck, they really make women like this, I thought it was a lie…

Today I met Cindy.

Hot For Teacher - Pam Anderson Edition

There were three things I was determined to do when I moved to LA in 2006: be in a movie, learn how to surf and meet Pamela Anderson.  In the first six months I was an extra in a porn an independent film shot in some guys backyard in the valley that never got released.  Or maybe it did and nobody told me?  I took enough surfing lessons to be able to stand on the board, prompting me to buy a surfboard that nearly blew off the roof of my car driving up the 405 and then sat in the corner of my bedroom for the next three years, never touching the water while I owned it.  And I met the silicone vegan goddess who conquered Tommy Lee's anaconda dick and got the Hep C to prove it.


In New York this week to promote her new book of naked photos in flattering light with the right amount of airbrushing, the gorgeous living legend toned down her signature whore look, opting for a naughty school teacher/MILF look that really suits her.  If she only knew how much I learned from her home videos!

No Guys On Film

Duran Duran must think it's still 1985 and they're the biggest band on the planet rather than a nostalgia act that hasn't been relevant for nearly thirty years.  Leaving The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon after promoting their new album blah blah who cares download it for free, bassist John Taylor nastily refused to stop for photos or autographs, douchebag singer Simon LeBon determinedly looked in every direction he could to avoid the cameras, and drummer Roger Taylor caught a ride in Wonder Woman's invisible jet because nobody even saw him leave.  Hell, he may still be at Rockefeller Center for all I know.  Only preening flamingo Nick Rhodes was pleasant to the ten fans still paying any attention to these guys, posing for photos and signing autographs from the comfort of his SUV like some kind of embalmed Elizabeth Taylor/Andy Warhol love child.

Sadly, I'll still be at the Today Show on Thursday before work to see them perform.

Fashion, Turn to the Left

"Every year the women of New York leave the past behind and look forward to the future....this is known as Fashion Week." - Carrie Bradshaw, Sex and the City


Yup, it's that time of year again - pretentious bullshit, filled with cunts, fags and snobs too elite for the average person who just isn’t as “Fabulous” as their exclusive club.  Of course, I love it! 

If Anna Wintour is the Dark Priestess of Fashion Week, Andre Leon Talley is the 80 year old Grand Duchess of some small European country circa 1899 trapped in the body of Grimace from McDonaldland.  Dressed in her finest safari graduation tarp, Andre held court with next level shoe designer Manolo Blahnik, neatly dressed like a lemon leprechaun at an outdoor southern wedding, and it was all I could do not to gag on the glamour these two exuded.  More like pass out from the damn heat in the room.  For the prices Rizzoli charges for books, you'd think they could afford air conditioning.  Fuck!

And what's Fashion Week without models?  While the malnourished robots played clotheshanger on the runway and compared Leonardo DiCaprio sex stories backstage ("He gave you anal on a yacht in St. Tropez too?"), supermodel Beverly Johnson made the rounds peddling her memoir. Beverly is from Buffalo, New York and is my homegirl.  We shared stories of surviving brutal winters, eating legit Buffalo wings (which she promptly threw up afterwards), and getting drugged and raped by Bill Cosby.

Ain't Nothing Real About THIS Housewife!

I know it looks like I'm standing next to a low budget drag queen doing a second rate Pam Anderson impersonation, but that's actually wig wearing melted Barbie walrus Kim Zolciak from The Real Housewives of Atlanta in Times Square last week for the big Dancing With The Stars cast reveal.  If you think she looks like a sloppy leaking Thanksgiving parade balloon on TV, you should see this mess in person, although I'd advise against 8AM on an empty stomach.  #dryheaves  How she's gonna do the Viennese waltz to Tardy for the Party I do not know.

Chaka Khan Let Me Rock Her!

Dancing With The Stars announced the cast of its 21st season this morning on Good Morning America because there's still an audience for has-beens doing the paso doble in too many sequins for a paycheck.  'Merica.  It's another who's who of 'Who are they?'s (© Rick DeMint) and Chaka Khan.  Chaka Khan and a bunch of backup dancers.  Chaka fucking Khan!


Once she gets started there's no stopping Chaka.  She'll go through the fire.  To the limit.  To the wall.  And that mirror ball trophy will join the ten Grammys on her mantle because she's Chaka Khan and she gets what she wants.  I feel for her.  I think I love her.

Once More Into The Bleach

Anyone who knows me knows of my well documented obsession with Debbie Harry and Blondie.  I've seen them in concert a million times, know every word to every song by heart (thanks to a slightly OCD need to listen to their greatest hits EVERY morning at the gym on my iPod), and have met Debbie and Chris Stein many times, including once in '92 at a pro choice rally in Washington, DC when Debbie was fat and I had hair.

So when she pulled up tonight in her Mustang GT with Jersey plates I was awestruck once again, because she looks great for 70 and has zero fucks to give!

The Wizard of Oz

Remember the golden age of television, when Christopher Meloni was having non-stop butt sex in the prison showers on Oz?  His peen showed up in so many episodes it deserved to be in the opening credits, and his ass should have its own star on the Hollywood walk of fame!  Misty water colored memories!  Sadly, he was fully clothed leaving Morning Joe yesterday morning after promoting some shit called The Diary of a Teenage Girl and ignoring my request to recreate those shower scenes.

Iced Tea on a Hot Summer Day

It was 90 degrees with 1000% humidity today in NYC, and I'm walking around with my shirt sticking to my back and sweat trickling down my ass crack like I'm on safari, living on the sun or in one of those rainforests that Sting is always trying to save, and all I want is a tall glass of iced tea with a slice of lemon.  I'm talking old school iced tea, from a glass jar and some tea bags left out in the sun like my dad used to make in the backyard when I was a kid.  My dad was organic before organic was cool. 


Speaking of organic and dads, CoCo Austin, the demure embodiment of organic gorgeousness, is pregnant, which means Ice-T is going to be a dad.  (see how we did this?)  I can't wait to see what pregnancy does to CoCo's body, since she's already four dimensional and looks like a cross between a sex doll and a Thanksgiving parade balloon. 

Golden Boy

I've had a crush on Greg Louganis since the first time I saw his gorgeous face and rippling physique packed into a tiny speedo on the end of a diving board during the '84 Summer Olympics, back when I knew I felt 'different' but hadn't quite grasped the concept of 'gay.'  I remember how hot he looked on the podium, with those gold medals around his neck as the National Anthem played in the background.  I felt his pain in Seoul in '88 after hitting his head on the springboard during the preliminary rounds, and I cheered as he went on to win two more gold medals in spite of the concussion.  Greg's been a vocal advocate for LGBT rights since coming out as gay and HIV+ in 1995, and is the subject of a new biographical documentary Back on Board, airing Tuesday night on HBO.  And he's still just as hot as he was in '84.

Rico.......Suave.......

So I've been watching reruns of Dynasty lately on PopTV, and I'm not quite up to the season where Sammy Jo hires Rita to impersonate Aunt Krystle to trick the bank into releasing her inheritance, only to have Rita's lover Joel Abrigore take over the scheme and kidnap Krystle so that Rita can take her place and embezzle money from Blake, leading up to the epic Krystle vs. Krystle lookalike catfight in the Delta Rho attic, but when I get there I can say I met George Hamilton, who plays Joel, and he was just as debonair and sophisticated as you'd think he'd be, which is pretty fucking cool. 

Brainwashed

Forget Van Gogh, Matisse and Monet.  Some of the coolest art on the planet can be found in the streets of New York.  I'm talking stickers, wheat pasting, stencils and graffiti thrown up on walls, street signs and the sides of buildings by spray-can toting guerillas in the middle of the night to blow smoke up the art world's ass and terrorize the city with humor and creativity.  Sure it's mostly illegal, but maybe that's why it appeals to my inner mischief maker in a way the Mona Lisa never did.  Or maybe it's the bright, bold colors.  Yeah, that must be it.  I've always been a sucker for bold colors. 


The undisputed king of street art is Banksy, but since he's never publicly revealed his identity there's no chance I'm getting a photo with him anytime soon, so here's his protégé Mr. Brainwash instead.  Some conspiracy theorists say that Brainwash IS Banksy, but I don't think so.  I don't have that kind of luck.

Still A 10!

I was eleven years old the first time I saw Bo Derek's breasts, and it traumatized me.  It was during some wholesome family bonding time with my parents and brother during a Clash of the Titans/A Change of Seasons double feature at the drive in theater.  Though they'd never heard of A Change of Seasons, it starred Shirley MacLaine and Anthony Hopkins, so my parents reasoned it must be good, and they were damned sure going to get their moneys worth!  I will never forget the shocked expression on my mother's face when Bo Derek is getting fucked HARD in the hot tub, her breasts heaving up and down in the worst case of overacting during a sex scene in a body of water until Showgirls came along fourteen years later.  My brother and I just giggled in the back seat.  AWKWARD!


Bo went on to star in such underrated cinematic jewels as 10, Bolero, Tarzan the Ape Man, and Ghosts Can't Do It, and now she's set to guest star (as Tara Reid's mother!) in Sharknado 3: Oh Hell No!, premiering on the SyFy Channel Wednesday night.  It's amazing the career path a nice pair of tits will get you.

I Love Busch!

One of my all time favorite movies is Psycho Beach Party, the psychedelic tale of a pigtailed surfer girl with a split personality whose blackouts coincide with a gruesome murder spree (think sociopathic Gidget on hallucinogens and you wouldn't be far off) written by the brilliant gender bender Charles Busch, whose other works includes The Tale of The Allergist's Wife, Die Mommie, Die! and Vampire Lesbians of Sodom.  Charles Busch is a camp/cult icon with a twisted take on the absurd that appeals to my mangled heart, so the opportunity to meet him after his fabulous cabaret show was a no brainer!

Can't Stop The Music!

Music has always been a huge part of my life, and it still is to this day.  The first record I ever bought was The Village People's Live and Sleazy on 8-track in what is probably the greatest foreshadowing of my life!  My mom likes to tell the story of how I saved up all my allowance money while she drove around town week after week trying to find the least expensive place to buy the album, and when I finally had enough money I marched right into that store and brought that 8-track right up to the counter and proudly counted out the money to pay for it myself, then took that 8-track home and listened to it once before promptly forgetting about it for the rest of my life.  My mom likes to tell stories.  She's old and her memory isn't what it used to be, so who knows if this is true or not, but I'm older and my memory isn't what it used to be either so maybe it is?  I had a huge crush on the cowboy (when I wasn't trying to figure out if the indian was wearing underwear), so you can imagine how it felt to pee next to him tonight at 54 Below while waiting for the cabaret show to start.  Weird actually.  It felt weird.  And yes, we washed our hands before this picture was taken.

The Belle of Broadway

You may remember Bernadette Peters from her star-making duet with Kermit the Frog on The Muppet Show, possessed Raven in The Carol Burnett Show skit 'As The Stomach Turns', or as Leigh Conroy, Ivy's diva mother on Smash.  She's one of Broadway's most critically acclaimed performers, with seven Tony nominations and two wins, and four of the Broadway cast albums she starred on have won Grammys.  She's also 67 years old, with flawless porcelain skin and a great rack! 

Not The New Black

Orange is the New Black is one of the best shows on TV right now, and if you're not watching it you should be.  But is orange really the new black?  I mean, who wears orange besides convicts and aerobics instructors anyway?  It's garish and loud, clashes with most skin tones, emphasizes curves you don't want to draw attention to (trust me!) and makes you look like you crashed through a construction zone.  Unless this proclamation came down from Jesus Christ herself, Anna Wintour, then it's a bunch of bullshit and we should all keep wearing black.  None of the cast wore orange while promoting season three, and Crazy Eyes couldn't even be bothered to stand still for this picture!  Fuck orange!