Out in the open

Well, thanks once again to the crack reporting team at The Onion, the feline-like animal is finally out of the Bloomingdale's Big Brown Bag--

America's First Gay President Concludes Historic Second Term

Shocking I know!

When I first read this article, I have to admit I winced a bit. (Editor's note--winced, not minced.) My gay pride gets in the way of the joke every now and again, especially when someone who isn't gay is labeled gay as a way to discredit him or her or when "gay" is used as a substitute for "stupid" or "dumb." Not the case here, but . . . hey, wait a minute . . . .

Anyway, I got over it, much in the way I did when one of my female employees in Texas kept using the phrase, "That is so gay!" in front of me to drive home the point that she thought something was especially ridiculous, like her job, her school work, her husband, her mother, etc. I just thought to myself, "You are such a stupid skank!" and felt all the better for it.

Instead of getting my rather fabulous feathers in a ruffle, I focused on the things in the article that made me and several others I shared it with on Facebook laugh out loud--such as the reference to Dubya's overcompensating for his feelings of inadequacies "by carefully cultivat[ing] his image as a masculine, simple-minded, heterosexual male." Tee hee.

At least we're being honest about it now. Still, my favorite part has to be the characterization of former White House Press Secretary Ari Fleischer as a flaming gaddabout, sort of the Gelman of Official Washington.

"Believe me, sister, he overcompensated with a capital 'compensated,'" Fleischer said. "But when the cameras stopped rolling and the podium was put away, he was just fabulous. We had a fabulous, fabulous time."

I've always had my suspicions about Our Miss Fleischer (oddly cute but oh-so-evil), and I'm glad to finally have them confirmed in an official news source like The Onion.

But, please, to my hetero friends out there, Karl Rove is all yours. Haven't we gay people suffered enough with George W. as our poster boy for what happens when middle-aged Texas men lose their way late at night somewhere near the intersection of Montrose and Westheimer?

I can see it now: One night, the future president's Cadillac breaks down outside a club called Encounterz or maybe Dimensionz. A little drunk and disorderly, he is annoyed by the sound of the disco beat from within and heads toward the door to put a stop to it. But it is a siren's call. The crowd, recognizing a closet case when they see one, eggs him on, pushing him toward the dancefloor. In a haze of cigarettes and amyl nitrite, he feels compelled to move. He breaks into a fevered sweat, caught up in a dissociative whirl of mirror ball and tribal chanting. Suddenly he finds himself shirtless, with a tambourine in his hand, banging it wildly, and dancing dervishly. And in a few years time, the whole world suffers from the shame of his transgression.

Oh dear. I think I've just plagiarized Sandra Bernhard from Without You, I'm Nothing.

* * *

We want you as a new recruit: President Bush entertains the crowd, appearing with his old band, The Village People, during Houston Gay Pride 2004.

Little antique mall of horrors

A day in the country. I could write for hours about it--what all I saw, what all I did--but I'm still trying to finish posts I started last month. Why delay, dear readers, the wit, insights, and perverse takes on reality you have come to know, expect, and flinch from?

So here we go--especially for you, the SmartBlogtucky, the iBlogtucky, the GoogleBlogtucky, simplified for quick sale and abbreviated for the ADHD Generation, I present you with . . . Little Antique Mall of Horrors. Not many words, just mainly pictures taken with a medium-quality, 3-year-old Motorola flip-phone.

Enter--if you dare!

We'll get to the lead frightening image in a moment, but first, let's have a chat about PeeWee's Glen or Glenda doppelganger cousin. Why, it's none other than Marilyn Monroe! And Marilyn again! And even more Marilyn! All painted (or something) onto the most lurid-colored Fiestaware you could probably not even imagine, not even with the aid of hallucinogens. Colors so Timothy Lear-ish, acid-is-groovy, that it isn't so much the case that they do not exist in nature but, in fact, do not even exist in synthetic form.

Sort of Phoenix lawn green with an antifreeze chaser. Or maybe a Texas bluebonnet blue in desperate need of a gall bladder operation. Hard to describe. Even harder to fathom. And, unfortunately, its essence not fully captured through the lens of a flip-phone. Alas.

Now at the risk of offending the artist as well as members of my very own homo queerectus tribe--and trust me, I'm about to--I just have to ask: What was this queen thinking? I mean, Marilyn Monroe?! On Fiestaware?!?! Isn't that some kind of a double whammy of limp-wristed nancy-ness? Doesn't that kind of double-gilding the calla lily cancel out the previous gilding--plus run the danger of tilting the world off its axis and sending it spinning uncontrollably into a David Gest-like face-sucking blackhole filled with glitter, sequins, and showtunes?

All I can say is, I sure hope you know what forces you're messin' with, Princess.

Let's take a moment: Of course, it's me writing this, so everything has to have a gay angle. If you were expecting something other than fruited tropical rum drinks, sodomy, and the eyelash, I'm so sorry to disappoint you, but really, you should have charged a clue or two on your AmEx when I led this post with references to PeeWee Herman and Marilyn Monroe.

For you see, observing the "gay thing" and its bizarro incarnations on our semi-fabulous planet--well, it's what I bring to the rather impeccably decorated table, if I do say. As long as there is breath in my body and evangelical ministers with rentboys on speed dial, I'll be there, deskchair quarterbacking life's more homo subtextual moments. And I suspect to have a long and happy career at this, as the wowser populace, despite recent political upsets, lives on and will forever need something to rail against, as well as someone to go to when their straight-laced lives get them down--or it's time for their roots to be colored. Whichever comes first.

So, a tip of the appletini to Mr. Romney. A waft of smoke from the Gitane for Mr. Huckabee. Kisses, darlings. You need me as much as I need you. Let's don't call the whole thing off, chitlins, for I'd be left with nothing to write about.

Perhaps, though, I jab this particular stiletto of innuendo a little too early, a little too often, although, admittedly, not very deeply (and of course when I say "stiletto," I'm referring to the high heel not the weapon, dollface). Still, there's truth lying in the grooves of the surface scratches I inflict on the linoleum of life. For just a case or two down from the Housewares Department's shrine to Marilyn, I found another photo op--G.I. Joe (or a reasonable facsimile thereof) in all fetish gear.

Once again, the photo doesn't quite bring the scene to life, as it were. So let moi offer vous the haute couture reportage: Joe here is wearing a black leather zip-up jacket and matching black leather trousers. Always a classic, masculine look, one sure never to go wrong with the ladies--and a fair number of the fellas as well. Strut, pout, put it out, Joe!

But, oh dear, he is, as you say, sans shoes. A fashion faux-pas, Monsieur Joe!

However, this can be explained: If I remember correctly, Joe was missing a foot as well.

Stepping away from the catwalk for a moment, I can honestly say that I don't quite get the point of dressing up one's doll in last season's leftovers from the Folsom Street Fair. Still, perhaps I am misreading the visuals. Is this a rare example of the line of failed action figures from Al Pacino's 1980 gay-baiting celluloid fiasco, Cruising? Or perhaps plucky props are in order to some seamy seamstress out there. She/he seems to say, gals, why go out and plop down a wad of pesos on one of those expensive Billy, Carlos, or Tyson dolls when you can run up one of your very own with the remnants of an old Naugahide sofa and a remaindered Butterick pattern?

Regardless, Barbie's main squeeze Ken is cowering in the corner, I'm sure.

Or maybe not . . . because in the same case, a shelf or two above, I found this disturbing image--naked Ken. Or maybe naked G.I. Joe. Or perhaps even naked Big Jim. Naked somebody. With a price tag affixed to his rather ripped torso. Oh, if only it were that simple, that all men came with price tags attached to their chests . . . .

This Jim did at least have both feet, but his head didn't match his body, as the body was tanned and the face pasty white--although this does sort of reflect an odd Pennsylvania reality, given the obsession with the tanning bed in these here parts. Personally, I love how Jim's legs have been crossed discreetly at the ankles. Nothing whispers modesty more.

The more I explored, the more this little antique shop of horrors continued Flickring its depravity to me (and now from me to you). Look at this scene--as best as I can figure, it's some sort of dismembered ceramic naked body, just splayed on the floor, alongside of a cooking pot. A nice touch in window-dressing, I'll give you that, but next time, a tip for my friends in store-merchandising--do go the extra dimension, remove the pot lid, and put a spare leg in it for optimum ghoulish effect.

And, finally, there's our lead photo--PeeWee Herman stuffed in the bottom of a basket. Ah, too many words, too many images. So I'll give it to you in one sentence: It's like a scene from some weird porno as directed by Charlie McCarthy.

Oh, the humanity . . . .

"Hermey doesn't like to make toys" is just code

Editor's note: As promised long ago, a totally inappropriate piece of holiday tale. You've been warned.

* * *

You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen, Comet and Cupid and Donner and Blitzen. But do you recall the most fabulous reindeer of all?

While visiting my Mom, Vivien Leigh, and my Sis, the Number 1 Beatles Fan of All Time, in Kansas over Thanksgiving, the conversation took an interesting turn. We had blown a little too hastily through our standard entertainment choices--the DVD sets of That Girl! my sister owns and the several weeks' worth of Dark Shadows episodes on loan from Netflix. Thus, we were in desperate need of something, anything, to enjoy while we convalesced from the overindulgence in turkey and trimmings.

Not one to click too much from channel to channel, I used Sunflower Cable's on-screen guide to review the holiday weekend's TV offerings. "Hey, there's a Meerkat Manor marathon on the Discovery Channel. Have you seen this? You guys might like it," I suggested. "Although bad stuff does happen to the animals, and I know how you feel about that." The latter comment was directed toward my sister, who has the world's biggest heart when it comes to mammals, especially of the hirsute, cold nose, and lick-themselves-silly variety.

"No," Vivien said, "Your sister doesn't like that one."

"Oh," I said and chalked it up to the occasional animal death.

Beatles, who does a lot of theorizing in her career as an academic, explained: "It's because the show is so sexist," she said.

"Sexist?" I ventured timidly.

"Tell him your interpretation," my Mom encouraged her.

"Well," she began, "All the female animals, whenever they are out in the open, are 'vulnerable' and can't make it on their own without a man [male animal, that is] being present. The women 'abandon' their children, then are 'punished' for their foolishness by being killed by a predator. Who says that's what's going on? Maybe the females just want to be on their own away from the kids. Maybe it has nothing to do at all with that very sexist interpretation," she said.

"Hmmm," I said, genuinely intrigued. "Sounds like something you could get an article out of."

The conversation turned to other theories, notbably queer theory and the concept of the "gay vague," as my sister put it.

"The gay what?" I said.

"The gay vague--the concept that there is a gay subtext, an indication of gayness in the text, the scene, but it is not explicit. For example, two men are seen together in a scene, and there is an intimate interaction between the two of them--maybe one lights a cigarette for another--something symbolic, but it's not explicit, it's left open-ended so that you don't know for sure whether they are gay or not. Yet it appeals to a variety of audiences, both gay and straight."

"Oh, you mean, like, in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," I ventured.

"What?" my Sis asked, now herself genuinely intrigued.

I took a deep breath and began extolling a theory I'd had in my head for a number of years.

"Well, Rudolph is an outsider. He is rejected by his family and friends, not allowed to join in with the others because he's different. His father in particular rejects him for his difference--his very obvious difference--and Rudolph runs away to the Island of Misfit Toys, which if that isn't a stand-in for San Francisco or Fire Island or Mykonos, I don't know what is. Along the way he picks up two other misfits--a blond twink with ambitions (that would be Hermey or Herman or, better still, "Her-Man") and a 'bear,' in the gay sense, in the form of Yukon Cornelius."

I continued . . .

"Finally, Rudolph heads home because his family needs his help. Thus, he becomes socially acceptable and part of the community once they discover the benefits of his uniqueness, his 'flaming' red nose and its ability to light the way for Santa and keep Christmas on track for everyone. Despite being an 'outsider' and, thus, to some, an enemy of the family and tradition, Rudolph ends up supporting both structures. The classic 'gay helper' role, I think you would call it. Just like those queens on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.

"I mean," I stuttered, feeling that maybe I'd gone a bit OTT with this analysis, "it's not necessarily a gay story, but you could interpret it that way.

"Oh, and Clarice is just a beard," I added.

"Exactly!" she said. "That's the gay vague!"

And to all a good night.

But(t) officer . . .

Don't tease me, bro, especially with this sort of "Things that Make You Go Hmmmm" piece of tale--

Quebec police look into rookie butt-slapping ritual: Police union concerned investigation over "childish" tradition will tarnish force

Last Updated: Friday, November 23, 2007 4:20 PM ET

CBC News

A "juvenile" but time-honoured Quebec police rookie initiation rite that starts with booze and ends with a firm slap on the derrière is the focus of a criminal investigation following hazing complaints.

Montreal police have been asked to investigate allegations of wrongdoing in an initiation tradition practised within the Quebec city force for more than half a century.

The ritual starts with rounds of beer, then moves to a "weigh-in" involving older officers holding new recruits down on their backs, while others bet on their weight. The game ends with a slap on the behind.

"It's childish, it's juvenile, but it's a tradition," explained Sébastien Talbot, a spokesman for the Quebec City police brotherhood. "It's always strange when you, out of context, have to explain an initiation to somebody."

I'll say. But even in context the story is still mighty strange.

I mean, honestly, imagine for a moment that you are a police officer, a male member of one of the toughest and most virile of professions a man could choose. You come home late one evening from work, exhausted, a little tipsy, your hands chapped and callused. The missus clucks sympathetically, puts her arm around you and draws you into an embrace. "How was your day, dear?" she asks comfortingly.

And the best you can say by way of explanation is . . .

"Well, we broke in some new recruits. Honey, you can't fathom how many men I laid down on top of today. Had to wrestle each and everyone of 'em to the ground, straddle 'em, pin them to the floor, all the while the other guys stood around watching and yelling out catcalls and bets. I felt like I was in the middle of a cockfight. And then when that was over, we lined up all the newbies, made 'em drop trou', bend over, and then each took turns slapping them firmly but lovingly on their bare, young, nubile asses. 'Thank you, sir, may I have another?!' Ha! I tell ya, it was brutal! But I'll be back in the thick of it again tomorrow. 'Cause that's just the kind of dedicated cop I am. Always up for cracking a case, even when the crack belongs to one of my fellow officers."

At this point, I think your wife might suggest that your career has finally hit bottom. (Bare bottom or rock bottom, you decide.) I also think she might recommend you get yourself down to the local queer bar for some advice and comfort, while she sits down to watch a very special episode of Oprah entitled "The Thin Blue Vertical Line: The Lowdown on Police Officers on the Downlow."

Starring you, of course.

* * *

For posterior's sake, the full story is archived here.

Dannielynn has two Daddies

Another day, another celebrity news bulletin, AKA, the news that nobody really needs to know.

As reported today by the Associated Press (slightly edited for space, but not necessarily content):

* * *

Stern Says Book's Gay Sex Claim `Absurd'

By Associated Press

LOS ANGELES - Howard K. Stern says claims in a new book [editor's note: Rita Cosby's tell-all, Blonde Ambition: The Untold Story Behind Anna Nicole Smith's Death] that he and Anna Nicole Smith's [other] ex-boyfriend Larry Birkhead had a videotaped sexual encounter before her death are absurd and could psychologically damage Smith's infant daughter.

"It's ridiculous. I mean it's absolutely absurd," Stern told ETonline.com.

"Dannielynn is gonna read this garbage and it's almost like she's gonna have to get counseling from the age of 3," Stern said.

* * *

You can read the full story on the AP website, if you so desire.

But before you go, let me get this straight, America, if you'll pardon the expression--

Former celebrity blow-up doll Anna Nicole Smith and celebrity photographer/hair highlights model Larry Birkhead somehow have produced from their comingled seed and egg a veritable baby genius who will be able to access, digest, and react to an archive of tabloid journalism by the tender age of 3?

And further--

Somehow the rumor of her Daddy having a sexual and/or romantic encounter with her almost-Daddy will be more psychologically damaging than, oh say, having your mother pass away when you are only a babe, or, I dunno, having Anna Nicole Smith for a mother in the first place and, oh, gosh, call me crazy, not knowing who your Daddy actually was for the first few months of your life because there were so many freakin' candidates for the role?

First, Heather had two mommies. And now this.

Man, this homosex is powerful shizzle! It can bring the psyches of toddlers, the U.S. government, and the American institutions of marriage and family to their collective knees!

. . . If you'll pardon the expression, Senator Larry Craig.