I Try

I've been a fan of Macy Gray's crazy ass since I first heard I Try while day-drinking with this girl Sherry that I used to know on the balcony of an amazing apartment that we rented on Jackson Square during Southern Decadence a million years ago before she voted for #notmypresident and I had to cut her out of my life like a cancer, so I wasn't even a little surprised this morning to see Macy, half asleep/half stoned, struggling to count out the correct fare for her Uber driver then promptly dropping her keys as she tumbled out of the car arriving at Good Day New York to promote her annual New Years eve show at The Iridium, which I will not be attending because (1) it's in Times Square and you won't catch me there on a regular night, let alone New Years Eve and (2) I'm old, and my ass has a hard time staying awake past 11PM these days without stimulants.

Is This the Cocksucker Residence?

Forget The Godfather or Casablanca, and fuck that selfish Scarlett O'Hara.  If you recognize the title of this post you're obviously familiar with one of the greatest scenes in cinematic history, Beverly Sutphin's obscenity filled phony phone call terrorizing Dottie Hinkle in John Waters' masterpiece (and my favorite film of all time) Serial Mom.  I don't know why this film was overlooked by the academy because Kathleen Turner saying "pussy willows" still makes my ears pucker, and she and Mink Stole should have scored Best Actress nominations from this scene alone!  While Kathleen went on to Broadway acclaim and the role of Chandler's father on Friends, Mink went on to even greater stardom in But I'm a Cheerleader, Eating Out and Eating Out 2: Sloppy Seconds, which explains why she was performing her one woman cabaret act last night at The Cutting Room in NYC.

How Did You GET Here?

I can't tell you how many times I danced to Nobody's Supposed to Be Here shirtless on a box at a circuit party back in the day.  Really, I can't.  I was high.  And if you've ever been on the dancefloor with me you know that it's like I'm possessed, on the floor and speaking in tongues, so you'll have to excuse me.

What I CAN tell you is that on top of being incredibly talented, singer Deborah Cox was super nice this morning while promoting her Broadway-bound musical version of The Bodyguard, and she didn't even throw me a side eye me when I told her that story.  I bet she hears that from all the queens.

Sexual Chocolate

This picture would be so much better if Shemar Moore was holding his bare peen instead of doing that hang loose shit with his hands.  If you aren't familiar with this hot piece, you haven't been watching Criminal Minds for the last eleven years, didn't get sucked into watching The Young and the Restless at your grandmother's house when you were too sick to go to school (I don't know why Drucilla was always so bitchy, she was getting some good dick, P.S., by the way!) and never subscribed to the bastion of mail order glamour, the International Male catalogue, where he regularly showed off his chonies in fishnet shirts, pleather tank tops and tan through speedos that didn't live up to my expectations their claims.

The Force Was With Us

My friend Adam is a trip.  After spending more than two hours outside in subzero temperature last night, he was not taking "NO" for an answer, boldly walking up to Carrie Fisher, telling her it was his birthday (it wasn't) and asking for a photo despite employees at The Strand telling us she wasn't posing with fans for free when she charges $90.00 for a photo at Comic-Con and Star Wars nerds pay it while signing copies of her latest memoir about drugs and her affair with Harrison Ford on the Star Wars set, and damned if she didn't lean over and take a photo with him.  So I told her it wasn't my birthday but I would love a photo too, and she replied that "Well, it's your birthday sometime, so why not?"  But if you know me, you know it's never as simple as that, because Adam didn't like his photo and marched right back and requested that we both get a do-over!  And he was right, because this photo is much better than the first one.

I Went To Club Monaco to Meet Anna Kendrick

and all I got was this lousy photo.  Black and white?  Where are we?  Ye Olde Time Photo Booth in Frontierland?  Did I really reschedule my pilates session to stand outside in the cold for this shit?  Really?  With all the money she's making off this shitty memoir she's pushing (which I can't even unload on eBay, because everyone else in line had the same idea and already put theirs up at a deep discount) you'd think her people would spring for a color fucking photo booth or at least let us use our own cameras, but no, instead we waited in line for an hour to get in, another ten minutes to "meet" her for three seconds and take the photo, and another forty five minutes weaving through the ugliest clothes I've ever seen to get to the two iPads where all four hundred people could enter their email addresses one at a time to get their picture sent to them.

Now Shut Up Ashleigh!

My friend Ashleigh has been hounding me since I moved to LA in 2006 to get a picture with walking panty creamer Ryan Phillippe.  He's her favorite actor, and although she has no idea how the process works (or that I don't take requests!) every fucking time he tweets or farts or burps she's on it, and she's making sure I know exactly where he is at all times.  She's like some kind of thirst trap GPS!  When she found out Ryan was in New York this week she bombarded me with texts of his twitter and instagram feed until I was forced to take a break from googling "Joe Manganiello naked" and stalk his ass.  If I wasn't suffering from PTSD (President Trump Stress Disorder) I would have stopped at CVS and picked up a copy of Cruel Intentions from the dvd rack for him to sign (there's ALWAYS a copy of Cruel Intentions on sale in the dvd rack at CVS), but I am and I didn't so all I have is this photo with Ryan and a million texts messages like "Did you tell him about me?" and "I'm not waiting for Facebook.  Send me the damn picture!" from Ashleigh.

All You Have To Do Is Dream

My love of the musical Dreamgirls is well known to anyone who talks to me or reads this blog regularly.  I've talked about flying out to LA this summer for the "one night only" 35th anniversary celebration and you know I've met original Dreamgirls Loretta Devine (who took a photo and signed my CD) and Jennifer Holliday (who also took a photo and signed my CD over Loretta's signature), but today I won the Dreamgirls triple crown, meeting the legendary Sheryl Lee Ralph, who is one of the nicest, FIERCEST divas I've ever met in my entire gay life, talking with me about everything from the anniversary show to bringing her AIDS fundraiser to NYC, and giving me staff rate tickets for Wicked (in which she currently stars) even as she shaded the amount of space "Miss Jennifer" took signing the CD and gave herself top billing.

Sheryl Lee Ralph

Loretta Devine 

Jennifer Holliday

I Got You Babe!

Being a Hillary Clinton supporter comes with a lot of perks, like social security, affordable health care, equal rights, a rational Supreme Court, planned parenthood, immigration, education, equal pay, human decency........ and Cher.  I'm not talking about drag queen Cher or leftover Halloween costume Cher, but Turn Back Time, assless rhinestone bodysuit, neverending Farewell Tour, Sonny and Cher Cher, which is what I got last Thursday night when I attended a fund raiser for the future Madame President.

I repeat, this is NOT a drill.  This is the real "believe in life after love" Cher!  The international icon made entirely of melted sequins who smells like roses and moonlight!  This is my gay lifetime achievement award coming true, and I can die happy now, but not until after I see her in concert in March.

Marcia! Marcia! Marcia!

Who knew that Marcia Brady was a suicidal slut who traded sex for drugs, had two abortions and battled depression and bulimia after The Brady Bunch went off the air?  I did, because I read Maureen McCormick's autobiography Here's the Story: Surviving Marcia Brady and Finding My True Voice Wikipedia to fill in the blanks on former child star who no longer gets any roles and maxed out on her reality show quota Maureen McCormick, who I met last night at a Hillary Clinton fundraiser.  Who knew being a Brady was so much fun?  And all this time we thought Jan was the fucked up one!

I Keep On Hoping

I want to taste the saltwater in the wind, have fresh clams at Paul's Daughter or a hot dog (or two) from Nathan's Famous, then throw it all up after riding the Wonder Wheel or the rickety wooden Cyclone, but every time I've been to Coney Island it's packed with white trash families with farmer tans dragging coolers and giant umbrellas, loud boom boxes blaring shitty music and screaming kids hopped up on all the grape soda and McDonald's they devoured on the subway ride from The Bronx, and that is NOT my idea of a good time.  Instead, second cutest Jonas brother Joe Jonas taunted me all summer about eating cake by the ocean while I battled entitled Jewish American princesses and yentas who've never set foot in the gym for a lounge chair on the roof at Equinox.

Denis Denis

I've been a fan of hugely underrated, vastly underappreciated Tony award winner Denis O'Hare since he killed an anchorman on live television as the psychotic, power hungry 2,800 year old vampire king of Mississippi Russell Edgington in True Blood before that show went completely off the rails with all that Lilith nonsense. For the past six seasons he's turned out some AMAZING performances in the American Horror Story anthology series, including Burned Guy, necrobutler Spaulding, the con dude with the huge dick that they turned into a chicken in Freak Show and my favorite, the bald, Cleopatra eyed Liz Taylor, queen-of-all-trades and provider of glamour and hotness in American Horror Story: Hotel, so I'm a little confused as to why we haven't seen more of him in the current season of dumb bitch characters doing stupid shit like returning to a house in the middle of nowhere that they barely escaped from alive the first time.

Cover Girl, Cover Up, and Duck for Cover!

Since today is Throwback Thursday, I thought we'd revisit a slow moving train wreck of a show from 1984 called Cover Up about a fashion photographer who learns her dead husband was a CIA agent and recruits a Special Forces Op, posing as a model, to help her find her husband's killers.  MESS!  With a theme song sung by Bonnie Tyler(!), the show starred former cover girl Jennifer O'Neill and the extremely hot Jon-Erik Hexum until he accidentally blew his brains out with a not-so-harmless prop gun, and get this, they didn't cancel the show!  They replaced him, dedicated one measly episode to his dead ass and finished out the season before getting cancelled.  Jennifer went on to marry nine times, accidentally shoot herself in the stomach, and find Jesus.  Hollywood!

How Lo(renzo) Can You Go?

Slap me silly because this isn't a fever dream, but yesterday I met the formerly luscious Lorenzo Lamas, who starred as playboy heir Lance Cumson in the epic '80s soap opera Falcon Crest, (the dude’s name was Lance CUMSON! If that isn’t hot, I don’t know what is.) and later as Reno Raines, the “outlaw hunting outlaws,” in the ’90s TV series Renegade before squandering his career in direct to DVD masterpieces shot in Canada like Snake Eater, Bounty Tracker and Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus (with Debbie Gibson!) while marrying and divorcing a series of playmates and gold diggers, including this gorgeous piece of silicone who also slept with his son (escandalo!).

If you're in NYC and don't want to sell a kidney on the black market for impossible to get Hamilton tickets, check out Lorenzo in the Off-Broadway production of The Fantasticks, at Theatre Centre through November 13th. 

She IS Music, And She Writes The Songs

If you've ever had a root canal or been stuck in an elevator you're familiar with songwriter Carole Bayer Sager, whose songs have been in your brain forever.  She's worked with everyone from Sinatra to Streisand, Bette, Dolly, Liza, Aretha, Diana Ross and Shirley Bassey, won an Academy Award for Arthur's Theme (The Best That You Can Do) and a Grammy for That's What Friends Are For, and co-wrote Hillary Clinton's campaign song Stronger Together.  If that's not enough, she wrote a Bond theme, was friends with Michael Jackson AND a bridesmaid at Elizabeth Taylor's last wedding, which means she's everything a gay boy growing up in western New York could ever aspire to be, and I took in every ounce of her season six Alexis Colby glamour as I thanked her for the soundtrack for my life.

Hello Angel (Finally!)

If you're gay or were alive in the late 70's, chances are you spent your Wednesday nights in front of the television glued to Charlie's Angels, the critically acclaimed female empowerment show about three little girls who went to the police academy until a mysterious guy with a speaker phone hired them based on their looks, gave them tight clothes and guns and called them detectives.  It seems like just yesterday that I was striking the Charlie's Angels pose in my Jill Munroe wig ("It was yesterday" - you) but here we are celebrating the show's fourtieth anniversary with Cheryl Ladd, which seems odd considering I'm only 35 (ahem!). 

Editor's note: This is the second time I've tried to take a photo with Cheryl Ladd.  The first time, a few months ago, she was swarmed by professional autograph sellers who scared the living shit out of her and her entourage, forcing them to exit Rockefeller Center through a side exit and request a chain of security to hold back the crowd at Fox studios.  Yesterday, my friend and I arrived in plenty of time for her arrival, only to be told that she would take pictures "on the way out".....two hours later, making it easier to solve the case of the week than to get this picture!

Learning The Facts of Life

Remember that "very special" episode of The Facts of Life where Natalie lost her virginity to her boyfriend Snake (who was the same guy that knocked up Jennifer Jason Leigh's character and ditched her in Fast Times at Ridgemont High, which is some disturbing typecasting if you ask me) because Lisa Whelchel (Blair) found Jesus and refused to play that story even though the girls were all in their twenties by season nine and it's a stretch to believe they were all still virgins even if they did share a bedroom basically forever, and Jo pointed out the pros and cons of sexuality while eating a bowl of Grape Nuts?  Well I'm not Snake (or Blair) and I didn't fuck Natalie (or Blair), but here I am with Mindy Cohn, who played that hussy Natalie AND was the voice of hot nerd Velma on Scooby-Doo.

And I Am Telling You

I can't help it, I'm a cliched queen who lives for fabulous fashion, a Broadway show, and a glittery diva.  I'm not talking about these "little heifers" (@ Patti LaBelle) who can't sing and need forty backup dancers to make them look good, I'm talking about that strong sassy girl with a fierce wardrobe who can SANG!  Today those loves collided in the form of Jennifer Holliday, the iconic creator of Effie White in the original Broadway production of one of my all time favorites Dreamgirls, and she was anything but a diva as I gushed about how much I enjoyed the 35th anniversary celebration in Los Angeles in July.  And then I looked down at my CD, where she'd signed right through Loretta Devine's autograph.

That's One Hell Of A Block Party!

Anyone who knows me or reads this blog regularly knows I'm a sucker for a soap opera.  At one time or another I've been a fan of Santa Barbara, The Young and the Restless, All My Children, General Hospital, and The Bold and the Beautiful.  I've seen every sequin, shoulderpad and catfight in every episode of Dynasty (twice!), spent every Friday night of my childhood with the Ewings of Dallas, and wanted to be Ana Alicia running her fingers through Lorenzo Lamas' chest hair on Falcon Crest, but nothing engrossed me more than the backstabbing, betrayals, affairs, addictions and baby snatchings of Seaview Circle on Knots Landing.  I actually sought out the real life cul-de-sac (really Crystalaire Place in Granada Hills, and nowhere near the ocean) the last time I was in LA, so if you think I'd pass up the opportunity to meet the fabulous Michele Lee, aka Karen Cooper Fairgate MacKenzie, you're crazier than the storyline where Jill gaslit her rival Valene with doctored recordings of her missing and presumed dead husband Ben then forced her to swallow sleeping pills at gunpoint, hoping it would look like a suicide so Jill could marry Gary, and THAT'S crazy!

Disco Remix

One of the great things about living in NYC is that celebrities are everywhere, and so you often get multiple opportunities to meet them and get photos or autographs, which is a good thing because the last time I met Nile Rogers there was nobody who could take our picture and I'm terrible at selfies and ended up looking like Shrek.  So here's me looking slightly better and him looking like the smooth disco legend that he is even though he was extremely late for his segment thanks to traffic on the way into the city from Connecticut and don't ask me why I know that.  I just do.

We've Known Each Other For So Long

In "What year is this?" news, Rick Astley is enjoying something of a comeback.  Better known in recent years for rickrolling (a bait and switch involving a website hyperlink secretly swapped out with Astley’s so-cheesy-that-it’s-awesome music video for 1987’s “Never Gonna Give You Up”), Melania Trump plagiarized quoted his lyrics in her convention speech, and now he's releasing a new album, his first in eleven years, and he's in NYC this week to promote it.  I'm pleased to say the magnificent pompadour is still in place.


Fun fact: to this day my brother and I still refer to Never Gonna Give You Up as "the gay disco song", (before either of us knew we were gay or stepped foot in a disco) and he was the first person I told about this photo.

What the Fuck is a Luftballon?

Remember "99 Luftballons", the bouncy new wave nugget about balloons floating over the Berlin wall, triggering defense systems that lead to nuclear apocalypse?  Just in time for our political holocaust, Nena has dusted off this chestnut for a three city US tour of small clubs, block parties and bar mitzvahs with a show in NYC tonight, so I went to the source to answer the question that's bothered us all for 33 years:  What the fuck is a luftballon?  Turns out the translation is not exact: "luftballon" means air balloon, with no color specified, so it could be blue or green or yellow.  Or orange.  In 2016 it's definitely orange.

Coming Out Of The Dark

I think we can all agree that if you weren't a fan of Dawson's Creek in the '90s, the most interesting thing Katie Holmes has ever done was agree to be Tom Cruise's robotic dead-eyed Stepford wife and give birth to the heir to the throne of Xenu before squeezing out of a third story bathroom window at the Scientology Celebrity Centre, falling into a bunch of bushes and running for her life ala Sleeping with the Enemy, but she'll have you know that she has a lot more to offer than just being the Bride of Scientology.  Like being a spokesperson for Quaker's Oatober campaign, which is what she was promoting this morning in NYC while Scientology spy drones circled overhead.

Who's The Boss?

The moment I found out The Boss was doing a meet and greet in Union Square I jumped all over that free ticket, because who doesn't want a photo with Diana Ross, right?  Well bless my little gay heart it wasn't her, but Bruce Springsteen, whose constipated growl I'm not a fan of, which is why I sold it (for a substantial profit, thank you eBay!) to this sweet lady who flew herself in from Detroit and got a room in NYC for two nights just to meet me Bruce and get a signed copy of his memoir.  Since my name was printed on the ticket and ID was required, I met her at the store to purchase the book and give her the wristband required for entry, and that's where things went horribly wrong.

For Barnes & Noble.

Because although it was one person-one ticket, we both walked in together, they scanned my ticket without asking for ID, gave us BOTH wristbands, and directed us to the register where we BOTH purchased the book.  Fast forward four hours and I'm shaking The Boss's hand, thanking him for his stance on Trump, posing for this photo and walking out with a limited edition signed memoir (going up on eBay shortly) and a half month's rent in profit.

I'm the boss!

Scared Shitless

My friend Ashleigh has been giving me shit about taking a picture of the Halloween house since I first moved to LA back in 2006.  I'm not talking about the Halloween house that Six Flags (or your local church) puts on every year to scare the shit out of little kids and horny, drunken teenagers, but the real house where Jamie Lee Curtis babysat in John Carpenter's 1978 classic Halloween, which I lived around the corner from for a year but never bothered checking out because scary movies scare me, but finally went and took a picture of the last time I was in LA just to shut her up.  Speaking of Jamie Lee (and shit), here's a photo I FINALLY got with the notoriously difficult scream queen (and star of Scream Queens, season two debuting 9 PM tonight) at a children's book signing (yes, I endured a room full of children for this) right after a guy threw a tantrum about not getting his Halloween memorabilia signed and an older lady thanked Jamie Lee for convincing her to eat yogurt so she could poop regularly.

Paris Is Burning

But it's nothing a dose of Vagisil won't cure.  World famous DJ Paris Hilton took a break from her life's work of being vapid on every continent to hawk her latest perfume on the Today Show this morning, and it's a good thing I got used to the smell of stale spray tanner, jizz breathe and the desperate need for attention while living in LA or this picture wouldn't have been possible.

Those Are The Days Of Our Lives

I was never much of a Days of Our Lives fan, because let's face it, watching someone come back from the dead for the hundredth time or get possessed by a demon is way more unbelievable than a pregnant nun being killed by a giant letter C in a windstorm or a woman being presumed dead when she's actually being held captive in Utah by a mountain man and her long lost evil sister like the storylines on Santa Barbara, my favorite daytime soap opera growing up, but even I know about supercouple Bo and Hope Brady, thanks to neverending coverage in Soap Opera Digest.  So here's Peter Reckell, who played Bo Brady (and Johnny Rourke, opposite Nicollette Sheridan as Paige Matheson in one of Knot's Landing's worst storylines).

Not My Lover

Billie Jean is not my lover.  She's just a woman who claims that I'm not the one because I've got a penis and she's into chicks.  She introduced herself to me ("Hi.  Billie Jean." as she shook my hand) as if I didn't know she was a former World No. 1 tennis player with 39 grand slam titles, the founder of the Women's Tennis Association, a member of the International Tennis Hall of Fame, Time magazine's Person of the Year, a Presidential Medal of Freedom winner and the winner of the legendary Battle of the Sexes tennis match against Bobby Riggs in 1973.  I mean, really?  Humble much?

USA! USA! USA!

Danell Leyva is that hot Cuban-American gymnast that made b-holes quiver with his parallel bar striptease at the Rio Olympics last week.  He's a two time silver medalist and an LGBTQ supporter, and if those dick pics floating around the internet are real he could pommel my horse any day.

Gold Fingered

Elvis fucked her, Caitlyn Jenner fucked her back when she was Bruce, and she was Mrs. David Foster before Yolanda and her lemons and lyme disease invaded Malibu.  A regular on Hee Haw and a Grammy/Oscar nominee for composing "I Have Nothing" off The Bodyguard soundtrack, she's Linda Thompson, and her magical pussy has had more celebrity peen than a Corey Haim/Corey Feldman slumber party at Neverland.  Notice her lovely smile trying to spread its way across her botoxed face.  That's the smile of a bitch whose seen and done them all.

My Brush (off) With Fame

You guys must think that getting photos with celebrities is easy; that I'm always in the right place at the right time and am so lucky to get all these famous people to stop for a photo or an autograph. 


Wrong.


This was supposed to be a post about Fat Joe, a rapper whose song Lean Back was played to death by Miami radio to the point that it became a running joke between my friend Ashleigh and I.  I would have gone on about how Joe's niggas don't dance, they just pull up their pants and do the rockaway, whatever that is.  But it's not, because although I waited an hour at Good Day New York yesterday and ended up being late for work, Fat Joe showed up after I left.


This could have been a post about Linda Thompson, Elvis Presley's last girlfriend and the ex wife of Bruce Jenner and David Foster, who is peddling her new memoir around NYC.  I could have gone on about how a fading starlet with a magical pussy and a tentative grasp on fame tries to stay relevant past a certain age, or maybe talked about how she's had so much botox her face is slipping off her head.  But I was either given bad information or she's a blabbermouth who can't shut up because I never saw her leave Sirius yesterday at the time she was supposed to.


And this post could have been about Michael Feinstein, the Great American Songbook archivist whose version of My Favorite Year has held a special place in my heart since I first heard him serenade C.C. and Sophia Capwell at a New Years Eve party in the mid '80s on Santa Barbara.  But I took my vitamins this morning before I left the gym, making me just late enough to see Michael walking down the hallway into Good Day New York as I arrived.


And if you think it can't get any worse, where's your imagination?  I left Good Day New York, only to find out that Linda Thompson was added as a last minute guest, and had I waited I could have caught her arriving.


So here's a picture of Josh Bowman from Revenge that I've been holding onto since May because I couldn't find anything interesting about him to write about and still can't.

One Hit, Plenty of Attitude

Paraphrasing Forest Gump's mother, meeting celebrities is like a box of chocolates.  You never know what you're gonna get.  Sometimes they're extra gracious, going out of their way to pose and sign for anyone and everyone that asks, sometimes they begrudgingly do it because their publicist told them to, and sometimes they're downright rude.  Such was the case with Lisa Loeb, who read us to filth yesterday for asking for a photo.  "How did you guys know I was gonna be here?  Do you just hang around all day waiting for people to show up?" which, though not entirely inaccurate, was a little cunty for someone whose one hit (about a guy who left her, ironically) was twenty two years ago and who looks a little Lara Flynn Boyle in the face these days, when what she really meant to say was "Thank you for paying attention to me in 2016 when I haven't been relevant since 1994."

Gonna Make You Sweat!

You may not know her name or recognize her face, but you damn sure know her booming, powerhouse sound.  Martha Wash has been the Queen of Clubland since the late '70's, backing disco king Sylvester (I KNOW!) on the legendary (You Make Me Feel) Mighty Real and Dance (Disco Heat) and getting the queens dancing and going nuts as one half of The Weather Girls with camp classic It's Raining Men before becoming the voice (but not the face.....long story) of Black Box and C+C Music Factory in the early '90s.


A gay icon, Martha has been an outspoken advocate for the LGBT community for more than 30 years, and along with ecstasy and other recreationals, she's responsible for some of the greatest nights of my life, so DUH, of course I'd want to meet her.  But at 7 AM and unmade up she was not having it.  We talked (about baseball, of all things) for a few minutes and she was very gracious, but a photo wasn't an option.  And I understand that, which is why I went back after her segment, then waited another hour in 1000% humidity because of course she had to post tape a segment on the hottest fucking day of the year before leaving the studio.  She beamed when she saw me, came right over saying "You came back!  For that I'll take a few.  Yes I will!" and posed up a storm, and all I kept thinking as it trickled down my ass crack is 'just like the song, this bitch made me sweat.'

You Go Glen Coco!

Last week I was on a red carpet for the NYC premiere of Absolutely Fabulous: The Movie that was so sad I'd swear it was a slip'n'slide covered in red food coloring.  There were rumors Kate Moss and Baby Spice Emma Bunton would appear, but aside from Patsy and Eddie, that awful Chris Colfer and a bunch of no-name drag queens, the carpet was pretty tragic.  So when the star of one of Hollywood's greatest, gayest classics approached, I wasn't "too gay to function" and called him over because - DUH- why wouldn't you take a picture with Damian from Mean Girls?  Now if only I could meet math enthusiast/badass MC Kevin Gnapoor.

Be My Little Baby

Few artists in history have define an entire era in pop music the way Ronnie Spector embodies the heart, soul, and passion of female rock and roll in the 1960s.  You might know her as the leader of The Ronnettes, the girl group that gave us Be My Baby and Baby, I Love You.  You might know her from that Eddie Money video from the '80s where he sings, "Just like-a Ronnie said." Or maybe you know her as the ex wife of that crazy guy with the bad wigs who killed a chick he picked up at the House of Blues a few years back.  Either way, the woman who once boasted Cher as her backup singer and the Rolling Stones her opening act is an icon: of music, of survival, of longevity.  Beehive, eyeliner and all.

Le Freak, c'est Chic!

There is nothing I can say about Nile Rodgers that hasn't already been heard by billions of people, in millions of cities, via thousands of radio airwaves, in hundreds of countries.  He's responsible for some of the greatest music ever released, producing classics from Donna Summer, Diana Ross, and Grace Jones, Kylie, Bowie, Gaga and Daft Punk, as well as timeless dance hits Le Freak, I Want Your Love and Good Times with his own badass, funked out disco band Chic.  He's been honored by the Grammys, the Songwriter's Hall of Fame and the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, played alongside Madonna at Live Aid, is currently on tour with Duran Duran and is presenting the FOLD (Freak Out, Let's Dance) Festival in Forest Hills in October. My iPod would be half empty without this man's profound musical genius, and on top of that he's a really nice guy.

Oh Those Summer Nights!

Summertime Sunday nights used to mean one thing: hoping to see as much vampire, wolf and fairy dick as possible on True Blood.  But after the Billith mess and with nobody left to slobber over Sookeh's fairy pussy HBO execs decided to pull the plug on that vampire fever dream and shit got cancelled.  That means no more naked Joe Manganiello, and a whole bunch of hos scrambling for other work.  Like Deborah Ann Woll, who jumped right into Daredevil, a show I've never seen because there's no naked Joe Manganiello

and Carrie Preston, who's show Crowded has already been cancelled because there was no naked Joe Manganiello to lure viewers.

Sweetie Darling!

I'm not sure where, but I may have to turn in my gay card after I tell you this: I wasn't a fan of Absolutely Fabulous when it first came out almost 25 years ago.  Not that I didn't like it, I just didn't get into it in much the same way I never got into Breaking Bad, Game of Thrones or The Walking Dead, but gayer.  Much, much gayer.  So I'm not really sure why I'm so excited for the Absolutely Fabulous movie, which opens Friday, but I am.  Maybe it's because I'm gayer than I was 25 years ago.  Much, much gayer.

Mamma Mia!

Anything can happen at the Hollywood Show, but it's not every day that you run into a screen legend in the lobby of a midlevel hotel out by the airport, so when the silver screen goddess stepped out of the elevator I was about to get into and strolled through the lobby of the Westin Los Angeles Airport Hotel I did a double take and quickly turned around to follow her for a better look.  Every head turned as she asked the concierge a question and was directed up the escalator to a mezzanine off the lobby.  Thinking, "Maybe she's here to see Martin Landau", who was attending the show, I quickly followed, and found myself waiting outside the ladies room (What?  Movie stars have to pee too!) for Sophia Loren.  Before I could even ask her companion "Is that..." I was face to face with the beauty herself.  And that's when she introduced herself as Vera, a Sophia Loren lookalike.


So we're going to play a little game of who reads this shit and who just looks at the pictures and see how many people comment on how beautiful 'Sophia' looks when I post this picture on Facebook.  Dummies.

This Is What Happened to Baby Jane

Next to In-N-Out, my favorite thing about Los Angeles is Angelyne, the electo shock therapy Barbie whose billboards made the city a more glamorous place in the early 80's.  She's a magnificent piece of the city's history, and its said that seeing her driving around LA brings people luck.  My eyes never gazed upon her exquisite beauty when I lived there, but I was able to meet the Pink Queen of Hollywood while I was there last week, and it was every level of crazy you'd expect, from the phone call from her 'fan club president' informing me she was "in a meeting and running about 15 minutes late" (from a home for the less glamorous, where she taught them how to burn eyeballs with their exquisiteness by wearing Dollar Tree wedges, stunning dresses bought at a Contempo Casuals going-out-of-business sale in 2001 and feathers stolen from a flamingo?) to her honking the horn as she pulled up beside me looking like a float from last year's parade that got rained on while parked out in the back alley to the hard sell she gave trying to sell me merchandise out of the trunk of her hot pink corvette near the Coffee Bean on Sunset.  I feel like the richest man alive after inhaling this luxurious opulence, and it really doesn't get more glamorous than this.  

Cheers Then!

Though she's two time Tony award winning Broadway royalty and can currently be seen as Nadine Tolliver on Madam Secretary, Bebe Neuwirth is best known as intelligent ice queen Dr. Lilith Sternin-Crane, wife of Frasier Crane on the classic sitcoms Cheers and Frasier. You can probably catch her in reruns on Nick at Night or on demand, but back in my day my roommates and I had to pop a cassette in the VCR when we kicked back with McDonald's during late night study breaks my senior year of college.  Who even owns a VCR these days?

Like, Totally Gnarly!

Girls were everywhere in 80's pop music.  Bowie had his China girl, Madonna was the Material Girl, Duran Duran put their girls on film, and Motley Crue just wanted girls, girls, girls, but my favorite was, and still is, Moon Zappa's vapid Southern Californian with the obnoxious speech pattern and daddy's credit card, the valley girl, because let's face it, anyone who cares that much about her social status, personal appearance and shopping is a girl after my own heart.

Three Pounds of Orange

If you're anything like me (God help you!) you spent last weekend binge-watching Orange Is The New Black and blew through all thirteen episodes of season four even though you promised yourself you'd make the season last a little longer after going through withdrawal at the end of last season.  Well I've managed to keep my promise, and am up to episode eight because I'm not a glutton anymore.  Not for TV shows.  Not for shopping.  And not for food, as evidenced by the three pounds I lost last week thanks to exercise, a healthy diet and a stomach virus on Friday that forced me to get my nutrients, and later a bad case of the shits, from a bottle of V8 because I didn't have the energy to cook or do much of anything but watch Orange Is The New Black.  But whatever.  Three pounds is three pounds.