Thursday, March 31, 2005

Bitches' Skool Drag (Or, Goodbye Columbus)

Once upon a time, I worked for Harvard Business School doing visual marketing research. It was a great job and I worked with a lot of incredibly bright and talented people.

However, the group I worked in had a running inside joke. To work with us, you had to be either gay or Jewish. In New York, that's not a hard qualification to meet. However, in Boston, the smallest and mightiest and WASPiest of places, in the richest, mightiest and WASPiest of graduate schools on the planet, these qualifications (gay/Jewish) were definitely "outside the box" from a human resources perspective.

I used to joke with friends that I worked at the Harvard "Bitches Skool". Occasionally, gay friends would catch me getting off the bus from work in what I used to call my Bitches Skool Drag. They would look me over - a business casual wallflower in khakis, pressed shirts and loafers, and be all: "Girl, what the fuck are you wearing?"

I sometimes still work on the same sort of research projects on a freelance basis. This week, I went to Columbus, Ohio to work on such a project.

At the end of the trip, I was stuck at the airport for hours due to air traffic at LaGuardia. I was in full Bitches Skool Drag, complete with a Mandarina Duck briefcase that I've only used twice. In my boredom, I was trading off estimating my tax write-offs on my laptop and reading "Cad: Confessions of a Toxic Bachelor" (the only book in the airport bookstore I could cope with reading).

The next thing I knew, a very attractive Asian woman was seriously cruising me like I was her future baby's daddy. So intense was her staring, I even blushed.

I frantically searched through my man-purse trying to find an item - anything - to wave frantically in her face to snap her out of her predatory gaze. I had nothing on me though - no copies of Mandate or Inches or Men's Fitness or Bon Appetit, no copies of Madonna CDs, no rainbow rings or flags to clue her mistaken ass in.

I was another person completely - passing, as it were - for a junior league, metrosexual consultant type, and the only way out of my temporary two-day closet was to click my heels, board the plane and rush back to the city where gayness is a virtue.

Tuesday, March 29, 2005

You Say It's Your (Mama's) Birthday

Today is my mother's - or, rather - Linda Marie's birthday.

When I first became addicted to astrology in 1997, this exchange took place:

ME: "Mom, I didn't realize you were an Aries. For some reason, I always thought you were a Pisces."

LINDA MARIE: "Oh God, no. Whatever gave you that crackpot idea? Of course I'm a fucking Aries."

We just had a discussion about how excited she is to have found out that Sarah Jessica Parker is also an Aries.

LINDA MARIE: "I knew it. Anybody with that much style has to be an Aries."

We also talked about how upset she is that SJP has just lost her contract with Gap.

LINDA MARIE: "They say she's too old? What kind of ageist horseshit is that? I'll buy those pants."

Four Moons Over My Hammy

I went to Miami a month ago and all I got was this snappy headline.*

*OK, fine. I also got laid.

Monday, March 28, 2005

Man in the Mirror

I am hardly the smooth operator I portray myself to be here in this loverly webspace. As much as I throw smartass comments around, I also have been known to set up a delightful straight-line or two in order for others to take advantage of their own need to give a girl a smackdown, insult wise.

A recent favorite example...

When discussing my new gym-every-day-mania, Rob (my ex-boyfriend/wife and best friend) and I had the following exchange:

ME: "Thank God I'm going to the gym like a normal person again. I'm finally starting to see things in the mirror that I'm supposed to see."

ROB: "Like what? Your dick?"

Friday, March 25, 2005

Look At Me, I'm Sandra B.

Dear Sandy Bullock,

Can I call you Sandy?

Listen, Sandy. I'm concerned. Not about your acting career or your dreadful looking new movie (golly, who walked by and typed that while I wasn't looking!?!? Sorry Sandy!) "Miss Congeniality 7: Armed and Braindead", it's about the fact that you're an out-and-out liar.

You heard me.

I remember reading article after article, profile after celebrity profile about how you were "retiring" from acting for good so you could focus on your new love - producing movies. Dozens of pages of print, hours of wasting my life away on the toilet, reading your earnest statements on Hollywood, your place as an Actor, etc. and how dissatisfied you had become.

And, now, this.

It's not as if you busted out of your self-imposed actorly exile to remake "Long Day's Journey Into Night" or "The Lonely Lady". Instead, you have decided to bruise the world of cinema with this new film.

Sandy, I thought I knew you.

Lying is just not done in today's Hollywood. I hate to say this, but I'm going to have to call your mother.

Thursday, March 24, 2005

Oh, Archie

I watched "The Philadelphia Story" on TV last night with my friend Torrey.

Torrey turned to me and asked: "Is "Cary Grant" Cary Grant's real name?"

"Oh, no." I replied, too knowingly. "It's Leslie Uggams."*

Torrey shot me a look.

"...or something like that." I appended.

We giggled.

*for the record, it's really Archibald Leach.

Wednesday, March 23, 2005

Enough Is Enough Is Enough

It's snowing outside.

Excuse me. What I meant to say was:

It's motherfucking cocksucking assbiting tittyfucking snowing outside.

March is nearly over and all I can think of is that very beautiful Prince song, "Sometimes it Snows in April".

Oy.

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

Je Suis Lame (Or, Make It Bigger)

My apologies, dear readers, for not being up to date on my blogging duties. I have been dealing with a backlog of design work and the accompanying (dare I truly vent?) virtual shitstorm of revisions, revisions, revisions, revisions, revisions.

Yes, that's five revisions.

If I had to show that to a client right now, there would be four to five more revisions.

In the words of design legend Paula Scher, when it comes to the designer-client relationship, it really just comes down to this:

"Make it bigger."

Sunday, March 20, 2005

Who's Afraid of Kathleen Turner?

I went to go see (gasp) the premiere of the new revivial of "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" starring Kathleen Turner and Bill Irwin. After some reflection, I realized it was amazing.

I had to reflect a little since I know the play and movie fairly well and since Kathleen Turner is such a character unto herself, it was difficult at first to get a handle on how I felt about the production. However, what was most captivating about this version is that Martha and George's dilemma (more like ritualized armageddon) is humanized and deflowered of its monsterdom. I really had a deep sense of why these two damaged drunkards carry on what they do and - more importantly - how much they need and understand each other.

The big third act revelation in this version is honest and felt - when it hits in the movie, for example, it just feels shameful and grandstandy.

I have been partially obsessed with Kathleen Turner ever since I saw "Body Heat" at way way way too young of an age on HBO. Maybe it was that big, bad manly voice of hers, or the fact that she was ever the femme fatale and completely got away with it, or the fact that she spends the movie in espadrilles, tight skirts and no bra, or the fact that she introduced me to fellatio - any which way you cut it, I've been hooked since '81.

I also read this recently - exactly the kind of actress-on-actress bitchery I love:

Eileen Atkins once called her "an amazing nightmare".

Atta girl.

Friday, March 18, 2005

The Last of the Red Hot Lovers

I forgot to post this a few weeks ago. It's the final thing I wrote in that apeshit writing class before I ran out the classroom door like a Muppet. We had to write a dialogue between a live person and an inanimate object.

Insert yawn here.

What I ended up writing is a conversation between a woman and a slice of pizza.

Regretably, it reads like a Jenny Craig commercial.

(WOMAN enters quietly. PIZZA is perturbed and pacing back and forth, smoking a cigarette and nursing a scotch on the rocks.)

PIZZA: Where have you been?
WOMAN: Um, you know. Around.
PIZZA: You don't answer my calls. We never see each other anymore.
WOMAN: I've been busy.
PIZZA: Bullshit.
WOMAN: No, I mean it. Work has been really tough lately.
PIZZA: Again, bullshit.
WOMAN: OK, look. I don't know how to tell you this.
PIZZA: What?
WOMAN: This really isn't working out.
PIZZA: You're dumping me?
WOMAN: Let me explain.
PIZZA: How could you?
WOMAN: I know we've had such a good time together, you and I. And you've really been there for me through a lot of tough, shitty times. It's just...time for me to move on.
PIZZA: (desperate) But...what about the cheese? You told me you love cheese...
WOMAN: I do, it's just...
PIZZA: It's someone else. Isn't it?
WOMAN: Well...
PIZZA: (browbeating) Who is it? Huh? I bet it's that linguine you've been eyeing at the deli.
WOMAN: No...
PIZZA: Or, that meatball sub. Godammit! I should have known. I can never compete with a meatball sub.
WOMAN: Daniel says...
PIZZA: (interrupting) Daniel? Who the hell is Daniel?
WOMAN: He's my trainer.
PIZZA: He's what?
WOMAN: My trainer. He says I shouldn't be with someone like you. It's not healthy.
PIZZA: (abusive) What the fuck does he know?
WOMAN: He says I need someone with more meat on his bones...someone who's not...you know...unenriched and and lacking fiber.
PIZZA: Oh, I get it. After all the handholding, the coddling, the late nights staying up together watching old movies on T.V...you're leaving me for something low-carb.
WOMAN: I'm so sorry.
PIZZA: You know what? Don't come crawling back to me, OK? Don't even try to eye me on the street after a late night out drinking, either. We're done.

Thursday, March 17, 2005

Smooth Operator

Dear Diary,

Why do vodka martinis have to taste so good and go down so easily, so quickly, and so smoothly on a Wednesday night? I swear, on Saturdays they are not nearly as good.

Truly Yours, Mona Michael Midweek Mess

Wednesday, March 16, 2005

Mayo on One Side, Mustard on the Other

Again, I'm a little beleagered by too much work. So, here are some words of advice from Big Edie Bouvier Beale of "Grey Gardens" fame:

When in doubt...

"Don't do it. Have a sandwich."

Tuesday, March 15, 2005

Stratford-On-Guy

I am too busted up, tired and bleary eyed from too much computer work today to be able to write something appropriately sassy. So, in lieu of anything original, here are the lyrics to one of my favorite songs, that came on just now through iTunes playing on random shuffle:

I was flying into Chicago at night
Watching the lake turn the sky into blue-green smoke
The sun was setting to the left of the plane
And the cabin was filled with an unearthly glow
In 27-D I was behind the wing
Watching landscape roll out
Like credits on a screen
The earth looked like it was lit from within
Like a poorly assembled electrical ball as we moved
Out of the farmlands into the grid
The plan of the city was all that you saw
And all of these people sitting totally still
As the ground raced beneath them thirty thousand feet down

It took an hour, maybe a day
But once I really listened, the noise
Just went away

And I was pretending that I was in a Galaxie 500 video
The stewardess came back and checked on my drink
In the last strings of sunlight, a Brigitte Bardot
There’s a head on my headphones
Along with those eyes that you get
When your circumstance is movie size

It took an hour, maybe a day
But once I really listened, the noise
Just went away
It took an hour, maybe a day
But once I really listened, the noise
Just went away

—© Liz Phair, 1993

Monday, March 14, 2005

The Three Faces of T

I have been known to assume different speaking voices from time to time. Sometimes, for weeks on end, I will use a voice over and over again to the point of driving my friends and loved ones insane.

Lately, my favorite is a very exasperated uptown lady-with-a-capital-L voice. The voice is currently nameless...but it sounds like a Bitsy or a Muffy or a Blaine or a Pinky or a Honey with a very complicated hypenated last name...and a Park Avenue address...and a personal staff of twenty.

Just imagine Peggy Guggenheim with a ramped up drinking/prescription drug problem, and there you go.

Sunday, March 13, 2005

Linda Marie on the M-I-C

Calling all fags: my mother Linda (also known as Linda Marie) is coming to visit me at the end of May.

A 57 year old frustrated first-class fag hag, my mother is ready to take on Gay New York.

She's not interested in sight-seeing. However, she is interested in seeing: gay bars, restaurants, male strippers and anywhere a scene from "Sex and the City" was filmed.

Be warned: after a long stint as a speech pathologist in a junior high school, she has been known to talk like a truck driver.

An example...

When referring to a (granted, maybe somewhat floozyish) girl my younger brother was dating, Linda said to me, in private, with a Carleton Light Menthol 100 dangling from her lips:

"That girl looked like she could suck the chrome off a bumper."

Saturday, March 12, 2005

Die+T=Diet

I love to eat.

I love to eat so much, sometimes I can't see straight.

I love to eat so much, ordering take-out from a diner at 4 in the morning can easily (dare I say deliriously?) take the place of a one-night stand.

I love to eat so much, I have to stop...

...For a while, anwyay.

Here are some reasons why:

1. Kirstie Alley.
2. When I order a sandwhich at my corner deli, the guy behind the counter now says to me "Hey, BIG Guy. Whatty'll ya have?"
3. The guy behind the counter at my corner deli didn't used to say that.
4. Despite my tough-girl drag, I'm not sure I'm ready for full Bear/Baby Bear/Bear-Cub status.
5. My baggy pants are now my sexy pants.
6. The phrase "Double Cheese Burger" sounds like a good start or a light snack.
7. Summer's (almost here) and the time is right for dancing in the streets.
8. Marlon Brando.

Mainly, the reason for the mini-pre-summer diet is a simple two-parter:

In the words of my best friend from high school, Jessica: "God, you fags and your fucking eating disorders. I'm so lucky I'm a dyke. No one cares if I get all fat and nasty."

When I was in Miami last month, my sexy-once-upon-a-time trunk shorts burst open at the fly every time I swam, sat up, moved or exhaled, giving passers-by, friends, and strangers an NC-17 peek-a-boo show of all my business.

Friday, March 11, 2005

Not My First Time at the Rodeo

You know you're an extremely gay ten-year old child when...you forego T-Ball, basketball, baseball, softball, soccer, football, lacrosse, rugby, wrestling (mmmm...wrestling), swimming, diving, ice hockey, field hockey, cheerleading, cross country, track and field, tennis, badminton, flag-twirling, baton-twirling, jazz and tap dancing, macrame, needlepoint, pottery and all other full-contact sports in order to stay inside to watch "Mommie Dearest" for the 27th time on HBO so you can recite your favorite lines, bone up on old Hollywood glamour and learn the arch skills of high dramatic bitchery from the inside out.

You know you're an extremely gay 33 year old adult man when...you forego a night out because "Mommie Dearest" pops up on HBO in order to relive the magic and ponder how the hell anyone ever thought you might have been heterosexual.

Thursday, March 10, 2005

Don't Tell Me Not To...

You know you're extremely homosexual when...after falling asleep watching "Midnight Cowboy" on Turner Movie Classics, you wake up with the television trumpeting the opening credits of "Funny Girl".

You know you're extremely homosexual and desperately in need of help when...after waking up to "Funny Girl", you are completely intoxicated and glued to the T.V. knowing that you won't be able to get out of bed or brush your teeth or eat something or make coffee or change your underwear or masturbate or leave the house or get to work until a certain scene involving a train station, a speeding locomotive, a big fur hat, the Manhattan skyline, a tugboat and one of the gayest declarations of self-actualization ever filmed slams, bangs and blares its way across the screen.

Thank Christ there's an intermission just after that.

Wednesday, March 09, 2005

Close(r) To Me

In berating the film "Closer" over and over again, both verbally and here in virtual print, I have gotten into many a mini-fight with those who did enjoy/were devastated by watching the movie.

The thing is, I really wanted to like it. In fact, I wanted to love it. The preview was hot, as was that lovely Damian Rice song that ends the film. I was even rooting for Julia Roberts, who has been known to occasionally act in movies from time to time (rather than just turning on her smile in lieu of a performance), hoping she was going to give up something, like, really really real for Mr. Nichols, since he's been known to do such magical sorts of things. Clive Owen was selling the shit out of his part though, I have to say. He was gunning the talky script in exactly the right way.

Maybe...it was Natalie Portman. She's a little way too cute to be a stripper. She was also wig-on-wig*.

Maybe...it was Jude Law...oddly enough, not looking as handsome as he should.

But...maybe...just maybe...when the reality of the larger world (a.k.a. a world with more than four people in it) creeps in - as it can onscreen - to the intimate, hyper verbal world of the stage play, the too-closed construct of the play falls apart.

I also couldn't help comparing it to Nichols' own "Carnal Knowledge", which knocked me flat on my ass when I saw it.

So, the moral is: refrain from getting closer, get down with something carnal.

*see: January 2005 - "Wig-On-Wig"

Tuesday, March 08, 2005

A Dream, Deferred

Dear Diary,

When I grow up, I want to sing like Jennifer Holliday.

Never mind that I can't sing. Just make it happen.

Truly Yours, The Biggest Fag of 1983

Monday, March 07, 2005

Make Way for the Mother Load

Something crucial to my being has been absent for the last 15 years. I knew something hasn't been quite right with me for the last decade and a half. I thought maybe it was just all that pot I smoked in college or the long-term side effects of abusing Sudafed every spring. But on a fateful night last December, I finally realized what it was.

I went to see the movie "Closer", which was immature, talky, and altogether annoying. However, my $10.50 did not go wasted. Before "Closer" churned its bloated butt onto the screen, here was a preview for a light romantic comedy starring Jennifer Lopez. In this preview, J.Lo is driving in a car with her fiance on her way to meet his mother. J.Lo is nervous, despite the fact that her man (hunky Michael Vartan) is comforting her, telling her she has nothing to worry about. Their car pulls onto the grounds of a huge estate, and there in the garden is a woman, seen from behind, presumably the fiance's mother, in a huge, deliriously obnoxious white hat.

The head-in-the-hat turns slowly toward the couple to reveal what's gone missing from my life...

Jane. Fonda.

I do believe I soiled myself slightly the second I saw her.

Jane Fonda is finally returning to the screen (in the film "Monster-In-Law") after a strange and downright daunting absence. Sure, not wanting to make crappy films is one thing...but Janey, did you have to tear off and marry Ted Turner?

Maybe Jane just got tired of being in the driver's seat. Now that she's been a quiet passenger for some time now, I would like to welcome her back to where she belongs.

Sunday, March 06, 2005

New Delpy Blonde

A love song for Julie Delpy:

Hotly blonde, vaguely French
Bee-stung lips make me want to fetch
My bone for you
On all fours, breaking my back
Performing a tour
De France on your kibbles and bits.
I don't care that you were Quentin's best friend's junkie whore
Or white and light in Kieslowski's midday chore
Or wolfy and toothy and sexy in that remake bore
Although queer to the core
You have me swinging Kinsey style
Across the scale
A mad dog in heat on the floor.
Shake that song, strum that ass.
Sunrise, Sunset.
Sunrise, Sunset.
Please, Julie Delpy,
Don't make me saddy.
I'll get jiggy like a Saint Patrick's Day Paddy.
Just let me be your baby daddy.

Saturday, March 05, 2005

Big Mac Attack

On occasion (ok, maybe daily...or even hourly), I have been known to suffer from low blood sugar. When my blood sugar dips too low, I swiftly turn into a combination of Joan-Collins-as-Alexis-Carrington and that possessed, bile spewing girl from "The Exorcist".

I don't mean to, it just happens.

Tonight, during a phone conversation with my friend Rob, while I was feeling particularly low, food-wise, I hissed this through clenched teeth:

"Don't make me crawl through this phone and punch you in the fucking face."

The reason for said outlandish outburst: Rob was taking too long (too long being 60 seconds) in deciding where to have dinner.

Friday, March 04, 2005

An Over-the-Counter Cure for One-Night Stands

Yet another ditty from the painful class I took last Sunday...it's a parody of a drug commercial.

Granted, it's a bit of a mash-up:

Tired of waking up next to strangers, feeling shameful, dirty and a little less than sexy?

Try new One-Night-Away™ - the cure for one-night stands.

With just a single dose of One-Night-Away™ before you head out for a night on the town, you are guaranteed to feel no remorse, shame or regret the morning after a night of delectable, anonymous debauchery. You'll wake up feeling great about yourself - ready to tackle a new day - and, maybe, even tackle a new stranger.

One-Night-Away™ has not been shown to prevent sexually transmitted diseases. Side effects include: dizziness, nausea, sultriness and general satisfaction.

So, go ahead and enjoy yourself.

One-Night-Away™ let's you forget what you did before you've even done it.

Thursday, March 03, 2005

Requiem for a Midget Male Escort Kleptomaniac

Part Two of my Tyrone fixation (see below), as spoken by his ex-wife Pearlanne at his funeral:

My darling, my husband and my best friend, Tyrone Tonique Tanaka may have been a midget male escort kleptomaniac, but that doesn't mean he didn't have a heart of gold. I remember this one time, back when we were working our way down the Eastern Seaboard to Hollywood, Florida, stripping and hustling to pay for food and gas, Tyrone gave me a solid gold I.D. bracelet with the name Pearlanne Jean engraved on it.

Now, some of you might remember my name - at the time - was Suzanne. Well, that bracelet was so nice and Tyrone's eyes twinkled so brightly, that I decided to change my name right there on the spot. From that day forward, I was Pearlanne Jean Horowitz Tanaka. I'm still beside myself whenever I look down at that bracelet. The fact that Tyrone was able to part with a piece of gold jewelry...well, it still makes me shed a little tear or two.

Forget the fact that he divorced me and left me for dead in the wilds of South Carolina during a hurricane. I still love him.

Wednesday, March 02, 2005

Confessions of a Midget Male Escort Kleptomaniac

For some reason, when I took a writing workshop this past Sunday (see also: Not So Hot For Teacher), I was stuck on the subject of a Midget Male Escort Kleptomaniac. Here is an in-class assignment I wrote in Tyrone Tonique Tanaka's small, well-hung and well-paid voice, as he is divulging the nature of his demons to a psychoanalyst:

I finally realized why I'm a midget male escort kleptomaniac.

When I first lost my virginity at age 9, the girl I finally tricked into doing it had the most dazzling pair of gold hoop earrings I had ever seen. I had to have them. Not that I had a penchant for dressing in drag or even pierced ears. I needed to take something more from her - for memory's sake. So, I took them.

She also had two crisp fifty dollar bills tucked into her braissiere that I lifted as well. Now that I think about it, my father must have given her the money. After all, the girl was my sister's nanny.

She confronted me about it soon after. As I tried to deny it, she confessed that what I happened to do for her was so good, she'd pay me for it again.

Despite my stature, I happen to be endowed like a donkey four times my size.

So, when I pleasured her the second, third and fourth times, I took her wallet, her rosary beads and her shoes.

The onslaught of petty theft only excited her more.

By the time fuckfest number five rolled around, she had signed over her bank account to me and was stealing and selling stuff from my parents' home and giving the profits directly to me. When my parents caught her trying to hawk their Mercedes at the corner gas station for $3,000, they fired her on the spot.

"How could you do this to us?" my mother asked her.

"It was for Tyrone. He needed the money."

"He's nine years old."

Tuesday, March 01, 2005

Ogilvy Home Perm (Now for Pubes!)

Dear Queen Helene, Miss John Frieda, and/or Mr. Lars Ogilvy,

My pubic hair needs a perm.

What was once luxurious, bouncing and behaving, very naturally curly locks of brown is now a mangled, frizzy unmanageable mess of straw. The shit just sticks straight out from my body.

I won't even bother to broach the subject of my balls.

It's as if I've had way too many blow-outs or chemical straightening treatments or Japanese reverse perms performed on my nether region.

I guess I should mow it down, pray to Baby Jesus, and hope it will grow back in as the cute 'fro it used to be...once upon a time anyway.

Is there some deep conditioner I can use? Do they make Frizz-Ease for pubes?

Please respond as soon as you possibly can. As I write this, I'm afraid my frenemies in Cha-Cha Alley are mining my pubic dilemma for a nickname I'll be stuck with for years. Or, at the very least, through the end of the summer.

Sincerely Yours,
Constance the Mad Bushwoman*

*See - the nickname avalanche has already begun.