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.