NETFLIX QUICK PIX!!!

FAMED CHERMAN GHOUL SAYS:

"YOU MUST SEE CUURRTEEEEESES NEW BLOG!!! IT'S MEIN FAVOWITE!"

http://netflixquickpix.blogspot.com

TASTY RECIPE OF THE DAY!!!

As everyone knows, I am ALL about comfort food: Mashed potatoes and gravy, biscuits and gravy, chocolate ice cream, MACARONI AND CHEESE. If you've ever made it from scratch, you know there's a few steps involved including making a roux, the cheese sauce, boiling and draining the macaroni, laying it in a baking dish, then baking for an hour. Delish, yes. Clean-up, no. Here's a simple and delicious EASY VERSION of the classic found on RECIPEZAAR. I thought I was going to die it was soooo good.

Ingredients

• 230 g macaroni (uncooked)
• 3 cups milk
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1 1/2 teaspoons all-purpose flour
• 1/4 cup butter
• 1 1/2 cups shredded cheddar cheese

Directions

1. Melt butter in a saucepan over a medium heat.

2. Stir in flour and salt.

3. Add milk and macaroni to saucepan, and bring to a boil.

4. Reduce heat, and cover.

5. Simmer for 15 minutes or until pasta is tender, stirring occasionally.

6. Add cheese, and stir until cheese melts.

7. Serve.

IF YOU'VE NEVER HEARD OF THE COUNTESS DI FRASSO...

Then you've never heard of society hostess ELSA MAXWELL!!!

Elsa Maxwell, hostess with the mostest, wrote a fascinating autobiography RSVP: Elsa Maxwell's Own Story in 1953. Naturally, I had to special order this ancient volume from the library, but am I glad I did. This old gas bag recounts (coyly) her life and times. Now these were the most fascinating of times, as La Maxwell managed to be in Europe during those heady days of Cafe Society. This stunning tale recounts lavish parties, evenings with Cole Porter, her complete and utter disinterest in cash, jewelry, clothes, The Duchess of Windsor, booze. No, this Zaftig Zelig (who managed to be EVERYWHERE at just the right time!) never touched so much as a drop, preferring to sing for her supper by playing piano at smart dinner parties. Oh, there's a lot of name dropping to be had here, but it's completely delicious! You see, Europe before and between World Wars was the place to be...and it simply wasn't a place for just anybody, unless, of course you were Salvador Dali, Claire Booth, the lesbian author Janet Flanner (AKA Genet), or some second generation American Heiress looking for a title on the cheap. Oh, what SNOBS Americans are! Simply the WORST in the world!!! Of course she brushes shoulders with John Barrymore, is the FIRST to congratulate FDR on his big White House Win, gives insomniac Winston Churchill advice on his wayward son Randolph, and his fetching bride Pamela Digby, arguably the greatest courtesan of her generation. Oh, that yearly free wardrobe by designer Jean Desse! Olivier of the Paris Ritz, who taught her EVERYTHING she knew about fine food and wine (though she never touched the stuff...err...the wine that is). Of COURSE she knew the fate of Woolworth Heiress Barbara Hutton when she got involved with that horrid Prince Mdivani! She convinced Eisenhower to run for president, and predicted he would win handily, FIVE YEARS BEFORE HAND!!!

Run, walk, sleep with, murder someone if you must, but get your hands on this book!

You won't be able to put it down!!!

ANOTHER MEMORIAL

This makes three in a year. Dear Stewart Allingham. Some other guy whose name escapes me, and now the most painful: AUNT CAROLYN MARYCHILD.

Let me tell you a couple things about Aunt Carolyn. More than a couple. She was the coolest, patchouli smelling, San Francisco dwelling Hippette a youngster could ever have met. Especially one who was just plain weird growing up. When I was really young, she told me that all the chaos in my immediate world was not my fault. She accidentally blabbed that I was adopted (some years later) by my father, which made life a hell of a lot clearer to me. She dated this black guy with an afro and his crazy Irish Setter named Kubla; they drove around in a VW Van, chasing the Grateful Dead hither and yon. She changed her name last name from Curtis to Marychild to honor her Mother, because her father had died before she was born. And she didn't change it, even after she married Uncle Rick. She was, after all, still A Child of Mary. Magdalene. Curtis. I swear.

When I was old enough to travel alone (say, oh, about 8), I'd stay with Aunt Carolyn in her flat on Dolores, near the Haight in San Francisco. I can still smell the musky scent of insensce, marijuana, sex. I remember the odd bits of mysterious Eastern bric-a-brac, the female erotica hanging on the wall, her really cool record collection. The bay windows that wouldn't open. The funky ass fridge with the funky ass shit she ate in it. She took me to the Palace of Fine Arts, the windmill at the edge of Golden Gate Park, The Palace of the Legion of Honor, which became my fave museum of all time.

She took me to see my first Bergman Film, FANNY AND ALEXANDER.

She was the first person to tell me that if I was gay, it was OK.

When I was like, oh, 14, she left me alone for the day, gave me some spending money, put me on a bus and sent me to The Castro. How cool is that? In five years I'd be living there.

She and Rick had been married for a while, I was all grown up, and I'd spend weekends with them in Vacaville, a suburb outside of Sacramento. Now, Uncle Rick was a really cool guy. He had this wicked sense of humour, and a naughty cackle to match. Plus he had the best stash box ever! They took me to a Grateful Dead Show. It was a really warm night, and we were completely stoned (like, who wasn't), though I didn't really dig the music, I got swept up in the atmosphere. Then, like magic, a tangerine moon rose above an open air stage.

Once, tripping HARD on a mix of X and coke in Guerneville, on the Russian River, I called Aunt Carolyn collect and told her I was FAAAAH-REEEEKING OUT! She stayed on the phone with me for what seemed like forever, reminding me that it's only a drug, it will pass through you. Well, it finally did, but all in front of the local Safeway Market, hanging on a pay phone.

Then I got HIV. Then it turned to AIDS. Then I moved to Southern California.

Then we lost contact.

Until recently.

She googled me, and up came this blog.

We emailed. She called me her dear tender-hearted nephew of mine. I told her what she had done to make my life what it is today.

Aunt Carolyn died on June 10th.

I love you Aunt Carolyn.

And don't tell me you can't hear me, because I KNOW you believed...

NETFLIX QUICK PIX!!!

If you think life is bad, watch THIS!!!

WHERE YOU SHOULD BE SHOPPING IN THE LV!!!

By Derek Washington. Recently, I made my way down to my fave shopping destination, The Forum Shops at Ceasars Palace. If you've never been, poor you. It is, hands down, the most luxurious shopping mall in The LV. From it's kitschy talking statues to its cobblestone paths that lead to the worlds premier luxury shops and its ever changing skyscape, The Forum Shops brings a whole new meaning to an afternoon at the mall. Yours truly was invited to the tres chic John Varvatos shop to personally preview the launch of the new Ernst Benz by John Varvatos Limited edition Chronoscope. That's a really cool way to say, majorly nice watch. I was welcomed into the hip, modern space by the killer staff. General Manager Charlotte Moazzami and Assistant Manager Rachel Fox showed me around the shop and introduced me to that aforementioned exquisite timepiece. I was then given the VIP tour by mega well dressed Yoni who pointed out some of the great accessories and the latest Spring Summer 2009 designs. Unlike a lot of high end stores, John Varvatos at The Forum Shops is a welcoming place staffed by friendly folks who delight in showing off their line. The clothes are casually luxurious, perfect for a well dressed guys day or night in The LV. You can go from a private jet straight to your VIP table with a bottle of Dom without missing a beat in John Varvatos. The John Varvatos line is, while stylish and ultra luxe, very comfortable and quite affordable considering the style and quality of work that goes into each piece. If you're a guy looking for a great place to stock up for Spring/Summer 2009, stop in and have the great folks at John Varvatos hook you up in style.

NETFLIX QUICK PIX!!!

LANA TURNER!!!

Want some cheesy flix from the 1950's? You do? Well, you can't go wrong with anything Lana Turner did. Glossy, Cinemascopey, Lush and Horrid, Turner was on the downturn at 35 when she made:

THE PRODIGAL. Oh. My. God. Turner stars in this $5,000,000 "Biblical" epic wearing almost nothing. Supposedly based on the fable of The Prodigal Son, Lana really, REALLY did not want to do this flick. But it was those waning years of her career at MGM, and she was contractually obligated. So she made EVERYONE miserable, particularly the wardrobe people, spending hours and hours in fittings of scanty-panty chiffon frocks. Lana is just a wreck, but she has that patented MGM walk as she climbs the stairs to the Pagan Altar. Micah (Edward Purdom) is the Prodigal Son, who wanders into Damascus and immediately pops a woody for Turner, Pagan High Priestess. She persuades him to forgo his Hebrew faith, squander his small fortune. This movie is SOOOO awful and cringe making, that by the end, when Turner flings herself into the Sacrificial Fire, you get the idea that she would rather have done it at the beginning of the flick.

Based on the best-selling, scandalous novel by Grace Metalious, PEYTON PLACE features Lana as a frigid widow with a secret. And she takes it all out on her daughter, played by some pert-nosed ingenue from the 50's. Hope Lange (proving herself to be quite the young actress) portrays a beat-about-the-place daughter who also has a secret. Also starring Terry (Mrs Howard Hughes) Moore, David Nelson (can't act, but eye candy), Russ Tamblyn (the son of a domineering mother) and ever present Lloyd Nolan as the kindly town doctor who gives one heck of a speech to a courtroom full of gossipy, prune faced spinsters. This film eventually became a hit, only after Turner's daughter ended up in juvie for killing Johnny Stompanato, and resurrected Lana's waning career. This movie makes Bellingham look like a nice place to live....only not in Technicolor. Or cool clothes.

The success of Peyton Place brought on Lana's next flick IMITATION OF LIFE. I've reviewed it before, and you probably have already seen it, so why bother repeating myself? Costarring Sandra Dee and Juanita Moore.

Next up: Turner plays MADAME X, the many times filmed glossy version of a woman forced out of town by her mother in law, Constance Talmadge. Talmadge steals the show as the arch Mommie Dearest, John Forsyte the mourning husband, and Kier Dullea as the handsome son who ends up defending his mother for murder. Schmaltzy stuff, but OK.

PORTRAIT IN BLACK features Turner as some vicious woman who murders Lloyd Nolan for his dough. Also starring Sandra Dee as her step daughter, and John Saxon as Dee's swarthy beau. This one is not so great, but not nearly as bad as The Prodigal.

Not starring Turner, but Susan Hayward, BACK STREET. This is another of those Ross Hunter productions that pairs aged Hayward with John Gavin. Gavin's married to drunken sot Vera Miles who gives vindictive a great name. When she buys fashion designer Hayward's wedding gown at a charitable function, then wants it packaged and sent to "MISS! RAE! SMITH!" (Hayward, Gavin's mistress) the hoity toity matron's are scandalized. This has a typical tear jerker ending. But quelle effectif!

THE RAPE OF EUROPA is a dazzling educational film of how the Nazis planned and plundered Europe's greatest art collections from museums and Jewish families alike. Ah, but then come the Allies, and they plunder the great works of German artists. Oh, this is good shit. Joan Allen narrates.

BEA ARTHUR!!!

1922-2009

THIS BE ABOUT FOOD!!!

HAVE AN EGGROLL MR GOLDSTONE!!!

L.A. Cannabis Club provides relief for many in the HIV community.

Club president Scott Imler talks to Positive Living writer Craig Curtis.

May 1998

"Out of business. Bottom line. The long-range goal is for marijuana to be scheduled and made prescriptively available in pharmacies. Cannabis clubs will no longer be in business."

-- Scott Imler president and executive director L.A. Cannabis Buyers' Club

Surprised? I was. But then, Scott Imler, president and director of the L.A. Cannabis Resource Center, is a rather surprising guy.

Having been a member of the L.A. Cannabis Buyers Club since June 1996, I have seen the club go through many changes. Starting out in Santa Monica, they've moved three times (all to sites in West Hollywood). I barely missed the cops during the WeHo bust of September 1996; wandered into a press conference at the Crescent Heights United Methodist Church; gleefully voted "yes" on Prop. 215 in November 1996; and I danced in the streets when it passed. Never has the Club been more important to me than now, having lost 20 pounds after starting combination therapy.

On a beautiful day between rains in early April, I was grateful to speak with Scott in his office at the club. Open since election night 1996, Suite 215 is an ever-evolving, perpetual construction site. Through drastic changes, one thing has not wavered: integrity. Never having had an opportunity to chat with Scott, I was impressed by his honesty in addressing many of the subjects particularly pertinent to these times of uncertainty in the Medical Marijuana Movement. Originally from Santa Cruz, where he was a founding member of California's first cannabis club, Scott talked openly with me about protocol, Peron and "The Big P."

Advertisement

Scott Imler plays by the rules. He made them.

-- Craig Curtis

Scott Imler: We invented the doctors' letter. That was an invention of the Santa Cruz Cannabis Club. Peron never required documentation of any kind. Everybody thinks that Dennis Peron's was the first club, but it really wasn't. The first buyers club was started in Santa Cruz in spring of 1993. Peron didn't open his club until November 1993. I remember when we announced what we were doing in Santa Cruz, Dennis came down for the announcement. After the rally on the courthouse steps [Peron] came up and said, "Good gimmick; it'll never work..."

Craig Curtis: I wasn't sure how far to go on the differences between you and Dennis Peron.

S.I.: I'm not sure it's all that useful other than on a background level. It's been very painful. Dennis was my friend before we were involved in [the medical marijuana movement]. His antics really strained the friendship. It ruined our professional relationship in terms of the movement. We find ourselves at opposite ends of the political spectrum in terms of medical marijuana. [Peron] has a much larger agenda that he feels the need to ply at every juncture. We wrote Prop. 215 together. I wasn't a pot dealer. I grew my own. I came to this through my own use, and my association as a gay person with all my friends dying of AIDS. I guess in some ways I just went out of my way to make things different than how it was in [San Francisco]. Part of it was tactical. Part of it was my gut reaction to what I thought was dishonest...it did not serve the needs of the patients in the long term.

C.C.: Let's talk about your mission statement.

S.I.: Basically, provide information services to patients and the public. To provide legal defense for anybody who's a bona-fide patient registered with the organization...

C.C.: Is that service for patients who buy outside the club?

S.I.: If you're a member in good standing, you automatically have a lawyer should you get in any problems for medical marijuana. Nine of our members got in trouble last year. Eight of them qualified for the (Legal Defense) program. One, who was involved with the Marijuana Mansion in Bel-Air -- it was such a big thing there was nothing we could do for him. [Cancer patient Todd McCormick of Bel-Air was arrested in August 1997 for cultivating more than 4,000 marijuana plants.] But eight members got their charges dismissed because they all had their letters and our lawyer went in and said "Prop. 215." They got off.

C.C.: How have you been received by the West Hollywood City Council?

S.I.: They're wonderful. They've been very supportive... They knew that moved here. They had actually even rolled out the psychic red carpet for us. In mid-December (1996), the city called and said "We want to meet and work out rules." About four days later they called back and said, "Scott, have you got any rules you operate under because we're having a tough time figuring out how all this works," and I said "Yeah, we've got protocol." Essentially the city adopted it lock, stock and barrel.

C.C.: Have local doctors continued to be supportive in spite of the sabre rattling by Dan Lungren?

S.I.: (Laughs) That goes back and forth. Mostly doctors are concerned about the feds. Most of the AIDS agencies have been pretty good... The doctors know we enforce [protocol] because we won't serve their patients without a letter. We call every doctor every time to verify that they really did sign that letter. Even the doctors we know. We call them every single time. We've been so diligent -- they probably say to themselves: Damn, those guys call me on every single letter! Even Dan Lungren's office will tell you that LACBC is the best-run club in the state.

C.C.: Have the police been cooperative?

S.I.: Oh, yeah. Well, you know, the night of the election they came out and gave one last ticket. We call it "The Last Medical Marijuana Ticket." It was issued about 5:15 on Election Day.

C.C.: What about the media?

S.I.: We're to the point where we don't even want to have the media come here anymore. We always felt that we had no secrets; we didn't have anything to hide, so we've always been forthcoming with the media. Time and time and time again, we'll spend four to eight hours with a TV news crew who will come in, film everything -- they'll show our banner, our patients, and then they'll splice in footage of tie-dye hippies straight out of Haight-Ashbury smoking pot at Dennis' (club). Frankly, we're too through... There are only three or four journalists I've come in contact with that really get it. All the rest are interested in the Big P.

C.C.: "Big P," meaning...?

S.I.: The endless ideological debate about the drug war between Dan Lungren and Dennis Peron.

C.C.: Big P: Big Politics?

S.I.: Big Pot. Big Police. (Laughs)

C.C.: How about the recent court order naming cannabis clubs as non-primary care-givers, thereby restricting your ability to consume and exist?

S.I.: Our club itself is not a care-giver. We are an association of legitimately exempt people. Under the legal premise by which we exist, we have to know that every person is legitimately exempt or our legal premise is out the window. In the Peron case, and in other of these Northern California clubs, they're run by people who aren't sick. So they had to find some legal mechanism by which they could be involved. That's why they had to craft this legal fiction of care-giver assignment. Most of those clubs up there are run by non-patients, so they had to spin some interpretation that they were legal. In the process of doing that they're coming close to ruining legitimate patient groups' abilities to take care of themselves through clubs. That's why Dennis Peron did it -- because he's got people in there who aren't sick...

C.C.: I've seen fliers for your Medical Marijuana for patients in recovery groups.

S.I.: The Medical Marijuana for Patients in Recovery Group meets at the Crescent Heights United Methodist Church (Fairfax and Fountain) at 6:15 on Friday nights. We believe that you should be able to use medicinal marijuana if your doctor says you have to, without sacrificing your sobriety or being kicked-out of your recovery program. Recovery is about life and death, too. Some members are into the 12 Steps. Some aren't.

C.C.: You're a practicing Methodist?

S.I.: Yes. And lay preacher. I fill in when the pastor's not there.

C.C.: Let's address requirements for membership. Any limitations?

S.I.: Our only limitation is you've got to have a letter from your doctor. We have other rules -- 27 grams per week limit. You can't give it away, trade it, sell it. If we ever find that out -- you're out of here. Don't smoke in public, and if you get in trouble, show the police your card. Tell the truth. Be polite. And call us right away. Being polite is really important because the police know that (courtesy) is in our rules. So they know who are members of our club and who aren't. No one is turned away for lack of financial resources. Fully 25 percent of the marijuana consumed by our members last year was consumed gratis. I think that's important for your readers to know; the service is here for people that need it.

ATSA MY TURKEY!!!

As anybody who grew up during the '60s and '70s knows, the art of Housewifery went out with June Cleaver. My mother was no exception. We lived on a limited, blue collar, single-bread-winner-income, and there were three growing boys and a sodden machinist to feed. Mom used to plan our menus weekly, shopping for the best deals (I got it from her), and tried to put nutritious, not necessarily delicious meals on the table. As I grew up into that weirdo that wore Capri Pants to High School and garnered an equally strange group of friends, it was well known that I was always hungry (hunger-strike) and broke. My friends' moms used to take pity on me and then came the inevitable invite to dinner. It was nearly every day, at about 4PM (after my paper route), that I'd phone home and ask "What's for dinner?" get the unfortunate answer, beg off and eat at a friends house. The week's menu was always secured to the kitchen door with a magnet, for the world to see, and, unfortunately, once Derek Washington spied the distinctive scrawl of my mother's hand tacked to the fridge....well. It was all over campus.

And his favorite line?

What the fuck is ATSA MY TURKEY?!

So, Derek, you nosy, loud-mouthed ("we have HELP") mutha fucka, here's the recipe for your fave.

Atsa My Turkey

1/2 pound fettucini or plain egg noodles, cooked and drained
3 cups chopped cooked turkey
1/2 cup condensed chicken broth
1/2 cup dry white wine
1/4 cup milk
6 Tbsp. diced mozzarella or Jack cheese
6 Tbsp. Parmesan cheese
2 Tbsp. butter
1 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. pepper

Prepare the noodles. Simmer the turkey, broth and wine over low heat for five minutes. Add this mixture to the noodles alson with the remaining ingredients. Cook over very low heat, stirring frequently, for 10 minutes (or use a double boiler).

PS: This is much better with smoked turkey...just FYI.

NETFLIX QUICK PIX!!!

In keeping with my need to escape from reality, I've taken the weekend to view a few flix, some good, some not so good, some featuring hunky men with older women, some featuring signature songs, some love stories, some not. Here's the lowdown:

PARRISH stars an above the title TROY DONOHUE and above Claudette Colbert in a 1961 mish-mash of a soaper. Troy is Parrish, the handsome, popped-collared son of Colbert (who looks amazingly the same as she did 30 years before) both of whom move off to some tobacco plantations north of the Mason Dixon Line. Parrish, being the honest, yet wooden fellow he is, is SWOONED over by not one, not two, but THREE lovely gals from three different backgrounds. Connie Stevens is the good girl in trouble, Diane McBain is the rich tippling trollop with a penchant for cash and Sharon Hugueny is the swarthy daughter of evil-nasty, Karl Malden. When Malden falls for Colbert and becomes Donohue's step-pappy, Troy is drawn into the venal machinations of the RAIKE family, even though his loyalty to widower Dean Jagger is strong. Clocking in at 2hr 18mins, you have no idea what the hell is going on or who's prettier? The fetching girls, or the fetching leading man. Ironically, Parrish does his toiling in the fields in nifty high-water khakis. The Technicolor glorious, the costumes swell, the script incoherent.

Rock Hudson, Gina Lollobrigida, Sandra Dee and Bobby Darrin star in COME SEPTEMBER, a rolicking sophistacted sex-ties romp set in Italy. Hudson (who only visits his Italian Villa once a year....in September) shows up early, only to find that his Major Domo turns the manse into a hotel during summer's high season! And the hijinx are on! Lollobrigida looks ravishing, Hudson is as Hudson does (read: lots of partially clad scenes), but the real thrill is seeing a Hollywood film actually filmed in Italy. For the most part. The guys are nifty in their Gucci Loafers and the gals sport the sweetest knee-hovering bouffant skirts. Cute, sweet and about as satisfying as eating cotton candy.

MAGNIFICENT OBSESSION. Rock Hudson pairs with doddering old hag Jane Wyman in this ridiculous tear jerker that has no basis in reality. Hudson is a careless playboy who accidentally kills Wyman's short-term hubby, then turns around a blinds her in a car accident!!! But Hudson turns his life around after he meets up with some artist who fills his head with some new-agey gobbledy-gook, Hudson befriends Wyman under an assumed name, and after all the specialist Europe can provide cannot cure the occlusion that mars Wyman's sight, Hudson becomes a surgeon and cures her. Usually meant to be a Douglas Sirk directed tear-jerker, the Valium and Du bonnet only made me giggle the evening away.

Dustin Hoffman is JOHN, and Mia Farrow is MARY in JOHN AND MARY, a surprisingly cerebral flick about a one night stand gone awry. Taking place in late 60s NYC, the look is great, the script, phenomenal. I was utterly shocked by this touching love story.

SHAMPOO: Warren Beatty stars as the womanizing hairdresser who does more than great hair. He wears it as well. Gosh, if I had a Flo-bee, I'd have a shag like his, too! Julie Christie, Goldie Hawn and Lee (where are her lips in relation to the lipstick) Grant costar as the long suffering gals Beatty boinks while yearning for his own salon. Again, Beatty flashes a lot of flesh, but that's OK, because nobody does THAT better. Pretty as a picture, he is. Looks just as great in a velvet tux as he does in low slung jeans and a tank top. Strangely, I'd never seen this flick.

But gosh.

It's the LA I love.

FROM THE CATSKILLS TO YOU!!!

NETFLIX QUICK PIX!!!

REVISITING STUFF YOU ALREADY KNEW WAS GOOD!!!

I have to tell you. I just got DSL online service, and it is the BEST THING EVER!!! I totally love it. And with NETFLIX, I can download bad mini-series (lookin' for LACE with Phoebe Cates? If nothing else, WHICH ONE OF YOU BITCHES IS MY MOTHER is on You Tube), documentaries, musicals. Even Malcolm McDowell's tour de force in that flick directed by...umm...ohhh....The fellow who directed 2001. It has a name and you know it. Leave me alone.

SWING SHIFT, with a stunning cast of actors including Goldie Hawn, Kurt Russell, Christine Lahti, Ed something really hot and hairy, a dwarf takes you right back to the good old days when men were scarce and women had rivet guns. I saw it in the theater when I was just a wee one, well, maybe not as wee as ye can be, but I have not seen it since. Goldie does an amazing Kate Hudson impersonation. Kurt Russell. Yummy. Lahti. Absolutely off the stage. Long an lithe, she's brilliant. The dwarf? Perfectly cast. The long gone Ambassador makes a cameo. 5 stars.

Needing to take in some NATASHA RICHARDSON (I had to....you know), one sat through WIDOW'S PEAK. Featuring such reviled stars as Dame (I stole away Vivien Leigh's husband) Joan Plowright and the long suffering Mia Farrow, Jim Broadbent and fun stock costumes of the period, this little thing takes place in Ireland. And you KNOW just how much I want to go THERE. Think Daffy Dames in the middle of nowhere having to deal with a wacky American. Stars? 3.5

TO DIE FOR. Nifty flick with Nicole Kidman doing a wicked Meg Ryan. There's some swarthy guy from Long Island starring as her soon to be dead hubby. I liked it. 3 stars.

I'd just made a pot of Lentil Ham Soup, and decided to sit down to THE EXORCIST. Very well acted, very well directed tons of bumps in the night and other drama. The next time I will eat a chicken sandwich. 3.75 stars.

Today's recipe!

MICROWAVE POACHED EGGS

Put a tablespoon or so of water at the bottom of a tea cup. You can use a mug, but the shape is much nicer in a piece of granny's tea set.

Crack egg inside cup.

Cover with paper towel or wax paper.

Cook 20-40 seconds.

Drain water through slotted spoon.

Eggs are CHEAP and HEALTHY.

During this economy, ya just have to eat more of 'em.

NETFLIX STAH! OF THE DAY!!!

DUSTIN LANCE BLACK!!!

I just sat through the DVD of MILK (toast). For whatever reason, this film garnered a bunch of attention over NOTHING. It's shit. Crapola.

It made me nauseous.

Harvey Milk was no Saint. He was a tawdry whore who did what fags did in the '70s....fucked around. He was also an apt politician who got elected, got murdered, got MILK.

MILK is a bunch of over-hyped garbage, having little to do with Harvey, and a lot more to do with GUS VAN SANT's pedophilia. Look at the writer. How, exactly, did this 20 something get the job and the Oscar? By SUCKING SOMEONE'S DICK?! Or did Van Sant just drop to his knees and give a mediocre writer the job after the ultimate score?

Ever see ELEPHANT?

I rest my case.

Speaking of scores. Danny Elfman gives the most heavy-handed, violinistic bunch of tripe as back drop. IT SUCKS. But so does Gus.

MILK is a hackneyed bunch of crap. THE LIFE AND TIMES OF HARVEY MILK (documentary) is WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY better, and a hell of a lot more insightful. Oh, sure. Sean Penn can PLAY fey, but I can play with Barbie dolls.

Needless to say, the whole outing made me ill...no pun intended.

Somewhere online you can actually see DLB at some party. Guess what? All of his little twink friends have the same comb-over 'dos, apparently the RAGE in WeHo at the moment. I'd post the link, but why bother.

You'll be just as sick of white FAGGOTS as am I.

NATASHA RICHARDSON

1963----2009

NETFLIX QUICK PIX!!!

FILMS FOR THE NEW DEPRESSION!!!

Sick of all the bad news about the economy? Distressed by the horrifying chance that the only Redgrave of the New Generation of the Legendary Acting Family (Natasha) with talent will never grace stage or screen again? Just had a colonoscopy? You DID? Then it's time to do as your grand-parents (or great-grandparents) did and escape into a world that doesn't exist!

Here are a few flix to take your mind off the Shit:

The entire TAMMY series. All these flix were produced by Homo-extraordinaire, Ross Hunter, he of Douglas Sirk pics and facilitator of comebacks for has-been actresses like Jane Wyman, Lana Turner and Susan Hayward. TAMMY AND THE BACHELOR, arguably the best of the gaggle, stars a young Debbie Reynolds and hunky Leslie Nielson. Debbie is the country gal, living on a river shanty with her corn liquor brewing grampa. When grampa gets nabbed by the feds, Tammy goes off to live with the rich folks up the river including Nielson, Faye Wray and wacky Nielson Aunt Mildred Natwick. Only Natwick sees Tammy's potential, though Wray (Neilson's mom) tries to quell Tammy's love of goin' a barefootin' and sayin' wacky misquotes from The Good Book and homilies of her dead Granny's. The hit song TAMMY'S IN LOVE originated in this first film, and Tammy Hauck was conceived to the sorrowful tune.

Moving right along: In TAMMY TELL ME TRUE Sandra Dee takes on the role as the irrepressible young-un, this time off to college where she meets Hunter stock players Virginia Grey and hunky John Gavin. In Tell Me True, Tammy decides it's high time she goes a-learnin' at college. Grey (as the college matron) takes Tammy under her wing and soon Country Gal meets growed up snotty college kids who make fun of her. But not John Gavin. He falls for her barefoot charm, hideously ash blonde hair and mismatched wiglets. Beaulah Bondi co-stars as the crusty old rich dame who misses her simple hill-billy past, and moves on board the river shanty and creaks in Granny's old a-rockin' chair. Dee sings a couple of songs. Though she had a few hits of her own (who didn't back in those days) I suspect that HELEN LAWSON dubbed her.

Beaulah Bondi and Sandra Dee are back, this time in TAMMY AND THE DOCTOR. In this outing, Bondi is ailing and checks into a hospital. Determined to be near her benefactress, Tammy takes a job as a nurse's aid, thereby mucking up operating rooms and a cleanin' bed pans. But not before Dee reprises TAMMY'S IN LOVE, this time dubbed by MARNI NIXON. I think. At any rate, formula is as formula does, and Dr. PETER FONDA, though not hunky, has longer lashes than most of the snotty nurses on the hospital staff. Naturally, he falls hook, line and sinker for river water guzzling Tammy, Bondi comes through a risky operation with flying colors, and Tammy gets her man. Co-starring hunky Adam West (Batman) as the Lothario that tries to put the moves on smarter-than-you-think Tammy.

Sandra Dee and hubby Bobby Darrin star in THAT FUNNY FEELING, a swingin' comedic sex-tire of the early sixties. Dee is a housekeeper who carries her uniform in a hat box (now that's a clever idea!), and Darrin is, unbeknownst to her, one of her clients. When Darrin takes Dee home, where does he end up? His own pad!!! Darrin doesn't let on, Dee moves in, and Donald O'Connor moves out. Of his own place. Which Darrin appropriates for himself while he courts Dee. Sound familiar? It is. But WHO CARES?! Darrin is snazzy and snappy, Dee is just her cute little virtuous self. Nita Talbot costars as Dee's wisecracking roommate, who all too easily falls into the lap of luxury along with Dee in Darrin's apartment. Cameo by Reta Shaw, she of THE GHOST AND MRS MUIR fame.

FOOTLIGHT PARADE. This flick came out during the FIRST depression. Plunk down your nickle and get ready for a Busby Berkeley directed musical comedy. James Cagney stars as a hard-boiled producer of vaudeville shows who comes on hard times as the Talkies take over. Not to be deterred, Cagney decides to produce live musical shows to be done before the talkies unspool. They have a technical term, but I can't remember what the hell they're called. Joan Blondell costars as the secretary who's just short enough to be in love with diminutive Cagney, and Ruby Keeler is the office hack, who, though hiding behind spectacles becomes an overnight tapping sensation once she takes them off! This was produced just as the Hayes Code was being enforced, and the humor is racy, and Berkeley manages to get in a few digs at the censors. A funny, tune-filled delight. Oh, BTW, there is a documentary in the special features, but somehow they asked Film Illiterati John Waters to make some un-educated guesses about the film, much as he did during the audio commentary for the 25th Anniversary Edition of Mommie Dearest.

Director Mike Leigh is known for his serious dramas such as VERA DRAKE, NAKED, and one of my personal faves, SECRETS AND LIES. Famed for his work in improvisation, creating characters WITH the actors from birth onward, HAPPY GO LUCKY is an unexpected delight. Leigh veteran Sally Hawkins stars as the ever optimistic Poppy, who in the first reel loses her bike to a thief. Quel domage! Never one to be downtrodden about ANYTHING, Poppy decides to take driving lessons and manages to get the most pessimistic teacher in the driving college as her instructor. This film meanders hither and yon through contemporary London, Poppy never letting anything get her down, not even London's perpetually grey weather because it makes nary a cameo, proving the sun always shines if you make stoopid jokes and smile broadly. I loved this little film.

If you think things just CAN'T get any worse, move into ASYLUM. This 1970's documentary about a safe-house for nutcases (as opposed to a booby-hatch) shows how a dysfunctional community functions. Men and women from around the globe come to live in this wacked-out flat in one of London's tenement buildings. There is no narration, so you just have to take it as it comes. I did. In about three sittings. A fascinating experiment in Cinema Verite.

So FUCK the Big THREE, the BANKS and AIG!!!

Take a XANAX, have a Pabst and escape into celluloid.

LIZ SMITH!!!

Well, as if you didn't know, The New York Post dropped geriatric gossip columnist LIZ SMITH from its Page Six. I suppose it was a tossup betwixt her and The Widow Bishop, CINDY (I'm still a friend of Imelda Marcos) ADAMS who ain't no spring chicken herself. Even if their combined ages are exhausting (I guess we could toss in George Wayne's for good measure) and add up to more years than God KNOWS what, at least Smith has written a couple of delish books on her days of dish.

NATURAL BLONDE gives us Liz's ultimate auto-bio. Oh, for the days of Cholly Knickerbocker! And there was Liz, arm and arm with WINCHELL. Friends with fellow fossils like Helen Gurley Brown, Babs Walters, Bloodthirsty School Marm Jean Harris and ever scantily clad Elaine Stritch, Liz waxes nostalgic about the days when you actually had to change a ribbon on a typewriter! The struggle to climb upward and onward in a MAN'S WORLD----even if her DICK is bigger! The fight for the latest scoop! A fun read, but nothing compared to:

DISHING: GREAT DISH-AND DISHES-FROM AMERICA'S MOST BELOVED GOSSIP COLUMNIST.

Though I devoured both books with relish, DISHING is my fave because it has some gastronomic frights from the STAHS! Not to mention some wonderful etiquette tips that would make Miss Manners wince.

If you're feeling brave (and your heart valves can handle it) try this!

ELVIS FRIED POTATO SANDWICH

1/2 lb bacon
2 small russet potatoes, peeled and sliced
2 small yellow onions, peeled and thinly sliced into rings
Salt and pepper to taste
2 large slices white bread
Mustard to taste

1. Fry the bacon in a heavy cast-iron skillet to desired doneness and drain on paper towels. Heat the bacon drippings over medium heat, add the potatoes and onions and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Fry until the potatoes are browned and crisp on the outside and tender on the inside and the onions are tender, too. Do not turn the potatoes until they are crisp. Taste for seasoning.

2. Grill or broil the bread until it is toasted on one side. Smear the untoasted sides generously with mustard and layer bacon and potatoes and onions on top of one mustard side. Cover with remaining bread, mustard side down.

Bon appetit!

CRAIG'S DREAM HOUSE!!!

Oh, how I wanted a Barbie Playhouse when I was a wee boy.

In honor of Barbie's 50th birthday, those wacky folks at Mattel had some designer make a LIFE SIZE ONE! The cocktail parties Barbie and I could throw there! Imagine the music! The Swingle Singers do Mozart. Beck. The Barry Sisters! Scary appetizers on orange platters!

But where to put the bar?

FASHION! FASHION! FASHION!

For YEARS we've been hearing the '80s ARE BACK, BACK, BACK, and for season after season, I've been waiting for MY '80s to come back, not the MTV generated fashion of that period (did I ever own a pair of acid washed jeans? ummm, no), but the oh so swank days when W was just a glossy newspaper, and Derek and I read WWD like it was the bible.

Finally, this season, many designers are harkening back to a very stylish period of the '80s: Those heady days betwixt Disco and New Wave.

Gucci, for instance, has come out with a new look altogether, this season an homage to my personal favorite model of the period, Miss Tina Chow, who, over her short life, amassed a collection of Balenciaga Ball gowns that have hopefully been (since her death of AIDS in 1994) handed over to a museum of note.

Take for instance the above photo. The SLIGHT shoulder pad, the single lapel, the WIIIIIDE belt, the above the thigh high mini over opaque hose. The DOLMAN sleeve! Pretty nifty mix of Ziggy Stardust and Fiorucci, if you ask me.

PLEEZE bring back THESE '80s.

Please.

And keep those 'got it at the mall' day-glo colors to yourself.

NETFLIX QUICK PIX!!!

HERE'S TO YOU, MRS ROBINSON!

Anne Bancroft, one of our finest actresses of stage and screen died some years ago, quietly, after battling cancer. Lately I've been reviewing some of her best, and most intimate flix.

'NIGHT, MOTHER stars Bancroft as the cheery, candy eating mother of Sissy Spacek. Spacek has methodically gone about planning her own death by suicide, right under Mother's nose. This small film, based on Marsha Norman's Pulitzer Prize winning play, is taut with compelling performances and dialogue, as Bancroft tries to talk her daughter out of doing the deed. Possibly one of middle-aged Bancrofts lesser known projects. Unfortunately NOT available on DVD.

Shirley MacLaine co-stars in THE TURNING POINT, an utterly fantastic view into the precarious world of Ballet Theater. Bancroft is the retiring, over-the-hill Prima Ballerina, MacLaine the friend from the early days who chose to marry Tom Skerrit and raise a family. Together they sire a daughter with major potential as a dancer, and Bancroft swoops in and takes the girl under her wing. This film features one of the greatest cat-fights ever brought to the silver screen. Co-starring Mikhail Baryshnikov's shapely buttocks.

Bancroft is Annie Sullivan in THE MIRACLE WORKER, Helen Keller's nearly blind teacher determined to teach deaf/blind Patty Duke some manners. Bancroft won the Oscar (accepted by Joan Crawford), and Patty Duke got the mini-kiddie statuette. You know the story.

Speaking of stories you know: THE HINDENBURG. One of those bloated. over-wrought disaster epics from the '70s features an all-star cast headed by George C. Scott. Bancroft has a minor role as The Duchess, a card playing woman with a past. What that past is, we have no idea, but Bancroft looks swell in period costumes.

Of course, we all know THE GRADUATE, Mike Nichols' flick about Dustin Hoffman's seduction by the ever-sultry older woman. Bancroft is a marvel in this one. Sexy as hell, and dressed mostly in animal prints, this is another of those great films from the late '6os that pushes every envelope and feature that oh, so mod mise en scene we love soooo much. Famous soundtrack by Simon and Garfunkle.

Now why I had to revisit BRIDESHEAD REVISITED when I already own the entire three disc collection of the classic '80s mini-series, I have no idea. I did, so you don't have to. Emma Thompson is OK, but no Claire Bloom, she. Michael Gambon is OK, too, but no Laurence Olivier. The few nobodies who play the youth in the film undoubtedly will NOT have the careers that Jeremy Irons and Anthony Andrews have. What can I say about a film that used the same Castle Howard as a location and prominent character in this distilled version of a great already-been-done classic. Even Sebastian's Teddy Bear is diminished. In order to cram this epic into 2.25 hours, the characters are overdrawn, bloated and boring. Perfect for the short attention span of today's youth.


Speaking of distilled (or should I say EMBALMED), last night I dropped into our local "gay" bar, Rumours Cabaret and Show Lounge. All the usual suspects, sitting like crustaceans on bar stools, hooting and hollering like the white gah-bahge they are. If someone would finally fill David L. with helium and set him aloft, he might pull a Hindenburg and explode in a fiery holocaust over the parking lot. Frankly, I had no interest in mingling with THOSE people, who so remind me of the slime I used to deal with at Pomona's Alibi East, but managed to sequester myself away in a corner with someone who actually COULD make a conversation. Yes, Cameron, KISS KISS, BANG BANG is now in my Netflix queue.

Sometimes it's best to just stay home with your old, dead friends.

Here's to you, Miss Bancroft.

MY MOTHER, THE BAR!!!

Well, she's done it again!

At our pre-Oscar bash Merrily let out with a new secret! She never married my real father?! That was news to me, as they say. I think I smacked my fork down on the table and said "WHAT?" sorta loudly. Other guests were trying to console me, but there was no need. Nothing ma mere does shocks me anymore. I mean, I have a 26 year old "Uncle" Tony Birdsall, he of the I SWEAR I HAVE A PHD IN PSYCHOLOGY BUT I TACK ROOFS ONTO NEW HOMES! I SWEAR! persuasion.

Google Anthony Birdsall and see what you WON'T find!

So, yeah. I am a BASTARD. I knew that much, already, but I did not know that Merrily Curtis Esq. didn't suck it up and marry that sperm donor of a father. I also found, that he swore that he would call me on my 18th birthday (he did), whether Merrily liked it or not. Only my nerves rattled at that point.

Family secrets, dark as they are, could probably be better told in PRIVATE, rather than having this 45 year old mystery challenge that the Curtis' Family has played, long after the main players have died.

Don't worry about me, doll.

I LOVE being a bastard.

Fuck all y'all.

PRE-OSCAR BASH!!!

LUCY!!!

OK. So we had a little party featuring faboo dishes from long gone Hollywood Bistros. And each dish had a film to go with!!!

All dolled-up, the party goers were given three courses (and a lot of wine) and three screenings to coincide with each course.

Oh, joy!

We started with the oh-so heavy Robert Cobb Salad from The Brown Derby. Now, you have never had French Dressing until you've had this. Then, after a 22 min interlude of LUCY (she at the Brown Derby, meeting Bill Holden and Eve Arden), did we proceed onto the next course. Oh, you should have heard us howling with laughter over Miss Ball. She is timeless.

Chasen's Chili is also heavy (like three pounds of chopped beef/pork sirloin to 1/2 lb of pinto beans, topped with cheese, sour cream, and other artery clogging delights) did we move onto the documentary, OFF THE MENU: LAST DAY'S AT CHASEN'S. 90 minutes of sheer pleasure. Mostly brought on by HUGE queen, Raymond Billbool, who grew up in Burma with a pic of Chasen's regular, LIZ TAYLOR, pinned to his wall. Oh! The shanty life! Watch him treat his top boy like the slave he should not be! I would have smacked Billbool down, got a pair of tweezers, and snatched that gnarly bush out of his ears, and pronto. If and when I can remanufacture PEPE'S FLAME OF LOVE, I will let you know. Nothing but vodka and burning orange peel, this drink sounds like a DRINK.

Ed Mc Mahon loves them.

Then dessert.

Now, this featured a Mystery Guest (ala What's My Line), but since the recipe was from a Photoplay Mag from 1934, no one had to fuck up their pasted on lashes or hair dids. I simply played Miss Crawford, serving up a drunken dessert of soaked pineapples, berries, and coffee. The coffee was the sidecar. Then came a NIGHT GALLERY episode with a blind Crawford (as directed by Spielberg) as broad who wants to see for just twelve hours. In the midst of a black out. Those ratz and things were falling out of her 'do, but Crawford is Crawford, and she did her best. Tom Bosley doesn't fare too well, as the loser that gives up his sight for JC, the rich woman who can afford to get Bosley out of debt. Any pain and suffering? Hell, no! That's HIS problem.

In short, it was a grand time.

You should have another of these.......

Soon.

NETFLIX QUICK PIX!!!

TAWDRY SHOWBIZ FLIX!!!

Who cannot love those garish vehicles (you know, Hollywood tells on its OWN self) from the sixties. Outrageous, laughable, incredibly set decorated to the GILT, these flix make me snigger with glee. Oh, you can keep your (pretty laughable anyway, come to think of it) JUDY! tell all A STAR IS BORN....in ten different dress sizes! or other, more revered films such as SUNSET BOULEVARD, which actually has a swell performance by Gloria Swanson, but HARLOW starring an inept Carol Baker, who has the lusty heated sex appeal of Marjorie Maine, are better suited BY FAR to my taste.

Hollywood sure don't make 'em like this anymore!

Natalie Wood is DAISY CLOVER! And her INSIDE! When inside comes out, what, you might ask, comes out?! HELEN LAWSON. Or at least her voice double. You half expect Wood to start singing "I'll Plant My Own Tree (and I'll Make it Grow)" under a giant mobile, courtesy of Monsanto. Yes, Andre Previn is the composer/lyricist, and he is his usual mediocre self. Wood, pushing 30, is sorta close-one-eye-and-squint-outta-the-other believably 16, and Ruth Gordon, pushing 130, is simply believably I-was-preggers-16-years-ago like my Aunt Fannie. But who cares? It's RUTH GORDON! Robert Redford is the blond he-man of the swishy persuasion, and Christopher Plummer is the evil Studio Head, Mr. Swan. For whatever reason, he's followed by a perpetual flame. Yes, like the JFK grave. Mrs. Swan, the icy cold blonde Cruella de Ville of the piece is harmless. Edith Head makes some hideously '60s costuming choices about the '3os. AND SHE REMEMBERED 'EM!!! But didn't she end up designing for JC PENNEY in the end? This lithe flick turns in at 2:05 minutes, but you could easily skip about forty minutes worth of misguided musicalia. Also featured: Malevolent Homo Roddy McDowell.

THE OSCAR features STEPHEN BOYD'S giant head and tiny pants. Read into to that whatever you want. Oh, he's a scrapper all right! He yells like Charleton Heston....all the time...and he hangs out with HYMIE (I didn't make this one up), a sycophant and "promoter" pal played by Monsanto enhanced Tony Bennett! Jill St. John is the naughty good girl, seen dancing on a pool table clad in nothing but a tiger print bikini. In the first five minutes! And if you can't recognize a henna rinse, you aren't a fag. This flick has THE BEST furniture and wall hangings of any film of the period. Brace yourself for LOVE, EARLY AMERICAN STYLE...IT'S MOD!!! EVERYONE has a cameo! I mean, Merle Oberon? Edith Head? Stephen Boyd's Chest? Bob Hope? Scratch that. So what. Casting like this makes ya wonder: WHAT WAS MARTHA RAYE DOING?! What will Boyd do to get that OSCAR? Only Hymie knows....

Moving slightly off Sunset and onto Broadway. STAGE STRUCK stars a begnign Susan Strasberg (in her FEATURING role), a tall but quiet dude, the older Henry Fonda, the even older Herbert Marshall, traisping along in that wooden leg. This thing proposes that it was based on STAGE DOOR, but this RKO garbage only resembles the main character's stage name: Eva Lovelace. I, know. STRIPPER. But Hepburn made a sensation of her, and Strasberg hocks her father's wares. She drunkenly plays Juliet to Fonda's Romeo at a cast party. A RAVE! Eventually, after playing in rather tawdry coffee houses in the Village, Missy bumps the miscast Broadway Diva off her perch, and in few days takes over, looks forward to walking into Sardi's that night.

Sorry for the spoiler.

You knew where it was going.

Did I mention that Christopher Plummer plays the long-suffering playwrite?

He does.

You doze.

Marion Davies stars in SHOW PEOPLE. In blonde ringlets, carrying a perisol, Miss Davies from the South arrives with her Colnel Pickett Papa on the streets of Old Hollywood. What a pleasure it is to see! LA USED TO BE THE NICEST PLACE. Sigh. Quickly Davies is signed (note the MGM gates), and even more quickly do the coffers run dry. Enter Billy Haines, Hollywood's First Faggot and leading man. Billy works for a keystone cops type comedy outfit, and quickly does Marion sign on, ONLY TO GET A PIE IN THE PUSS!!! Soon, however, Davies signs on at a prestige studio, thereby becoming a STAH! and turning into Gloria Swanson. Davies does a remarkable Swanson, and a luncheon scene on the MGM lot features the likes of Mae Murray, Douglas Fairbanks, Norma Desmond. This flick is SO much fun, and Davies is remarkable. Billy Haines proves to be a good sport, relegated to second lead when he should have been Above the Title.

This is Miss Davies' film.

William Randolph Hearst

CRAIG'S ULTIMATE FIX FOR THE ECONOMY!!!

NINE OUT OF TEN BELLINGHAM BLUES READERS AGREE:

LEGALIZE MARIJUANA!!!

Look, we already have all these fields down in the deep South, where tobacco grows like the weed it is, just festering away as America quits smoking (or simply stands around coughing while someone else lights-up, which, to my mind is a really passive-aggressive way to deal with YOUR problem when they can just MOVE THE FUCK OUT OF MY SMOKE ENHANCED AIRSPACE!) yearning to be productive. Well, in that my America's favorite ILLEGAL drug is good ol' Mary Jane, and since statistics show (after around 100 years of research) that it is NOT a gateway drug, nor does it cause mental instability, nor does it kill children in reckless car accidents (which, considering our ridiculous Holier-than-Thou attitudes on birth control is not such a bad thing) it seems to me that having this relatively harmless mood enhancer listed up there with Heroin and Cocaine as a Class Four drug is pretty ridiculous. Ask Woody Harrelson or nekked bongo player Matthew McConahay what they think about it.

License it, tax it, legalize it.

How wonderful to wander into your local 7-11 and buy a pack of Alcapulco Golds! I'll have the unfiltered king-size, if you please. Oh! And could I have a bottle of Cisco as well?!

In these troubling times, seems like we could all light up. Hell, imagine a green enhanced Hostess Cupcake! Tasty Delish! Oh, and BOOM BOOMS would be ever so delightful. With a bag of Cheetos! That sounds like supper to me. For dessert? Why an entire sixer of creme de menthe chocolate SNAK PAK pudding, of course! So what they cost 40 smackers! I'd buy.

Wouldn't you?

After a hard days work using your hard eaned PhD in biology spent reconstructing Federal roads, I bet you'd bite.

$816 BILLION Stimulus Package.

PFFT!!!

NETFLIX QUICK PIX!!!

Michael: You're stoned and you're late. You were supposed to arrive at this location at eight thirty dash nine o'clock.

Harold: What I am, Michael, is a 32 year-old, ugly, pock marked Jew fairy, and if it takes me a little while to pull myself together, and if I smoke a little grass before I get up the nerve to show my face to the world, it's nobody's god damned business but my own. And how are you this evening?

And so starts off a rollicking, frolicking night of bitchy Queens on Harold's 32nd birthday. Locked in a NYC flat, with plenty of booze, attitude, pot and the like, this seemingly harmless film (directed by William Friedkin) turns into a night of Queer WHO'S AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLFE? Yes, some gay folk who don't remember what QUEER used to be, this film, based on Mart Crowley's play of the same name, is deftly written, claustrophobic, and by the time the final scene comes along, you'll have no idea what the hell hit you. But if any of you CUNTS (popularly used in this film) that watch LOGO are willing to take a look back, before fags died off and had STYLE, knew who the hell Victor Mature was, take a look at this flick. You won't find anything but sheer delight in the design, the fashion, and the oh, so late '60s mise en scene. Great music. Wonderful cameo by Maud Adams.

PUSHING DAISIES. Well, I cannot explain it any better than this: LEE PACE is worth the watch alone, and the premise is dreamy. Kristen Chenowith, Swoozie Kurtz, Ellen (oh, Audrey in LITTLE SHOP OF HORRORS), and other surprise guests star in this offbeat, but lovely fable. Inside scoop has it (from the horse's mouth) that the internal bickering betwixt this female co-star and that are incredibly, edibly delicious, much like The Boys in the Band. And I bet they call each other CUNT behind their backs. 5 stars.

Like youthful French ice-skaters? MY LIFE ON ICE features a v-e-e-e-e-e-r-y tasty sample. Oh, no pedophile I, but I bet Derek Washington would LOVE this one. The Gallic youngster star is 16, wanders around with an HD camera, filming his mother, grandmother, his quel handsome teacher, and his oh, so delectable best friend. The only problem? It takes soooo long to get to the epiphany, and just want to see le cock (which you never do....maybe once....in brief), one could easily lose interest. Delightful as an experiment. Delicious as eye candy.

Horrifyingly dreadful KIERA KNIGHTLY stars in THE DUCHESS. Bosoms pushed and corseted to here, bewigged men prancing about in tightly tailored breeches, this thing (presumably about a long lost ancestor of Princess Diana) is a bunch of nothing. The latest IT Brit girl proves she cannot act any better than her predecessor, Patsy Kensit. Remember her?! This forgettably awfowl flick also stars Ralph Fiennes, and a horribly under-used Charlotte Rampling.

If I were you kids, I'd stick with the bitchy Queens.

Not the bejewelled Duchess.

FATTY FATTY 2X4, CAN'T GET THROUGH THE DRESSING ROOM DOOR?!

YEAH, IT'S JOAQUIN

As I've said before, keep this cockroach out of my sight.

Late last night, I got a rather frustrating phone call from a friend in Vegas.

WELL.

The juice was too good not to get up for.

Seems that Oscar winning Nobody, who recently retired from aaaaaacting, has turned into Jerry Garcia! Oh, yes! Greezy, sleezy, swarthy and FAT Joaquin waltzed into some club (LAVO), looking like his next role would be in another bio-pic about Cherry Garcia. Now, far be it from me to judge a beard (I've been known to have them myself), but scaring children, hiding behind facial hair is not my gig. Keep it trim, or else we all know how many chins your hiding.

Ask Liz Taylor.

Go away Joaquin.

Or go back to coke.

We didn't like you slim.

We hate you fat.

LA CRAIGSLIST? SPARE ME

THE TROUBLE WITH FAGS!!!

Hot model type guys lookin to breed ass tonight and take some loads, partyin and playin high style - bring favs if you gots em'

send pics - face and body - no solo ass or dick shots

20-40yrs old

no fems, just hot guys

RICARDO MONTALBAN!!!

THE BROWN DERBY!!!

Remember that fabulous I LOVE LUCY episode when she, Ethel and Fred run into William Holden (and Eve Arden, Lucy's great pal) at The Brown Derby in Hollywood?

Well, if you don't, you suck.

Anyway, The Brown Derby is now a mini mall, but they saved the top of the hat to paint silver, place it atop the roof, and turn it into a karaoke bar.

DEAR GOD!!!

As long as I'm giving away fave recipes of the famed, I thought I'd toss in this one: THE BROWN DERBY'S FAMOUS COBB SALAD!

· Brown Derby French Dressing

· 1/4 cup water (optional)

· 3/4 cup red wine vinegar

· 1 teaspoon sugar

· Juice of 1/2 small lemon

· 3/4 teaspoon salt (or to taste)

· 1 teaspoon black pepper (or to taste)

· 1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce

· 1 teaspoon dry English mustard

· 1 clove garlic, peeled and minced

· 1 cup olive oil

· 1 cup vegetable oil

· Cobb Salad

· 4 cups finely cut iceberg lettuce (about 1/2 head)

· 2 cups finely cut watercress (about 1/2 bunch)

· 5 cups finely cut chicory (about 1 small bunch)

· 4 cups finely cut romaine (about 1/2 head)

· 2 medium vine-ripe tomatoes, peeled and cored

· 2 cooked chicken breasts (about 1 pound) (preferably roasted), boned

· 6 strips bacon, crisply cooked

· 1 medium avocado, halved, pitted, and peeled

· 3 hard-cooked eggs, peeled and finely chopped

· 2 tablespoons snipped fresh chives

· 1/2 cup finely grated (or crumbled) Roquefort cheese

1. DRESSING: Shake water (if using), vinegar, sugar, lemon juice salt, pepper, Worcestershire, mustard and garlic in 1-quart shaker jar. Add olive and vegetable oils shake well. Taste for salt and pepper and adjust as needed. Cover tight and store in refrigerator. Shake before using.

2. SALAD: Arrange iceberg lettuce, watercress, chicory, and romaine in artful clumps in large shallow bowl or deep platter. Halve to tomatoes, seed, cut into fine dice, and arrange in strip across middle of greens. Dice chicken and arrange top of greens. Crumble or chop bacon fine and sprinkle over salad. Finely dice avocado and wreathe around edge of salad. Decorate with hard-cooked eggs, chives, and Roquefort. Just before serving, add 1 cup dressing, bring to the table, and toss well in front of guests.

You can also serve this chopped (which is how I prefer it) in a nicely chilled bowl.

Serves 4 to 6.

And be sure and sing along to your fave Edye Gourme hit while your eating it.

CHEERS!

LIZA WITH A KAY!!!

Perpetual train-wreck, LIZA!, is getting great reviews for her performances in London, NYC, etc.

What gives?

Is it her drooling fag fans that keep giving the spangled super-star these fab reviews?!

I wonder.

The first act is devoted to her illustrious career. But the second act is a fawning tribute to her Late God Mother, the dazzling KAY THOMPSON, she of FUNNY FACE and ELOISE fame.

Oh, reviewers admit that at 62, Minnelli looks amazing, can still sing her heart out (though the voice is strained), but I have to wonder how true all this hoo ha is.

Really.

Look, in Podunk.....errr....Bellingham, we had Miss Bernadette Peters waltz into town, so why can't we get LIZA! I, being the homo that I am, am DYING to see her and her newly bionic legs give a PERFORMANCE. Hell, even if she came to GYPSY ROSE LEE'S hometown of Seattle, I'd hitchhike, walk, or take the bus to see her.

Before she dies.

Or gets married again.

Hell, I'd give her a bottle of Quaaludes, just to cheer her up.

C'mon LIZA! Be a sport. Just because we live in the furthest most outpost of HOOTERVILLE, doesn't mean we don't need a little glamour now and then. I will personally show you our now defunct Toilet Paper Plant, and explain that, in its glory days, said plant produced so much ass paper that it would go from here to the moon and back 19 TIMES!!!

You KNOW God Mother Kay would do it.

And you're welcome to stay on my leopard print futon, which, as you know, was Kay's favorite colour.

It's only fair.

LIZ'S LOVE AFFAIR WITH CHASEN'S CHILI!!!

Oh, how I miss Chasen's. Now a mini-mall, Chasen's was the longest enduring and most popular restaurant in Hollywoodland. It survived long after THE BROWN DERBY! But their famous chili rules on.

Here's the recipe!

Note: You can replace the Chuck Roast with a high quality ground beef, and it still comes out just as good.

Give it a try in your crockpot! You'll be pleasantly surprised!

This is the stuff of which Hollywood legends are made. Rumor has it back when Elizabeth Taylor was filming Cleopatra in Rome she craved the chili made at Chasen's Restaurant in Los Angeles so much that she was willing to pay $100 just to have the order shipped to her. For years the recipe remained a closely guarded secret. It seemed the owner David Chasen came to the restaurant every Sunday to privately cook up a batch which he would freeze for the week, believing that the chili was best when reheated.

Chasen's Chili

1/2 pound dried pinto beans
Water
1 (28-ounce) can diced tomatoes in juice (I use Rotelle)
1 large green bell pepper, chopped
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
3 cups onions, coarsely chopped
2 cloves garlic, crushed
1/2 cup parsley, chopped
1/2 cup butter
2 pounds beef chuck, coarsely chopped
1 pound pork shoulder, coarsely chopped (try it with pork tenderloin)
1/3 cup Gebhardt's brand chili powder
1 tablespoon salt
1 1/2 teaspoons black pepper
1 1/2 teaspoons ground cumin

1. Rinse the beans, picking out the debris. Place beans in a Dutch oven with water to cover. Boil for 2 minutes. Remove from heat. Cover and let stand one hour. Drain off liquid.
2. Rinse beans again. Add enough fresh water to cover beans. Bring mixture to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer, covered for one hour or until tender.
3. Stir in tomatoes and their juice. Simmer 5 minutes. In a large skillet sauté bell pepper in oil for 5 minutes. Add onion and cook until tender, stirring frequently. Stir in the garlic and parsley. Add mixture to bean mixture. Using the same skillet melt the butter and sauté beef and pork chuck until browned. Drain. Add to bean mixture along with the chili powder, salt, pepper, and cumin.
4. Bring mixture to a boil. Reduce heat. Simmer, covered for one hour. Uncover and cook 30 minutes more or to desired consistency. Chili shouldn't be too thick--it should be somewhat liquid but not runny like soup. Skim off excess fat and serve with a dollop of sour cream and freshly grated sharp cheddar cheese.

Makes 10 cups or 6 main dish servings.

Call your heart doctor immediately after consuming.

NETFLIX STAH! OF THE DAY!!!

OLIVIA DE HAVILLAND!!!

OK. Enough about Lord Snowden's prowess. Sheesh. I got plenty of calls on THAT one, wondering how I managed to spy what is fairly obvious.

DONE!

Olivia de Havilland did not use a sock or tissue paper in her undies, but she did turn out some swell performances in many movies. Her refusal to take crummy roles ended up in suing Warners, and guess what? With quiet fortitude she won, freeing contract players and screenwriters from doing the dreck that was foisted on them. "The de Havilland Decision," still a mainstay in courts today, changed the way Moguls treated STAHS! Oh, sure, she and her sister have never been close, but that makes her story even more interesting. Plus, at 92, living in exile in France (and probably living a healthier lifestyle) Miss de Havilland, sharp as can be, gave the following, in depth interview in 2008. Her remembrances of a lovely California, her early success as an actress is forthright, and by golly, amazing. Naturally, I had to order her stunning performance as Catherine Sloper in THE HEIRESS as soon as I finished reading.

That's what Amazon.com is for!!!

Read (or listen to) her story here:

http://www.achievement.org/autodoc/page/deh0int-1

This is a cut and paste deal because I have no clue as to making the link "hot."

PRINCESS MARGOT'S BIIIIIG LAY?

WHAT A WILLIE!!!

Was it great lighting, a fabulous angle, going commando, or the fluffer?!

I cannot tell. But I will say that Lord Snowden looks like he was "packing", which is probably why the ever hormonal Queen's sister fell for the Society Photographer.

Read all about it in this month's VANITY FAIR.

(Please buy it, because it is the one thing in the HEARST EMPIRE that is suffering the most.)

OK, JOAN WAS A KNOWN LUSH, BUT IMAGINE HAVING THIS AT TEA TIME!!! CHANCES ARE YOU'D HAVE YELLOW EYES, NOT FINGERS...

Yellow Fingers Recipe

Ingredients
1 oz Southern Comfort
1 oz Vodka
Blue Curacao
1/2 oz Galliano
1 oz Orange Juice
2 oz Lemonade
1/2 oz Egg White
Yellow Fingers Directions Shake all but the curacao and lemonade very well and strain into a double-cocktail glass. Add lemonade, and garnish with a slice of orange and a cherry. Using a thin straw, place drops of blue curacao in neat rows across the frothy white surface, and serve immediately.
Serve Yellow Fingers in a Cocktail Glass Garnish with celery, Valium or a side car, as desired.

BESS TRUMAN AND MY GRANDMOTHER SHARE RECIPES!!!

THERE IS NO WAY THAT YOU CAN CONVINCE ME THAT LOYCE WHITE AND BESSIE TRUMAN DID NOT SHARE RECIPES.

HERE, WRITTEN IN THE SAME HAND, IS MY GRANDMOTHER'S EXACT RECIPE FOR TUNA CASSEROLE.

I INHERITED HER FRIGHTENING RECIPE BOX, AND THERE IT IS, IN BLACK AND WHITE, FROM THE KITCHEN OF LOYCE, THE SORT OF STOMACH CHURNING THING ONE COULD EXPECT FOR SUNDAY LUNCHEON, OR A DATE WITH HER BRIDGE PALS.

THIS IS TRULY BIZARRE.

JACKIE BKO A SLAG?!!!

JACQUELINE BOUVIER KENNEDY ONASSIS!!!

"They're killing Kennedys, " she cried when she stole-away Maria Callas' Greek beau Aristotle Onassis.

I got into a rather heated argument over who was cooler: JBKO or Audrey Hepburn.

Based on personal style (and what they did for the World) I voted Audrey.

Why?

Because she gave back.

To the UN.

The Globe.

PBS.

And she just drifted away from us.

Jacqeline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis simply took us for all we had.

With her PINK-A-PADES FROSTY CORAL lipstick, her determination to make the WHITE HOUSE a French showplace, those two snotty brats she raised, her willingness to toss a football around for whatever reason JBKO pretty much sums up what you don't want to be. There is, beyond a doubt, hard evidence that JBKO manipulated The Press, put on a breathy schoolgirl act, swore like a sailor, brought clothes from France into the US, had them re-made, then swore they were from America.

I won't even mention her slightly lascivious taped phone calls to
Lyndon Baines Johnson.

Not that One hates Miss Onassis, but she was a foul-mouthed prig, born to a wastrel of a man.

Miss Hepburn was, by most accounts, a goddess. She had style, grace, and you know what? She gave back. If you look at the special features on the ROMAN HOLIDAY disc, you will spy a precocious yet humble little girl, still being filmed when thought she was not.

Both died of lung cancer, not far apart.

I miss them both.

Chanel suits or not.

We shall never see this kind of Style again.

NETFLIX QUICK PIX!!!

MARGARET O'BRIEN

According to Jeanine Basinger, MGM studio head Louis B. Mayer, still miffed that FOX had procured the services of wunderkind Shirley Temple in the thirties, found his own child prodigy as Temple was moving into that awkward stage: her teens. Who did he find? Why five year old water spigot, Margaret O'Brien! Can you imagine the convo between LB and the talent scout who found her?

Look LB! Here's that kid you've been looking for! Nah, she can't sing! Cute? Well. If you close one eye and squint out of the other, yeah! Can she dance? Hell no! Did that stop you from hiring Virginia Weidler?! But look LB, the kid can cry on cue! C'mon kid! Show him what you got!

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!

Here are a couple of tear jerking performances meant for those Wartime Audiences.

JOURNEY FOR MARGARET: O'Brien, in an elfin hat, stars with Robert Young. She's a war orphan in blitzkrieg Britain, and American reporter Young has a barren wife, Larraine Day, who, ironically, has gone berzerk with shell shock. Thank GOD that Watson guy from the Basil Rathbone Sherlock Holmes Series was around to diagnose Day's problem! Strangely, O'Brien is shell-shocked, too! But Austrian Refugee Fay Bainter is on hand, running a home for little lost children. AND SHE COAXES THOSE TEARS RIGHT OUT OF O'BRIEN! And once she starts, the hysteria won't stop. O'Brien bonds with some other moppet, Young is bewitched, and the next thing you know, they're trying to figure out a way to get the kids out of Britain on tightly packed military planes. You can guess how this ends.

Edward G. Robinson, Agnes Moorehead and the Magic Font star in OUR VINES HAVE TENDER GRAPES. Based on the novel by George Victor Martin and adapted for the screen by soon to be Black Listed Dalton Trumbo, this flick is set in some Midwestern town of Swedish immigrants, just trying to get along eating egg pancakes with honey and milking cows. Again, there's lot's of talk about the War in Europe. Some broad with the strangest hair 'do costars as the big city gal who comes to town to teach elementary school. O' Brien (accidentally killing a rodent while pretending to be a WAC) starts tearing up in the first five minutes! While Robinson (in a strange departure from his usual gansta roles) puts on an unlikely Swedish accent, Moorehead doesn't even bother.

In LITTLE WOMEN, O'Brien stars as the ever pathetic Beth. Also on hand are an annoying June Allyson, cool and collected adulteress Mary Astor, Peter Lawford, Rossano Brazzi, Janet Leigh, and a bizarrely blonde Elizabeth Taylor. In a weird futuristic twist, Taylor is filmed stuffing her face with pastries, sausages and lampshades. Well, maybe not lampshades, but she recites lines with a mouthful throughout. Louisa May Alcott gets the MGM treatment! You know the story. I won't even bother to go into it.

MEET ME IN ST LOUIS stars a glamourized Judy Garland, Mary Astor, Lew Ayres, and, of course, hydrolically enhanced O'Brien as TOOTIE, the petulant little brat who wants to go to the fair. Technicolor tune-filled schmaltz directed by Vincente Minelli. Rumor has it that by this time, O'Brien knew what she was, and took to ruining takes by moving props around before shooting, infuriating the old pros around her. Garland looks fine, but you know she's hopped up on bennies because she's thin as a rail and her already dark eyes are enhanced by tell-tale enlarged pupils. Fine family fare, if you have one.

In a bit of pre-war revisionist history, screenwriter Sarah Williams tells the tale of WALLIS AND EDWARD, this time from the two time divorcee's point of view. No, Wallis Simpson did NOT want to be queen, no she did NOT want the King to abdicate, yes hubby WANTED a divorce to marry his mistress. O'Brien is nowhere to be seen, and Joely Richardson kinda looks like Wallis's younger pretty sister. Stephen Campbell Moore is on hand as the man who would be king, and Mariam Margolyes is the ever kindly Aunt Bessie, who comforts Wallis by telling her that NO MATTER WHAT, THE WOMAN IS ALWAYS TO BLAME! Ever since Eve! But take heart, Wallis! Your fig leaf is from Cartier. Really horrid supporting cast pretending to be famous figures from the day. Morganic Marriage be damned! At best, a chick flick. At worst, a bunch of malarkey.

William Holden and Barbara Stanwyck star in GOLDEN BOY. Really affecting boxing flick based on Clifford Odet's acclaimed play. Holden is a sensitive violinist-cum-champion boxer, and Stanwyck is the hard-boiled gal he loves. Will she ditch Adolph Menjou? Will Lee J. Cobb forgive his son for throwing over music for sparring? Will Bill Holden just keep his shirt off for 20 more minutes? PRETTY PLEASE? Ironically, this swell flick was produced in 1939, arguably Hollywood's Golden Year.

Get out the Kleenex kids.

And be sure to take your Prozac.

ZIONIST HOODLUMS?!

As a friend of mine says:

IF THEY CAN'T LEARN TO LIVE TOGETHER, NUKE 'EM. THEN NOBODY CAN LIVE THERE.

Remember that tumultuous year of the Oscars when Vanessa Redgrave got up and made the infamous ZIONIST HOODLUM statement, only to be rebuked by Paddy Cheyevski? Sasheen Littlefeather declined the Award for Marlon Brando?

No?

Well, I do.

And still, after all these years these crazy mutha fuckahs on both sides STILL can't get it together?

What the hell is wrong with these people.

I don't like to be political here, but JESUS CHRIST, when will this shit end?! When they finally kill each other?

This Middle East thing is disgusting. These are the oldest cultures in the world, and they can't just STOP the shit, pass the peace pipe, and get along.

Nobody is right in this thing.

We don't have to nuke 'em.

They'll do it themselves.

Fuck all y'all.

MISS EARTHA KITT!!!

Sadly, on Christmas day, the world lost another legend.

And by that I mean Le Grande Legende.

I was fortunate enough to catch Miss Kitt's act several years back, at the Cinegrill Cabaret in the legendary Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel. It was the best 50 bucks I ever spent.

Miss Kitt, probably in her late 60's was amazing, climbing up on the piano and slithering around in that vampish way that made her famous. I mean, at 45, I don't think I would dare climbing atop a large instrument! (I'm famous for my Dick Van Dyke style pratfalls.) Well, now that I think of it, it depends on what instrument and to whom it was attached.

There will never be another like her.

Yet another great of her day, now singing and vamping around the Lucifer Lounge.

Godspeed, Miss Kitt.

You will be missed.

PORTRAIT OF JOAN!!!

I got this book for my friend Chuck for Christmas. Yeah, it's signed. And it's forty years old.

Joan had a LOOOOOONG career, but she was nothing less than a STAH! ever. I hate to describe (particularly to straight folk) why she was what she was. Who cares about her maltreatment of kidz? Her snubbing of Davis? Her need for falsies, wiglets, scary costume jewelry? It's tedious to hear NON-fags tell me that they just don't get it. It must be a "gay" thing. Well so is stinky cheese!

It was bottled in "gay" water in West Hollywood!

We ALL drank the Kool-AIDS!!!

Crawford was not a great actress, but neither was Davis, who prided herself on NOT being a STAH!, but being a slattern. She was an old tart before she even got old. JC, on the other hand, never stopped being a YOUNG trollop, even after her prime. Be afraid of her in TORCH SONG. This is a woman in her 50's pretending to be in her 40's. Hello? Madonna?

Anyway, how tedious is it for "straight" folks to think that JC is a GAY thing?! She may be, but if you only see her in one flick, MILDRED PIERCE, you will see a STAH! If you see her in other, lesser flix, she's still a STAH! Drunk, sober, who cares?! Crawford was a STAH! no matter the dreck she did.

I appreciate Davis. I appreciate Crawford. I appreciate Marjorie Maine. I love to think about Joan Collins. What is she drinking at 104? Water from WeHo?!

Why should I have to defend THE Gays and what they like or don't like. Hell, half the fags in Bellingham don't even know who Crawford is. But the fact that two of us do, and defend her honor, is enough. Why do we do it?

Watch a couple of her movies and see.

QUEEN BEE

HARRIET CRAIG

SADIE McKEE

FEMALE ON THE BEACH

OUR DANCING DAUGHTERS

GRAND HOTEL

RAIN

MANNEQUIN

HUMORESQUE

FLAMINGO ROAD

THE DAMNED DON'T CRY

THIS WOMAN IS DANGEROUS

SUDDEN FEAR

JOHNNY GUITAR

AUTUMN LEAVES

STRAIT-JACKET

PEPSI COLA

PEPSI COLA

PEPSI COLA

TROG

UBER CUTE GUY REVIEWS MY BOOK!!!

I havn't read a whole lot of books lately. Unless I find some kind of real life relevance or it grabs my heart for some reason.This book did both. I'm a recent transplant from Seattle to Palm Springs. My partner is a book fiend and has piles of Gay genre books laying around the house. We just went to Gay Pride Palm Springs and had a blast. They had a Authors court where we met Craig in real life. He is cuter than in the picture on the back of the book. He was nice enough to read out of the last chapter about what Seattle was really like for him as a transplant from California. It was really funny to listen to him read and he was searingly honest about alot of things. It must have been tough for him to write about some of the stuff he has been through. We just bought the book Saturday. I started it this morning (Sunday), went to the Pride fest again and then came home and finished it. His chapters are put together like a well built sandwich. Small portions with lots of flavor and when combined...MMM ...MMM..MMMM. Its nice to have a book you can read and finish. So often I stare at a book half open, laying on the floor by the bed...I read this one straight through. While at pride on Saturday my partner had a good talk with him while I talked with another book author.I talked with him too but I wish I could talk to him again. When we were getting ready to go I got the warmest hug from him. I'm sure it means alot to him to read his book. Actually I know it does because I just got done reading it and I know alot more about him now than I did on Sat..Now I'm babbling...Anyway..It was a good book so BUY IT!

VAN JOHNSON!

1916-2008

A NICE NOTE!!!

So I got this nice email from a friend. Since I can't tootle my OWN horn, I'll let Nancy do it for me.

C ~

You my friend are <ab so solutely > hilarious!! Hands down, I have no idea why you have not been skirted away by some high paid editor to write...whatever you want. You just don't stop and my eyes get wider and I cannot believe all that shit comes from you brain.

I haven't heard from you and I'm thinking this email stuff is old news, compared to "le blog", but I have no idea how to access it, uhmmmm, correctly not looking like some country bumpkin (no I am not a resident of Bellingham), but I googled "craig curtis, only in bellingham blog" and got this info page with I believe, "blues in bellingham" or something of the like and my gosh, there is no stopping you.

BRILLIANT! Truly genius. I am not trying to blow air up there, but really, I was amazed how you can go on and on and not miss a beat. and the beat goes on.....

So the deal is, whenever I haven't heard from you I check out the Blog and if it's up to date, I know your okay. Well babycakes, you is okay because your words have my head shaking and I am ever so grateful I do not own a cheezy shoppe !!

Be good, stay safe and know you are completely loved and very much admired.

xoxoxoxoo me (this is about as creative as I get)

NETFLIX QUICK PIX!!!

Yes, dahlings! I've burned all my CD's, sold'em, and started a Craig Needs A Movie. NOW! Collection. Most on DVD, but some on VHS. For two bucks you can own a movie you always wanted to see! Or have seen, and simply KNOW you want to see it over and over and over.....Until the VCR goes out.

Here are some of my faves:

ROOM WITH A VIEW stars Helen Bonham Carter and Maggie Smith. The Maggie Smith. DAME Maggie to you. It also features young up-and comers like Rupert Graves (far more likable than the OTHER Rupert, he of the snotty-assed attitude) Daniel Day Lewis For eye-candy...Julian Sands. Did I mention Dame Maggie? Witty dialogue from writer Ruth Prawer-Jhabvala, neatly directed by James Merchant and produced by (you guessed it) Ismail Merchant, not only will this film put me to sleep (good dialigue need not be seen), but it also keeps me awake. Dame Judy Dench, Denholme Elliot, and Maggie Smith Costar.

Costarring Maggie Smith: THE FIRST WIVE'S CLUB is MAGGIE's MOVIE. She steals every scene she's in. Also starring some former Television Dancer (remember when they had THOSE?!) an "I'm fat this week, but next week I'll be better thanks to all you fags who still support me" singer of Gay Bathouses (remember THOSE?!) and some schlumpy white chick who wears gloves and turtle necks well beyond Memorial Day. They hate their Ex's. And they moider 'em. Well, emasculate. Fun, nothing of a movie.

That singer of Gay Bathouses? Bette Midler! And she's glorious as MAMA ROSE in GYPSY. She'll be Swell! She'll be Great! Absolutely nails every song, and is fab in the acting department. Cynthia Gibb is sort of boring, but RACHEL SWEET and Tony winning star of Grey Gardens, Christine Ebersol are around to add FUN! to the event. This telepic completely OBLITERATES that shit starring Rosalind Russell, clearly in another show altogether. (read: AUNTIE MAME).

Starring Roz Russell, Norma Shearer, Joan Crawford and every female extra on the MGM Lot, THE WOMEN is just a fun, never say die comedy, that slaps you this way, that way, until the end. About as satisfying as eating creme brulle.

One caaaaah-razy bitch not in the movie? Katharine Hepburn. Oh, I have a couple of her movies here, mind you, but one would think all that ESTROGEN would have been a call to arms. ON GOLDEN POND features an amazingly well face-lifted and ever-joyous Kate, bounding about and carrying wood, proving that embalming BEFORE DEATH is a good idea. Costarring David Bowie, as the man who deteriorates before her eyes, even though she can't. Errr....wrong movie. Henry Fonda got a death bed Oscar for this, and Hepburn Stayed home drinking bourbon and yelling clever insults at Stephen Sondiem. He lived right across the way in Turtle Bay. Like Hepburn PRE-FACELIFT? Well, her jowls are hiding under a snood throughout, but see her sizzle in LION IN WINTER. Fabulous verbal sparring with Peter O'Toole and that Hannibal Lecter guy. She's gloriously vindictive and rolls her rrrrr's like no seething wench EVER did after being locked in tower for years. Hey, she had her knitting. Unbelievably great writing.

Years and Years ago, the BBC produced a thoroughly long adaptation of THE FORSYTE SAGA. Clocking in at 1,200 minutes and shot in Dazzling BBC Black and White, this flicker, based on the books by James Galsworthy, is pretty spot-on. Naturally, I had to read them AFTER I saw the series, during one of MedFly's hottest summers, in the attic, sweltering. So we go on vacation, I come back, and there's a whole new cast! I never knew where the HELL FLEUR came from, but her jazz-baby debutante was to my mind, a good thing. If you come across this, see it.

FANNY AND ALEXANDER is one of my favorite Bergman films. Again, this is long, subtitled (I think some rube out there dubbed it) and about children in peril. Born into a theatrical family, the troupe is forced to shut down after the stage manager's demise. Unfortunately, the beautiful widowed mother becomes entranced by a really scary Lutheran Minister, and the rest is history. You MUST commit yourself to this.

PRETTY IN PINK stars Molly Ringwald, Jon Cryer and some other guy who works on LIFETIME now. This is a guilty pleasure. I love these flicks. And even more, I love ANNIE POTTS!!! Great soundtrack, funny gags, love unrequited...it's the best. And I don't care what anyone thinks.

QUIZ SHOW. Ralph Fiennes morphs into Charles Van Doren, and John Turturro slumps into Herb Stemple. Based on a true story of a TV Game Show Scandal, directed by Robert Redford. Considering I got this one free, I have no complaints, and I love Fiennes. Other supporting cast members will be recognized, but their names will escape you. Until you watch a re-run of MURDER SHE WROTE.

From the DAYS OF ROBERT REDFORD ACTING file: THE WAY WE WERE. There is no reason for me to own this, I NEVER watch it (EVER), except to see how deftly the camera man stays away from the Dark Side of the Moon part of Barbara Striesand's face. Redford is pretty, his hair (all over) is good, the movie is stoopid, and after a few times, you wonder WHY?! It's just that I'm gay. Get over it.

WHY?! GAY?! GREASE!!! I love this movie. The chicks are old, and the guys don't know it. If you could film day-day life at Edgewood, ad a musical score, run into AN actor at a gay bar, dance on AMERICAN BANDSTAND, hang out Venice HS. You got my life. Only the guys were bitchier than the dames, and the closest thing to Cha Cha DiGregorio was Mrs Schnieder. I could bring up a couple of other names. But. Why bother.

OK.

Martha Guthrie.

A bit more of my life, eeeeeeked out into the ether!

Til Next Time....

CRAIG'S LETTER TO SANTA!!!

Dear Santa,

Gee, it's been a long time, huh? I haven't written to you in, like, well, a looong time. Not that I've stopped believing, I just figured I'd spent so many years being naughty and not so nice (if you can see me when I'm sleeping...or should be...you know what I mean) that it would be pointless. But this year I thought "HEY! Why NOT?!" Can't hurt.

Since the last time I wrote to you, I've lived in a bunch of different places, but I have to tell you, Santa, Bellingham is the worst! I don't know if you get much television up there in the North Pole, but we are the furthest outpost of HOOTERVILLE in the country. Although a lot of PIGS live up here, none of them are as cute as Arnold. And nobody but Jory Mickelson cooks hotsa cakes in chiffon and ostrich plumes.

So here is my list of greedy gifts from your old pal:

1. While you are on your way home, would you mind dropping several tins of film from Hollywood? It would be nice to see what's nominated for Oscars before the Award Show. A burro carries them here at this point.

2. Please drop a few of your Gay Elves here to stay (try not to confuse them with TROLLS, because we have any number of them that are so busy wasting space...lots of it...at Rumors, quaffing Rum and Cokes and bragging about their glory days at Bellingham HS, rather than doing what they should be: KEEPING THE BILLY GOATS OUT OF TOWN). You know, Elves that embody what GAY is. Not just some bloated cocksuckers who haven't read a book in YEARS.

3. Speaking of which: Please drop the entire collection of DR SUESS books at the home of Alford Johnson, so he can start to learn to read. Then maybe he'll graduate to The Bobsey Twins, but I doubt it. SEE DICK. SEE DICK RUN.

4. While you are shuttling things from one place to another, would you mind dropping off a few politicians from CHICAGO off here. They couldn't be any more corrupt than the Bozos that run this Hamlet now.

5. I was going to ask you to drop a stink bomb on FAIRHAVEN, but that would prove only to be good publicity for Ye Olde Stinky Cheese Shoppe, as the locals would just think it imploded. So if you could, Mr. Claus, just drop some (about 300) PARKING METERS with really high prices for really short parking times so the rich folks have to pay just as much as the rest of us do for parking.

6. If you're going to bring snow, please package it in GRAM sized glassine baggies.

7. A mink muff.

8. A matching coat.

9. A matching AMEX card with an unlimited credit limit, to be paid for by the government. I promise to only use it up to around $700billion or so.

10. Every Julie London album I don't own already.

11. A REAL Drag Queen. Maybe Lypsinka would like to live here? (Please do not mistakenly bring RuPaul as she is SO 5 minutes ago.)

Well Santa Baby, I think that's all I want. I'll send you another note if I think of anything else.

Your friend,

Craig

PS: Say hello to the MRS. If I remember correctly, she's well into the nog at this point.

NETFLIX QUICK PIX!!!

CAGED BOIDS!

Now, honestly, who does not love a WOMEN IN PRISON FLICK or two. Gals behind bars. Being restrained, thrown into isolation, tortured by terrifying Amazons or ruthless Costume Designers. Here are a couple of swell classics.

CAGED, starring Eleanor Parker, is probably the best known cult classics of the genre. Parker portrays a newlywed 19 year old, sentenced to hard time and taught the ropes of tough prison life by Dames who've been in and out several times. Surprisingly well-acted by well known HAM Parker (who was nominated for an Oscar) she's restrained and vital. Her transformation from ingenue to hard boiled gal is believable. Supported by a sterling cast of character actresses (Ellen Corby, and Oscar Nominee Hope Emerson as the SCARY matron, Agnes Moorehead as the kindly warden), well. This film has to be seen to be believed. Written by Virginia Kellogg, who did research by posing as an inmate, also nominated for a big award. I didn't really see the camp value, but it was compelling. Dated, yes. Campy, no.

Olivia DeHavilland in LADY IN A CAGE is campy. DeHavilland (with quite the rack for a broad in her 50's) is locked betwixt floors in a private elevator in her opulent home. Well, I won't go into the rest, but she's terrorized by a young James Caan, and a blowsy Ann Sothern. Vaguely Oedipal overtones here, as her pampered son decides to blow the coop the same morning. Not as fiendish as WHATEVER HAPPENED TO BABY JANE, but it did have me on the edge of my seat, clutching Gus, who watched it with an intent rare in the feline species. Two Paws Up!

Ever wondered what it would be like if your Costume Designer went berserk?! ZIEGFELD GIRL does just that. Complete with a star-studded MGM cast, this flick features some of the most outlandish, uncomfortable frocks and costumes in film history. Designer ADRIAN run amuck! Starring Judy Garland as her perky, still a little fat girl self, Hedy Lamarr, who's just plain gorgeous and does nothing, and a surprisingly GOOD Lana Turner as the red-head gal who goes down hill. Eve Arden's around too, hand on one hip, leaning on a dressing room mirror and tossing off those wry asides that made her famous. And then there are the rest, Ziegfeld girls all, meandering down staircases dressed in sea coral, balloons, tinsel, cellophane....you name it. FABOO supporting cast and undergarments.

This is bondage in the highest form.

HERE'S TO MY ELDEST FRIEND!!!

Derek Washington, formerly known as Black Slime, has climbed into a seat at the Las Vegas Film Festival as Judge.

Well!

I suppose I could be jealous, but I'm not. Why? Because we two fought and scrapped our way into becoming what....ahem....we've become. Not easy coming from Medfly, but, I think, as history will tell, we did it.

As Alison Jablonski once said to me: "You're going to make it. You will. Only because you have the power to mow over people."

MRS J. WAS A BITCH OF THE HIGHEST ORDER

You made it Derek.

And I'm proud.

WHO CARES???

So Joaquin (I've been coasting on my dead brother's reputation for years) Phoenix is retiring from acting?! What a tragic loss.

What a caaaah-rashing bore.

I had the pleasure of meeting a hopped-up Phoenix at the home of Udo Kier. Oh, it was some Euro-trash affair, and the Phoenix family came en masse, casting a pall on the already tedious goings-on. There was mustachioed Rain, her Hobbit feet crammed into a pair of Prada sandals, and some equally swarthy Phoenix siblings. Joaquin fussed and fawned over a drunken (quelle suprise) Kier, loudly making a big deal over whatever Kier's latest plundering of the dramatic arts was. (You can read all about it in my upcoming memoir TRAVELS WITH UDO: A LIFE IN LEIDERHOSEN.)


Needless to say, I was duly unimpressed. As I have been with Phoenix's rise to Oscar winning star.

Had the ethereally talented River not paved the way for his brother's success, we would never have a Joaquin. Oh, I give Phoenix kudos for his dead on impression of Country Singer Johnny Cash, but I do the same for the late Charles Pierce's impersonation of the late Bette Davis. And I saw no Oscars handed over to him.

The Academy loves impersonations. Do I call it acting? Well, no. And we all know what happened to Marissa Tomei (who won over Dame Joan Plowright) after she won an Oscar for impersonating a gangster's moll, don't we. And whither oh whither has that daughter of Paul something Italian gone for impersonating a prostitute in a Woody (I was forced to marry my girlfriend's adopted daughter) Allen flick. You know who I mean. And what about Hillary (hooters courtesy of Dow Corning) Swank, who won TWICE (?!) over Annette Bening for impersonating an actress?! I mean, give me a break. Imagine Swank in a revival of Ibsen's A DOLL'S HOUSE.

But. I digress.

So Phoenix (who I believe will be back when the cash runs out) can have his little HIGH PROFILE vacation, pursue his MUSICAL CAREER, and stay the hell out of my sight for as long as he likes.

And take his sister with him.

ONLY MERRILY COULD HOLLER LIKE THIS!!!

YMA SUMAC

1922-2008

BOOKS YOU CAN'T PUT DOWN!!!

HERE ARE A COUPLE OF DISHY TOMES FOR A RAINY NIGHT!






Love salacious gossip? Love hearing the dirt on the Royals? The perils of being a movie STAH! Well you'll love these bits of trivial pursuit!

Publishing gadfly Tina Brown's THE DIANA CHRONICLES is probably one of the funniest, well researched, entertaining books on Princess Diana ever. No one comes out unscathed! The Queen Mum appears as a Gin Guzzling prig; The Queen as cold and uncaring about much more than the Royal Jewels (she called France to see if Diana was wearing any hours after the crash); Prince Charles a gloomy wastrel; Princess Anne a gun toting nilly; Diana a dumb broad (her loopy, school girl scrawl is ridiculed throughout) with a media savvy genius. The boyfriends make appearances hither and yon, nattering on about their affairs with The Princess. But more interesting is the history of Diana's family, going all the way back to Charles II, who was married to a woman that was barren, but managed to father several children to different courtesans in his day. If and when Prince William ascends to the throne, he will be the first direct descendant of CII to rein! Brown, who was editor of the glossy English tabloid TATLER during Diana's spectacular rise from nothing, has plenty of inside contacts on the Royals. The main thing is her writing is stylish and witty. Once I started to read this (it was foisted on me....I could care less) it was non-stop pleasure. A surprise indeed.

THE STAR FACTORY, from prominent film historian Jeanine Basinger is a fascinating look into the inner workings of the old Studio System: How stars were groomed, tested, re-tested, re-groomed and sold as products to the world, then ultimately discarded as popularity waned. The writing, again, is insightful and witty. You can tell Basinger clearly loves what she does. Some of her observations are laugh out loud hilarious! On Bette Davis rival Miriam Hopkins (portraying a Western saloon singer in Virginia City): "The role requires her, without a shred of musical talent, to "entertain" at the Virginia City nightspot. There she is, can-canning around the stage and dancing among the men in the audience, all of whom look vaguely frightened." This is good stuff. If you love classic film, you will LOVE this book.

Happy reading!

Well, I guess Ms Stinky Cheese had a fit about my post. Some nice police officer came to my door, with a list of words that SC wanted removed. The cop was very nice about it, and said I had the right to say whatever I want. I wasn't breaking any laws. Oh, I suppose I could make an apology here, for what I have no idea. If you act stoopid, well, don't do in front of a writer. She also wants the address removed, for fear that THE Gays will organize some sort of protest, or raid her shop. Funny thing is, THE Gays in this town hardly organize anything. Unless there's booze involved , particularly if it happens to be free or REALLY cheap. Hell, Rumors has daily happy hour where you can get really plastered and fall out of taxis. Some friends tried to get me to go there a couple of weeks ago, but since I wasn't drinking, I thought not. One has to be plastered to go there. I hate that dump. So the deal here, what do I remove at the behest of some pushy broad who doesn't have the knowledge to discuss things in a reasonable way. I mean, you could just as well asked where THE Fags are. Gay Community has a much nicer tone, and doesn't offend. So I'll just remove the address so anyone in Bellingham that reads this tripe, won't have a clue as to where to find pricey, stinky cheese. Hmph

Ummm. Screw this. This is not about some pushy broad and her need to have total control over whatever is written about her. This is about Freedom of Speech.

This is about the courts, not the cops.

(I never EVEN saw the report!)

This is about Lawyers.

This is about A CEASE AND DESIST COURT ORDER.

THIS IS A LAWSUIT.

Here's the address:

1200 Old Fairhaven Parkway at 12th St. • Suite 101

I WOULD DO HIM.

Is this the hottest cabinet member since George Stephanoplis? I can't tell. I don't know what the hell he has to say, but bring his short ass over here, and let me throw on a condom.

WAY CUTE.

For a white guy.

I love you Rahm.

I want you.

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.....

HAPPY 100 MISS DAVIS!!!!

Joan is simply DONE with me. She sent me an email from HELL, where she reported the DREADFUL stuff Bette was doing to her. But this is THE YEAR for DAVIS, (and MERMAN, but who remembers her?).

Davis, regardless of how AWFUL the roles she took on, was always DAVIS. This is why we love her.

Slap me honey. Slap me straight to hell.

VOTE FOR GRACIE!!!

Yeah, the elections are over, and we got a swell guy in office (after eight years of a LOUSE) but who would not vote for GRACIE ALLEN?!

This crazy gal took a WHISTLE-STOP tour, had campaign buttons, a little ditty, "VOTE FOR GRACIE", a platform for the unemployed, and then garnered 100,000 write-in votes!

Listen here:

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=96588557

CHEEZY BIZNIZ!!!

Artisan cheese shop seeks articulate foodie (Fairhaven)

OK. I applied for this job around a month and a half ago.

If ANYONE has foodie experience, it's moiself (that's French for Derek Washington). Though I don't eat much, I love to snack. If every hour was HAPPY hour, I would be content. Nibbling is a great way to doff those extra pounds or maintain. Oh sure, you might get a little edgy or high strung, BUT WHO CARES?! As long as you yell at strangers, or pull a McCain and do it to large numbers of folks you BUSSED IN, then you have a right. People in the Service Industry are used to being yelled at. We get "BAD DAY". Always apologize afterwards. Leave a big tip. Tell them you love that hair do.

But. I digress.

So this hirsute chick calls me when she gets the resume. Perfect. All I want is to work a couple of days, and then on Wednesday, He Rests. For the week. If I were GOD, y'all would still be waiting for Germany to be created. Now, mind you, Craig has lifted a snifter or two (or three-ish) when this crazy chick phones, so I'm like....."Could we make it on the morrow?" NO! If you want the job that badly you'll get here NOW!

I didn't want the job that badly.

BURP!

Hiccough!

So RACHEL calls back.

OK.

AND WANTS TO GO TO DINNER! Now, drunk or not, I know what a TO GO box is, and my fridge loves them. So I put some MOLDING MUD in my coiffure, tossed on a blazer, and off I went to TIVOLI, where this crazy chick ORDERED FOR ME. I expect this from a date, but not a woman interviewing me, while drunk, for a job. Getting down to the nutz and boltz: Once RACHEL found out that I have a monthly column in THE BETTY PAGES, and figured from my lisp that I might be GAY (plus good table manners, which are rare in this part of the country), she kept on me to WRITE about her business, dictating the column. By dessert (creme brulle), I was exhausted.

She kept asking me: Where are THE GAYS?

THE GAYS?! WTF?! Where are THE DWARVES, THE BLACK FOLKS, THE PARTIALLY BLIND, THE AMPUTEES, THE.....pronounce it theeee, and you'll get my point here.

Finally, when I realized that RACHEL wanted not to hire me as much as she wanted free press, I was like FUCK THIS. I don't need a job THAT BAD, even if I want to work!

Cah-raaaazy control freak, now looking to hire another lackey. Even the STINKY CHEESE line is mine!!! But it truly was THE Gays that got me. Finally I told her that Bellingham was built on a toilet paper plant, and that most of THE GAYS in this town would happily nibble on Velveeta and Wonder Bread. With Miracle Whip. This ain't the homo sophisticate here. Not remotely.

THEY'RE FROM THE NORTHWEST!

When I write for THE BETTY PAGES, it's about CRAIG'S WORLD. They never edit me, let me rant about whatever, swear like a sailor. I intend to offend some of you, but MIGHT apologize for using the C word. Might. Google Shirley Nagel and see who I WON'T apologize to.

Anyway, RACHEL is hiring again, and I can only wonder why.

See Craigslist post here:

Immediate opening:

Artisan cheese shop seeks sophisticated & articulate foodie for sales position. This position offers 30-40 hours per week as well as the necessary training for the qualified individual.

Qualifications:
-Must be very available through the holidays with the exception of Thanksgiving Day,Christmas Day, and New Years Day.
-Must love artisan cheeses... this includes having the palate for goat cheese, blues and washed rind(stinky)cheeses!
-Must be over 21 years of age.
-Must be available Saturdays and Sundays beyond the holiday season.
-Must be knowledgeable and passionate about food and wine, and very enthusiastic about cheese.
-Applicant should be friendly, outgoing and comfortable in a fast-paced work environment.
-Must exhibit a commitment to superior customer service, demonstrate great attention to detail and offer effective and creative problem solving skills.
-Previous fine dining, specialty food and/or travel experience a plus.

I GOT A ROCK.....

IS SHIRLEY NAGEL THE WITCHIEST WITCH IN HISTORY?!
HOW DARE HER TAKE HER SHITTY FUCKING POLITICAL RHETORIC, AND NOT CRAM IT DOWN KIDS THROATS?! NOW Y'ALL KNOW I DON'T WANT TO GET ALL POLITICAL HERE, BUT THIS BITCH NEEDS TO BE SHOT.

WITH AN HIV+ COCK.

UP HER ASS.

Here's the story:

By The Associated Press

GROSSE POINTE FARMS, Mich. - A suburban Detroit woman decided to scare up the vote among neighbourhood children by just offering treats to John McCain supporters.

Shirley Nagel of Grosse Pointe Farms, Michigan, handed out candy Friday only to those who shared her support for the Republican presidential candidate and his running mate, Sarah Palin.

Others were turned away empty-handed.

TV station WJBK says a sign outside Nagel's house warned: No handouts for Obama supporters, liars, tricksters or kids of supporters.

Nagel calls Democrat Barack Obama scary. When asked about children who were turned away empty-handed and crying, she said simply: Everybody has a choice.

Fax and phone messages left at numbers for Nagel were not returned.

Write her and sign it "RICHARD AMIVIZCA"

The Nagels

465 Belanger St.

Grosset Pointe Farms MI

48236

NETFLIX QUICK PIX!!!

MAD MEN

This is one of those shows that EVERYONE is talking about, and EVERYONE kept telling me I had to watch because it was SO Craig. Well, everyone is right. I do love this show. Unfortunately, since I REFUSE to pay for cable because the rates are ridiculous, and , like, who the hell needs a zillion channels of nothing-ever-on?! So, for that reason, I wait for things to come out on NETFLIX. At least I can have some semblance of control over my TV watching, rather than sitting through endless hours of The Cooking Channel or wishing the John Wayne Marathon was OVER on TCM.

But. I digress.

I'm not going to go into a bunch of long winded reasons why the show is so great. Oh, the attention to detail is astounding and the writing is swell and JON HAMM could share a bunk with me any day. I heart him. But I will say that this show reminds me of my "Duck and Cover" childhood, my grandparent's membership to an exclusive country club, where, you guessed it, those colored folks could only work. (My grandmother, Loyce, was pretty shocked that my best friend in HS was one of THOSE.) For me, with my love for the Atomic Age, the nifty ads and the oh, so cool clothes....well. I have LPs simply because of the cover art, and not what's on the album itself.

MAD MEN is apparently going through some sort of classic CAA greed-a-thon which could probably bring the show to it's knees before it even got off the ground. But c'est la vie. I can watch old Donna Reed re-runs and still be happy as a pig in shit.

Check out this link for more on the pissing contest:

http://www.deadlinehollywooddaily.com/lionsgate-must-be-staffed-by-mad-men

Deanna Durbin was one of Hollywood's biggest stars in her day, neatly making a transition from "child star" (she was almost 15 when she started) to adult. No one knows who the hell she is today, or why she ditched the scene at 27 and fled to the French Countryside. But her films still endure. IT STARTED WITH EVE is a happy little movie that features Durbin in one of her adult roles. Playing a hat-check girl thrown into a situation she wasn't expecting, Durbin sings, flirts, acts silly, then sorta angry, then gets the guy (Robert Cummings) in the end. It's formulaic but it sure as heck is great to watch her and Charles Laughton trying to upstage one another. Frankly, Durbin has a little bit of that spunk that we now think of as Doris Day-itis. Durbin is cheerful to a fault and gets just about as angry as Day do. Errr. Does. You could pretty much call her a precursor to Day, if you want to.

Anyone who reads this blog knows I am purposefully NOT political here. I don't really want to bother with it, especially now that I've voted and sent what little cash I could to OBAMA. However, if you really want to run the gamut and read a spectacularly well written rant (along with other entertaining tid bits), check out DEREK'S BIG FAT DEMOCRATIC ADVENTURE by clicking on the link on the side bar. Not only is Derek my OLDEST friend (he's the one Loyce was so appalled by) but he's also turning out some really interesting posts.

Humorous, charming, and angry as he wants to be.

All TOO Derek.

Let's hate him.

NETFLIX QUICK PIX!!!

THE NAKED KISS

OK, sometimes you feel like a really great baaaaad movie, be it some Lana Turner weepie or a sudsy made for TV biopic. But every so often, when you least expect it, you come across something at the local library that leaves you aghast.

Directed by Sam Fuller, and made for about $37.49 in 1964, THE NAKED KISS has everything you could want in bad movie fare. In a mere 90 minutes you get prostitution, deformed kids, weird musical numbers, bad acting, and, of course, The Naked Kiss. And that kiss is a wow. Starring Constance Towers (Mrs. John Gavin) and nobody in particular, this film opens (pre-credits) with a woman beating the hell out of a man with a stiletto heel. Though he has more than 800 bucks on him, she politely takes what's coming to her...75. (Oh, did I mention that he reaches up to pull her hair and IT COMES OFF?! revealing that she's BALD?!) Credits roll, with Towers reapplying make up and reattaching hair beneath. You can tell this is going to be good. It is. From the time Kelly (spelled "K-E-double L-Y") breezes into a perfect town, with a valise of ANGEL FOAM (a pricey champagne at $10) and meets up with a really cheap version of Jack Webb (if there is such a thing) copper. Now, he won't have any prostitution on his beat, though he does fork over to sample her wares. Then he suggests she make it over state lines to CANDY'S, a tavern with liquor and bon-bons named Marshmallow and Hat Rack (everyman wants to hang his fedora on her) served up for masculine pleasure. But meandering through a nice suburban neighborhood Kelly comes upon a sign. "PLEASANT ROOM TO RENT." Kelly smiles, and soon the room is hers, and the next thing you know, she's working in the local hospital, blithely teaching kids to walk. But not before she goes over to settle a score with Candy, thereby beating the hell out of Virginia Grey (former MGM starlet turned everybody's best gal pal turned, well) with her clutch. I do so love accessories as weapons, don't you? Then Kelly shambles into a relationship with the town benefactor, played by a really cheap version of (insert any swarthy heartthrob of the era here) suddenly finding herself engaged. Oh the joy! Bye bye Nurse K-E-double L-Y, hello town benefactress. Naturally, swarthy fiance has a secret, and this one is a doozy. Sordid, lurid and an utter delight. I couldn't stop gaping at this one. Only Charles Busch could pull off a remake.

Oh, did I mention that future Russ Meyer girl Edy Williams makes a cameo?

Speaking of Edies. Edie Adams finally kicked the bucket. The last of the Great Broads died on October 16th. Formerly Mrs. Ernie Kovacks and star of stage and screen, she was one of those gals you thought would go on forever. And she will, as the Fairy God Dame in the original Cinderella starring Julie Andrews (available on DVD).

Also starring Julie Andrews: VICTOR/VICTORIA. Take away my Gay Card when I admit this: I have never liked this movie. It has to do with some psychological damage done by my first boyfriend, who I had the misfortune to see this movie with in theaters YEARS ago. I've always associated this flick with VAUGHN (I used to be a felon but it was white collar crime so it doesn't count) WELTY, so I've never been able to sit through it again. However, I'm a sucker for Special Features, and when I noticed on the back that there was a commentary track with Andrews and hubby Blake Edwards, I thought, hell. There's nothing else on the library shelf. What a pleasant surprise. I started with the audio commentary, got about 15 minutes into it (Blake's had more lucid years, I'm sure), switched off the track, and watched the damn thing and enjoyed the hell out of it. The finale is classic, looks like an old Carol Burnett episode because Robert Preston LOOKS LIKE he's having a little too much fun in that dress. Sure enough, that scene was done with little rehearsal, and in one take. TOO MUCH.

UNDERSTANDING CATS WITH ROGER TABOR. Well, I didn't really see it, but Gus sat on my lap enraptured. I was laughing at him watching the damn thing, worrying that he'd think my chortling was at him rather than with him. You know how cats are.

Maybe not such a good movie for people.

But your pussy will love it.

MIRACLE DRUG FOR BOOZE HOUNDS???

What in the hell?!

I started this medication over a month ago, and I haven't had that "Omigod! It's almost 7! I better get dressed an run out to a bar before HAPPY HOUR ends!" feeling. Actually, the turning point was when I fell out of a cab, hit the curb, blacked-out and was held hostage in the ER until I could blow better than .18 on a breathalizer. Oh, yeah. That was a turning point. A big one. And after getting firm admonishments and lectures from family (drunkards), friends (lushes) and doctors (shrikes) I decided that I had to do SOMETHING. AA was OUT. I hate those sanctimonious fuckers. And to be quite honest, I had no intention of having someone "sponsor" me through a non-drinking spell. Not only that, if I want to have a fucking drink, I will, just watch me.

The label SOBER is SO not moiself.

The crux is, the Falling Out Of A Cab Story is Craig personified. I came to with more money than I left home with.

Now THAT'S what I call DRINKIN'!!!

My therapist told me about this Campral stuff. My doctor (god love her) wanted to put me on Antibuse, which makes you sick even if you have a mere SIP of a toddie. Like putting a leash on a cat, for chrissake. But my beloved Psychiatrist gave me a prescription to this new medication, and after a couple of weeks, I didn't have the impulsive urge to run out and buy a box of wine to quaff in a night. I actually managed to get through birthday dinner FORTY FIVE sipping cranberry and soda with my Surf n' Turf. My friends were drinking, and I touched nary a drop. I didn't even want to.

Ask anyone who knows me. It's amazing.

Now, I'm not one to lecture anyone about imbibing. But I definitely had a problem. Have, I should say. If I can make it through the HOLIDAYS without sloshing the nogs, awakening to find we have a new president in office, well.

Amazing.

Slightly different note. I went to buy a stamp for my ballot yesterday, and the nice post office lady gave me a Happy Face Sticker because "You won't be getting an I VOTED! sticker." Wasn't that nice? I wore it all day on my forehead.

AWWWWWWW.

CHEERS TO MY FELLOW TIPPLING PIXIES!

MOVIES THAT MIGHT MAKE YOU WANT TO VOTE PRO-CHOICE!!!

Years and years ago, back before the word BLOG became the standard in publishing, my High School pal Derek and I published something called a 'ZINE. Now, for those of you who don't remember such things, it was merely a scant five or so Xeroxed pages stapled together, then distributed, guerilla-style, in a variety of venues where it would garner attention and rankle those that we wanted to irritate (read: the gay community). Titled BUSTER! Derek and I, as co-writers and editors, had a smashing time writing it while drinking Bellinis (Vodka, Orange Juice, and Crushed Clonazapam), howling our asses off in my little apartment in West Hollywood. From the writing, to the printing, to the distribution process, to the invites to parties, oh, we had fun! All done on a word processor, in cut and paste style and financed by a lovely grant from PEN Center USA West, who had no idea what the hell I was going to do with that money. (It was for Fabulous Hell...shameless plug.) Here's a review:

CHEAP FLIX


Don't let Buster Commence!


Tuesday afternoon Buster saw CITIZEN RUTH. For whatever reason, Mirmax (under the Disney umbrella) has chosen to release on limited screens a dead-on satire of our times. NOt to be lofty, but Proust or Camus could not have more succinctly nailed a culture in upheaval.

Laura Dern and a cast of pros (Swoosie Kurtz, Mary Kay Place, Kelly Preston, Burt Reynolds and a resplendent cameo by Tippi Hedren) have given us a relentless spoof of the false piety on both sides of the abortion issue. Example: Ruth Stoops (Dern), paint fume sniffing, pregnant degenerate white trash is taken in by the Baby Savers, whom she finds herself momentarily imprisoned with. Ruth is presented with a choice: Abort the fetus or face hard jail time for Child Endangerment. Have you ever driven by an abortion clinic under siege? Picture 90 minutes of theatrics. Swoosie Kirtz, an undercover spy for pro-choice (with wig and powder-blue polyester pants) kidnaps la Stoops and "fairly" presents the option of choice. However, none is without agenda. Both sides attempt to bribe Stoops with $15,000. Then the ante is upped! A welcome appearance by Diane Ladd as Ruth's mother acidly skewers today's media fixation with the sordid and lurid.

Laura Dern will probably not get so much as a passing nod from THE ACADEMY, but from Buster's perch, this is one of the years five best lead actress performances. Tour de force, as our French friends would say. Rated S for Savvy.


Fun, no?

On a more serious note. Mike Leigh's brilliant film, VERA DRAKE features Imelda Staunton as a lovely little English gal who goes around doing housework, favors for neighbors, sings to herself while darning. She's a jolly woman. Mother of two grown kids, and also anyone in need. Including girls who are in trouble. Never using the word Abortion, Vera just helps start the bleeding with the use of a syringe, cleaning solution and carbolic soap. She doesn't do it for money. She's simply living by her life's calling. Set in post-war England, this sad little tale about a woman with the best intentions will break your heart (providing you have one). Staunton gives an amazing performance, garnering an Oscar nod. The point here is, girls who are in trouble will go on getting out, choice or not.

LOVE WITH A PROPER STRANGER stars Natalie Wood and Steve McQueen as a duo who had a fling on a drunken night. Wood ends up preggers, and seeks out McQueen to help her find someone to help her fix it. Both are at their peak looks-wise, give very strong performances, but the scene where they show up in some abandoned building and meet up with a smarmy couple with frightening instruments to "help get the bleeding started" is enough of an example to anyone who wants to outlaw what is a womans right.

The right to choose.

And not die in some dank alley.

NETFLIX QUICK PIX!!!

THREE STINKERS AND A PEARL
OR HOW NETFLIX CAN FUCK UP YOUR WEEKEND

Well, as can sometimes happen, just as you planned your weekend around some frothy affair, NETFLIX manages to send some irrelevant CRAP that you had on your queue for months, scolling down past the things specifically chosen for a couple of days of light-hearted viewing. What you end up getting some obnoxious fare that was chosen months ago out for whatever reason making Life resemble a really bad pseudo-MGM movie.

Generally speaking, I really enjoy those Stage to Screen adaptations of classic dramas. However, I could not even remotely get into HOGAN'S GOAT. Based on William Alfred's play, and starring Faye Dunaway, this torrid period piece of early 20th Century political tripe set in Brooklyn (of all places) would better had it been called HARRY'S SWINE. Dunaway (post Best Actress Oscar nod) hams it up and chaws scenery. Why she EVER got an Oscar is beyond me.

PINK NARCISSUS. Well, this ART film of the 70's stars no one in particular, features a bunch of naked guys wandering around doing nothing. Just because it's old and gay, doesn't make it vintage or good. Think: Kenneth Anger, and you'll get the picture.

Speaking of hams: THE SCARLET EMPRESS stars an early Marlene Deitrich. No, she's not the pig in this one, it's director Josef Von Sternberg. He lights, choreographs and manipulates the story of Catherine the Great to the nth degree. What comes out?! Nothing. I mean, where the hell is the legendary horse?! Dietrich is as Dietrich does. Frankly, I expect more from The Criterion Collection.

The game breaker: KM. O. This film from Spain is a delight. Following 14 intertwining lives on a hot summer day, this film was funny, poignant, eye popping, well written and by-gosh, I just got a kick out of it. The men are gorgeous (and I bet stinky, like cheese) the women stellar. This was a dreamy little film that just made me feel warm all over. I can't say it was like a lovely pitcher of Sangria would have been, but in that I'm swearing off the liquor, it was a close as it could get. 4 Star Fare!

Yes, NETFLIX can be as unreliable as the Stock Market, but sometimes, they do deliver.

(THE MOVIES I WANTED ARE ON THE WAY TODAY!)

NETFLIX QUICK PIX!!!

Now who doesn't love a Tennessee Williams play, replete with wacky Southern women and steamy sexual tension?! Here are a couple of great adaptations on film.

THE ECCENTRICITIES OF A NIGHTINGALE stars mahvelous Blythe Danner as the town singer, daughter of an Episcopalian Priest and a crazy mother. Danner is stunning as the neurotic, flighty repressed gal, hopelessly in love with her neighbor, Frank Langella. Langella has great hair and is handsome as hell as the gentle doctor who admires Danner in spite of his mother's dislike for her. A truly beautiful Stage to Screen adaptation, this play was written before SUMMER AND SMOKE, with similar themes, but not as sudsy. As Hal Holbrooke says in the opening, this film is the premier production, as it was never produced on the West End or on Broadway. Well worth the watch for the eloquent writing and adept acting. 5 stars!

SUDDENLY LAST SUMMER. Well, if you haven't seen this Katharine Hepburn, Mongomery Clift (post accident...his beauty diminished), Elizabeth Taylor vehicle, for shame. La Liz, locked in an insane asylum gives a pretty good performance as the neice of Hepburn, who, for whatever reason, wants all memories of her darling son Sebastian's death erased from Taylor's mind forever...by lobotomy! Hepburn is arch as ever, Clift is Clift, and supporting actress Mercedes McCambridge as Taylor's mother is pathetic. This one's a doozy, co-written screenplay by Gore Vidal and Williams himself.

On a different note: THE MARK OF ZORRO stars a delectable Tyrone Power as the fop/rogue hero. Oh, Power is so faboo to look at, and his skills with a sword are commendable. Linda Darnell co-stars, lovely as ever, and Basil Rathbone is perfect as the suave but slimy villian. Check out Power in those tights! Wow. The added bonus of a documentary on Power's short life is a delight.

Two Rock Hudson flix on one disc, one so unmemorable, I cannot remember the name, but it's early in his career. He's handsome and wooden as ever, and when you see his shambling frame trying to dance the charleston, well. It's just absurd. Piper Laurie co-stars as the ingenue, but this is really Charles (You DID say diamonds, I can tell) Coburn is really the star of this 1950's version of the roaring 20's. A musical to boot. Loads of twenty three skiddoo and gosh oh golly, but strangely the boobs are enormous, considering the '20s were a time of women strapping bazooms down. Also on this disc is some other thing with Hudson as a lothario and Leslie Caron as a BIG haired psychologist. The consistent rear screen projection of Paris put me off so much, I turned the thing off within the first twenty minutes. The only great thing? Watching Hudson travelling in First Class on TWA in a lounge that does not exist on planes today. Oh, for the days of non-pedestrian travel! Charles Boyer and his toupee co-star. Sorry I can't remember the names kids, but who cares? You shouldn't rent them anyway.

MISS BESSIE MAE CURTIS----RIP

Yes, kids, at a little before 8 this morning, my little monster, Miss Bess, Queen of the Ivory Tower succumbed to a brief illness. It started as liver disease, and from there all her organs just started shutting down. I KNEW she was drinking out of my tumblers of wine! Anyway, it all happened within 24 hours, so she went quickly. I was with her when they put her down, singing her song "Bessie Mae Mucho" softly into her ear as she drifted away. AND wearing my big dark glasses, hair tucked under an Hermes scarf, a schmear of red lipstick for color. She was my baby, and I loved her.

She will be missed.

NETFLIX QUICK PIX!!!

Silent movies are such a fascinating look into film as a medium. Using very little dialogue (those little cue cards that pop up intermittently, you really have to rely on the actors' body language and the cinematography as a whole. With silents, one has to be fully dedicated to the film as a whole. I love them for the innovative use of a new medium, the look back at clothing, and the expressive acting. Here are a couple of recent views into this moldering Art Form.

Director DW Griffiths' fave leading lady stars in WAY DOWN EAST, an interesting curio about a small town girl (Lillian Gish) who is sent to live with her rich cousins in the Big City. Naturally, they treat her like the wicked step-sisters they are, but is romanced by a lothario who has big ideas about getting Anna on her back. He stages a "marriage" gets Anna pregnant, then announces they're not married at all and DUMPS her!!! Rapscallion!!! Needless to say, she has the baby in a seedy boarding house, and the peril ensues. Griffith is pretty heavy handed with the Bible stuff and the moral is pronounced early on, but that's Griffith. Gish, however, gives a lovely (and usual) performance as the Damsel in Distress, her beautiful, heart shaped faced, huge eyes brimming with tears consistently expressive and fine. In one famous scene, Anna is stuck on an ice flow, and nearly loses her life as it drifts dangerously toward a water fall. Fun stuff because, as Gish would later assert, there was no such thing as a stunt person, so that was her out on that frigid river, scared to death as she moved steadily toward the cascades. That's not acting! That's terror.

The Flapper stars little known (now) Ziegfeld Follies Girl cum comedienne, Olive Thomas in a really hilarious film about a boarding school girl, again, off to the Big City on "an Adventure!" Well she gets into one, in a way she didn't expect. Framed for a robbery she didn't commit!!! When Olive returns home in the form of a Vamp, her senator father is scandalized. Oh, this is a really fun romp from David O. Selznick's brother Myron, and you can tell there was no expense spared on the quality of this film. Even creative cards come up, and I was giggling with delight. I had never heard of Thomas before, nor of her marriage to drunken lout Jack Pickford, (Mary's brother), nor of her tragic death in Paris at 27. The accompanying documentary is well worth the rental alone, though why they got one of those dreadful Arquette sisters to narrate is beyond me, considering Thomas was a huge star at the time, and the Arquette's nothing but aged starlets.

Something with sound, 1955's The Eddy Duchin Story. Starring Tyrone Power as the famed Society Pianist is a glossed over, Technicolor, Cinemascope bio-pic that Hollywood was famed for. The highest grossing pic for Fox that year, it's big and over'blown, but Power is his likeable self, though Kim Novak is a complete and utter bore as his first wife. Hounded by tragedy, Duchin was a favorite with High Society for his theatrical, and sorta on the sweet side piano playing, but provided entertainment...a precursor to Liberace. Duchin's son Peter continues the legacy, long after Duchin's early death of Leukemia. You know where this saga is going, but I have to give the director credit for an innovative smash finale.

Speaking of DREADFUL Gay Flix: Shelter, starring has been Brad Rowe and some other guy as a couple of surfers who fall in love. Ugh. They call each other dude alot, drink beers, do nasty things with each other in bed. This is the kind of SEE HOW STRAIGHT GAY GUYS CAN BE crap that Logo (Lifetime for Homos) produces with a regularity that's ghastly. I was bored to tears.

Sometimes it's just better to be silent.

DON'T AIDS GIVE YOU A PAIN IN THE PANTS?!

Well, here’s the first installment of my new blog----a non HIV specific one at that. Of course, when I was approached to do such a thing, I thought GREAT! I can write for one of my pet causes (Adult Literacy being another) for an Organization I believe in. Easy. I’ll just do what I LOVE to do, do it with my usual aplomb, and say FUCK AIDS!

But then I started to think about it. And think about it.

And THINK about it.

Sometimes when you think about writing too much, you get so caught up in the idea of doing it, settin’ around (as an ex would say) daydreaming, reading other people’s work, watching stupid old movies like Tammy and the Bachelor, you lose track of the fact that writing can be fun, and not a bunch of mental anguish. And while this track will sooner than later become the bunch of frivolity that is Craig, I think I might just as well address some of the stuff about AIDS that is a pain in the ass (for lack of a better term), and what makes living with it, well, difficult. I mean, it does add a subtle shading to one’s Life,
n’ cest pas? I mean, every time you take another handful of pills, does it not remind you of what you are dealing with?!

Take dating, for instance. Like, it’s not hassle enough to go and put yourself out there emotionally, possibly only to be dumped after a long courtship if you’re NORMAL. Actually, every time I hear some non-AIDS affected cow start wailing and moaning about some botched relationship, I just want to slug them. I don’t, of course, but I sure as hell want to simply because with AIDS you have to disclose, and fairly often, if your trying to fall in love with a NORMAL person, they’ll dump your ass faster than you can say Dear Abby. And chances are they don’t even have the nerve to do it in a grown up way! They just start ignoring your calls, and not answering your furtive missives via email. After a while, out of sheer exhaustion with the whole trauma, you develop this ennui, start drinking again, let your beard grow out, stop shaving those personal spots that no one else sees anyway. Recently, after a rather tumultuous break up, I bought a HUGE pair of the darkest glasses you’ve ever seen, wear them well into the night, as if to say, I’m unavailable. Well, no Garbo am I, but I pretend to be. I’m pretty well enamored with my own mystique as it is, and I can live here in my Ivory Tower, in a secured castle, where an electronic doorman can shield me from the world until I’m ready to flounce out with a vengeance and fall off a barstool or two. What the hell. And where in the FUCK did I leave those dark glasses at?!

Or how about this? Dealing with the Government Bureaucracy and their constant In Your Business business? Yes, I’m still disabled. Yes, I’m still on the dole. Yes, I still have the same doctor, the same case manager, the same the same the same. BUT YOU STILL WANT ME TO FILL OUT THESE SAME GODDAM FORMS, YET AGAIN. Ugh. A person has less chance of dying from complications of AIDS than they do of sheer BOREDOM. Recently, I had to deal with someone from The Housing Authority, and the bitch was munching on Cheetos, then, after answering my question, proceeded to hang up on me! Now this really pissed me off, so I called back, and by the time I got through to her voice mail, I was INFURIATED, and left the nastiest message you can think of. No one ever hangs up on the likes of moiself, and how dare her crunch and munch her way through a mundane conversation! Then I went into the kitchen and poured myself a tumbler full o’ wine from a box. Yes, I’m still on the dole. If I wasn’t, it would have been a pitcher of martinis. Up. Yes, the government is tedious, but we have to deal with them or else we lose our much needed benefits. But would they just put a little Vitameatavegemin in the water cooler to give those darned bureaucrats a little zip? If anyone pops out at parties and is unpoopular, it’s them.

Another thing I love is the fact that this year, for the first time in several seasons, the Fashion Industry, in their own particular capricious way, has decided to shift all their colors from one palette to the next. How am I, fashion plate that I pretend to be, supposed to keep looking in-step when I make just a few quid more than the average homeless person?! Can’t there be some government agency that will supplement our meager incomes so as not to only house and feed us, pay for medical expenses, but also give us a clothing allowance. The newly formed Federal Bureau of Fashion would see to it that none of us would commit Fashion Flaws based on limited income. Hell, put those Five Faggots in charge! Oh, but they’re too busy hocking Post Toasties and retro-lampshades these days. Frankly, I don’t think Sharon Stone is doing much currently, and even if she did have a brain (tumor) she would be willing and able. All I want, Miss Stone, is a new pair of shoes and a neatly appointed mix and match wardrobe for me and my poverty stricken young’uns (as my ex would say). Oh, yes, I SWEAR I’ll lose 40 lbs. ANYTHING to get out of these old low slung bell-bottom jeans I’ve been wearing for YEARS! (You can call ‘em flared leg or boot cut, but having lived through the 70’s, they still look like bell-bottoms to me.) You can bet that newly formed tog oriented Non-Profit Organizations would bring in gazillions of dollars more than those tired old AIDS places do.

Actually, this is a pretty good idea. I think I’ll put in a call to my dear friend Miranda Priestly and ask her to lobby congress on this one.

Until next time, dahlings, Craig Curtis, signing off!

NETFLIX QUICK PIX!!!

Well, kids...here are some doozies from our French, German, Spanish friends. Oh, they don't need to get along, living so close to each other, but MAN, they can put out some quality flix.

Les Biches: Well what can I say about this highly stylish Chabrol film other than the clothes and make up are to die, the plot slowly sizzling to a boiling point, and very fine actors in very fine costumes, driving swell cars. There is a plot twist here, and I would be a rude mutha fucka to divulge the Hitchockian ending. The acting is understated (except for the gay couple, who are stereotypical, but funny), and you have no idea where this is going. Ah, the French!

The Tunnel: Based on a true story of the Berlin Wall (of which I happen to have a piece, thank you Udo Kier) and a determined plan to dig under it to save family and friends from Communist Russia, is taught, compelling and downright suspensful. I was beside myself with the lead hunk...err....actor. When he starts to do the Twist, well...It's about the best thing since sauerkraut. I was on the edge of my seat throughout.

The Devil's Backbone: Ah, Spain. This is a thriller that, again, had me riveted. A ghost story set in an orphanage during the Spanish/American War is something to see. Really.

The Orphanage: Yep, more Spain. Yep more dead orphans. I watched this one three times. The ending is terrific. One scene, when the adopted son mouths off to mom...well...she slugs him. This would never fly in America, though I think a lot of brats could use one or two. No, I am not applying to be a foster parent.

On a slightly different note. I hate AIDS movies. I got it, I live with it, I have to deal with it. However, one magnificent film from France came out this year; The Witnesses. I was astonished to revisit 1984, when AIDS panic was just setting in in America, and to see the French reaction was astounding. Wonderful ensemble cast. The Algerian bisexual guy is le pig, and you gotta hate him. But this film was well worth the watch.

Also on AIDS: Love! Valor! Compassion! I saw this film before it was released (rough cut---no soundtrack---oh, how I loved living in LA for those passes to see soon to be released flix!) I just happened upon it on VHS for 2 BUCKS, and thought, hell, I'll give it a whirl. It's a fine flick written by Terrence McNally, starring an ensemble cast including Justin Kirk (playing a very good blind), Jason Alexander (playing a HUGE show queen with aplomb) and a very spiteful John Glover in a dual role. The reason why I love this film now is not about the AIDS thing, it just reminds me of spending a summer in a remote house in Upstate NY, with very arty people wafting in and out, eating swell food (most of which I gladly prepared) and swilling jugs of wine and talking about our creative goals. It was a wonderful summer. Oh, sneaking into the host's bedroom early in the morning was well worth the trip. But not easy....the floorboards creaked like a mutha. The sight of seeing six gay men in tutus doing Swan Lake is enough for the coupla bucks!

"I wanted to be famous, just to make the kids who'd laughed at me feel foolish. I wanted to be rich, so I'd never have to do the awful work my mother did and live at the bottom of the barrel--ever....Maybe the illusions, the daydreams, made life more tolerable, but I always knew, whether I was in school or working in
some damned dime store….
I'd make it.”

Joan Crawford





WATCH IT! HEY! I’M DORIS DAY!

Rizzo------------------------------------------------------------------------------


I was a virgin until age 19. Blame it on Television.
In high school I ran with two close friends, who, months after graduation, Came Out. Having never been In, per se (I was Thespian president---flamboyant to the hilt---budding Garbo that I was), been taunted by classmates my entire life, harangued by that clown that brought home the butter (he worked in a margarine plant---ain’t life a scream), being openly gay was a welcome relief.

As stated many, many, maaaaaaany times before, old movies run on TV (it used to be free) were sanctuary from abusive behavior on the part of Dad, the insanity of the Vietnam War, Nixon sweating out his last days, angry protests, the era. I mean, I didn’t even realize that police officers had another title not linked directly to a farm animal until I was ten. Mom called them names (with an oink oink here, and an oink oink there) defiantly at protests, she of waist-length chestnut hair pinned up away from her face with a single wooden thingy, my little brother strapped to her back, screaming bloody murder, his little feets sticking out of the pack just low enough to kick me upside the head with his little white shoes. Little bastard. Mom’s always at her best when called to a cause.

That was childhood, dahling. And you wonder why I watched escapist fantasies directed by Vincente Minnelli or George Cukor? Why Bette Davis and Joan Crawford appealed to me? They were well clothed, well coiffed, well lit, made entrancing entrances, became successful business women, dominated weak men hither and thither, killed them, died of broken hearts or dypsomania. Who the hell needs pigs in a world like that. The problem was, I related more to women than men, and when you’re faggy as that, and your idea of relationships and virginity and What Is Love are based on Patty Duke or Debbie Reynolds, well, you’re not going to get laid. In Life no John Gavin is going to sweep one off one’s feet, Cary Grant won’t be waiting atop the Empire State Building, Laurence Olivier shan’t brood away in the heather--- regardless of what tinsel town doles out to the daydreaming masses. It wasn’t until a most uncivil breakup did I realize that life was not a bowl of cherries, but really just the pits.

Lesson: If life tosses one fruit, add cracked ice, four fingers vodka and stir.

Of course, my wardrobe did little except garner compliments in night clubs. Who wants to sleep with the guy in the brocade skirt? Looks daring on the runway, but has a dreadful effect on one’s chances of scoring. It was, in my defense, a time of androgyny. Boy George. Pete Burns. Dreamy Adam Ant. Liquid eyeliner. Lace. Pearls and brooches. To carry off such garb one must be brave, inaccessible, enigmatic. I made most of my clothes, and, consequently, was often pinned into these rags or hems would be tacked up with boxing tape (which, by the way, holds up well in the laundry). Breeches make wonderful chastity belts! It’s only natural that my virtue was lost to a cross dresser in the backseat of a Jetta--had a twin brother--did some kind of sister act in Vancouver. Handsome, charming, and dressed in man wear when we met. The dresses came later. We’d gone out a few times, and I decided that I was in the flush of True Love. When he suggested we move to the backseat I probably said something ridiculous like “Oh darling, of course!”

I don’t remember much about the event except it was as cold as a Southern California December can be, parked on a side street in Hollywood. No champagne. No flowers. Naturally, I had NO idea what the hell I was doing, so when he said “blow me,” one obliged. I gagged and choked at first, and then there was a lesson about teeth (I have lots of them and they cost thousands), but he didn’t bother to warn me about the end result, which was a shock, don’t ask me why. It’s only fair that a fellow utter a gentle warning---am I wrong? A few nights later at “The O” he started fondling me in public! I resisted (Tammy would never allow such a thing), and being the kind of bitch that only a drag queen can be, he yelled “You fucking frigid little virgin,” storming off in a cloud of Chanel #5.

Back to virtuous enigma.

Kenny turned up at a party in Pomona, of all places. He was tall, handsome, blond. My type. Lived way the hell out in the San Fernando Valley. I’d drive my ’67 Pontiac Catalina Convertible at top speed to what seemed the edge of the world, giddy with excitement. The top down--- man! You should have seen it. Powder blue, big as Carnegie’s Pullman, gas mileage about seven to the gallon, power everything, took speed bumps at 40 miles per. When the transmission finally went out, I drove it in reverse up SanMo, right on Doheny, round the swirly streets of West Hollywood and left it in the Safeway parking lot.

Anyway, we had four or five dates---I don’t remember---and again, it was Love. When I was finally asked to stay the night, after a respectable period of courtship, what could I say but sure. There was a rather prominent bar in the billiard room. It was the first time I’d spent a night in a man’s bed and the first time a man spent several minutes inside of me. It hurt like hell, but he was very gentle about the whole thing.

“I could stay in you all night,” he said, drifting off to sleep.

Covered in jizz, a little appalled at the thought of it, I lay there, stroking blond locks, thinking of the act itself and of our future together.

I’d finally met the One.

When we woke the next morning, mascara had crept into my left eye. Swollen. Red. A svelte Charles Laughton in The Hunchback of Notre Dame. One supposes the lesson here is use waterproof cosmetics exclusively. Several days went by, me, the phone within arm’s reach. Finally, I broke down, bought a benign greeting card inscribing it Thinking of You, C., popped it in the mail. Days later, one of his good friends called and asked to meet him for dinner at French Market. It seemed strange, but I guess I was expecting some sort of surprise---Kenny sweeping into the restaurant with flowers and candy (or better yet, a diamond tennis bracelet), and kneeling to ask me to be his One and Only. A serenade! What I got that night was a stern but gentle scolding. His friend was nice as he could be about it, tried to let me down easy, but it was clear I wasn’t going to see Kenny again.

Long, long drive home.

Men are jerks.

I didn’t have sex for ages.

Celibate, yes. But stylishly so!

At 21, I was living in San Francisco, on Castro no less, with two roommates who were as exotic as I in their fashion sensibilities. We shared outfits (mine were still made by hand; theirs costly and designer). We’d go out just as chic as European fashion plates, wearing crushed velvet gloves to our armpits and being just as fabulous as you could be in the gay mecca. I worked at Vidal Sassoon on Post Street---loved the look. Japanese tourists would stop on the street, take pictures, giggling shyly the whole time. At this point I’d adopted a Mozart look (a film was hugely popular), making clothes from yellowed tapestry drapes found in thrift stores. I knocked off a jacket of pleather and faux fur seen in some music video, wore opera pumps and tights. Skirts stayed in the picture. I’d walk through Union Square hearing folks cry “there’s that guy who always wears a dress.” A totally inaccessible look. Attitude included if you order in the next 19 minutes!

One night the gang was out (there were about six of us that hung together) at The Midnight Sun. We owned that bar, as far as we were concerned, and if anyone was sitting in our spot against the wall between two particular lighted posts, we’d gather round the offending party and “smoke them out” of the bar. Amazing the power of six chain-smoking fags. I’d dressed fairly normally in a borrowed sweater in hound’s-tooth check, black stirrup pants and patent leather oxfords. Tipper Gore casual. This extremely handsome guy kept looking our way, and when it was my turn to get drinks (it was winter, so we were drinking vodka cranberry, from which we’d switch after Memorial Day, when outfits went pale, to vodka tonic) he reached across his friends, lightly grabbed my arm asking “did you get that sweater at BeBe?”

“I got it from my roommate’s closet. You can ask him.”

I wasn’t being flippant. I was flabbergasted that this stunning guy, who looked for all the world like a young republican (he was), would want anything to do with a scrawny dork like me. He flashed a huge grin, I beamed back coquettishly, and made my way back to our spot, juggling drinks like a person who can carry six drinks without spilling a drop.

“What did that guy say to you?”

“He asked if I got my sweater at BeBe. I told him I got it out of your closet.”

“He’s adorable.”

“If you like senators.”

We all laughed.

I watched wistfully as he walked out, entourage in tow. I had an opportunity to talk to this gent, and blew it. I’m awkward and clumsy at small talk. Often things come out of my mouth that are either insulting or stupid (stupid works really well with guys, mind you) when nervous. I’d cut the conversation short because I was shy. Not many men made advances. The whole thing frustrating and unnerving.

I think it was a Thursday night, because we headed out to a disco that was always packed on Thursdays. For the life of me I can’t remember the name of the club. It was South of Market, and if you were anybody, there you’d be dancing, regardless of what your work schedule was on Friday. We’d only just arrived and in line to get more drinks when someone tapped my shoulder.

Lo and behold, the young republican.

“May I have this dance?”

I shoved the cocktail at Christian, whose hair looked especially good that night.
We shouted at each other over the music. I was nervous and stiff, playing up the bleach blond ‘do, grinning like a hyena. We talked jobs, I mentioned Sassoon. We didn’t exchange numbers.
My friends twittered and teased at how silly I looked. All of us were spinsters. The very idea of men, a crashing bore. We functioned much like a sorority; everything kept within the clique.
Blair went back to his friends. Later, he stopped to say goodnight.

Friday morning. I tossed on some wacky ensemble (a Victorian side saddle riding habit---very mannish---brooch rakishly nipping the waist), made my way down Castro to catch the underground. I hadn’t slept thinking about Blair. I was still drunk, which everyone seemed to notice, but made no fuss. We all partied. They’re hairdressers, for god sake, just as bad as bartenders and waiters. Tip dollars drive people absolutely wild.

I was a receptionist (there were four of us). Phones forever ringing. Ringing. Ringing. (For fun we’d pick up lines someone else was on, making strange lascivious breathing sounds into the receiver as they’d finish saying “Rafiki has an opening on Tuesday” or “We don’t do highlights and a perm in the same day.” Huff puff. It broke the monotony, and we LAUGHED!) The kind of wealthy, spoiled, demanding clientele who freak out if a nail’s chipped or a day was disastrously bad in the hair department---All Day Long---day in, day out.

Personal calls were frowned upon, but my peers were cool because we all had personal lives way more important than some absurd receptionist job. Not to mention the fact that one of the English franchisees had recently arrived in San Francisco (Sassoon was then owned by Proctor and Gamble), and, god love them, Brits can be the most arrogant people in the world, especially if one is regarded as The Help.

“Some guy named Blair is on line three for you, Craig,” Kim whispered.

I took the call in the staff room.

“This is Craig.”

“Craig, it’s Blair. We met last night, remember? Can you talk for a second?”

I would have talked an hour.

Star colorist Michael Brown stood, mixing tint in a plastic bowl, loudly clattering while he openly listened in, that smug facial expression I’ve only seen in San Francisco, plastered on his cheeky face. OK, I sounded a fool. He HAD to make some raffish quip about the call, of course. The opening was irresistible. The nerve.

Believe me, I’d have done the same to him.

Momentarily unequipped to quip back, I could only muster a shocked, “I have a date on Saturday.”

The rest of the afternoon was blurred by excited anticipation.

I have a date on Saturday.

The staff gathered around the corner, spending ample tip cash at a saloon, The Iron Horse. Cheap happy hour drinks. Complimentary buffet. Dinner for the price of a few cocktails. I dominated the conversation. We usually each had a turn. We were as tightly woven a family I’ve ever known. Transitory. Momentarily close. Like that odd step-sister from your dad’s second marriage.

Blair arrived at the appointed time. Roommates conspicuously home. There was no way one of us was going on a date without Grilling The Dolt. His outfit would be inspected (he was asked to turn about), a couple of pointed questions would be asked, and if everything was satisfactory, I’d be allowed to go out with this guy without much razzing in the morning.

“Don’t wait up for him,” called Blair as we walked out the door.

“Don’t worry, Doris Day will be home earlier than you think,” one shrieked.

They howled with laughter.

I didn’t come home that night. I didn’t come back in the morning. Somewhere along the line we went down to Fisherman’s Wharf, bought cracked crab, sourdough bread, champagne, had a picnic on the floor of his living room. We’d gone to the symphony the night before, stopped in for a late supper at Harris’s Steakhouse, which had a dress code (jackets only) and I didn’t have one, so they loaned me a dreadful navy jacket in polyester. I went to the bathroom at some point, came out not realizing that the back of the blazer was tucked into my pants. At least I wasn’t trailing a roll of toilet paper.

The following week an enormous dozen American Beauties arrived at the salon.

Beginning of my first serious relationship. In the end, and writing this now, I realize I never got over Blair. Not really. The most poignant memory of him is from the rear of a taxi. He sat in the apartment window, looking down, melancholic, as we drove away.

Small town, San Francisco is. After the breakup we’d run into each other in bars; invariably Blair would be with someone else. It was a difficult year together (my neurosis became painfully evident; no matter how reassuring Blair was, I never felt good enough for him).

I left town after six months, fleeing to Los Angeles. Blonder than ever.

NETFLIX PICK OF THE DAY!

WRITTEN ON THE WIND

OK, kids. Fasten your seatbelts! It's going to be a bumpy night with this one!

WRITTEN ON THE WIND, a dazzlingly overwrought, over-acted, over-designed, hyper-Technicolor 1956 soaper from legendary director Douglas Sirk (Imitation of Life, Magnificent Obsession, All that Heaven Allows) is a doozy. Before the credits even roll, you get where THIS movie's going. Speeding drunken driver Robert Stack, drinking corn liquor from a bottle, whizzing by oil wells (the family biz) and into the driveway of a plantation style mansion (yes, with black servants below deck), a weak but worried Lauren Bacall at one window, dypso-nympho Dorothy Malone at another.....then a gun shot! Opening credits roll!

There's a lot of hidden symbolizm going on here. For instance, all characters are color-coded, meaning their costumes. They can go from bright to somber, depending on mood. As Lauren Bacall leans away from drunken Stack and into the arms of Hudson, her togs go from grey-blue to brown. Oh, the change is subtle, and unless you read anything about this movie, it could go unnoticed. Malone's costumes, conversely, are generally BRIGHT pink or black. Her dizzyingly WILD dance to cah-razy jazz music as Rome Burns (so to speak) is outrageous, campy and downright hilarious. Incidentally, she won a Best Supporting Actress Oscar for her role. Even the lighting and the deeply saturated Technicolor is highly stylized.

WOW (as it was known in Hollywood circles at the time---and boy, is it), was produced just as the antiquated Hays Code was being broken down, and the film (which predates Peyton Place by a year or so) exploits those subtle changes in the public's taste for the sordid. A must for anyone interested in Hollywood film making.

It's DEVOON.

Read more about Douglas Sirk at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Douglas_Sirk

NETFLIX QUICK PIX!!!

TYRONE POWER!

Yes, kids. Craig's been on a kick again! This time over DREAMY Tyrone Power. This fetching actor caught my eye YEARS ago, but I've never had a Tyrone-a-thon! Here are a few nifty Power flix:

ALEXANDER'S RAGTIME BAND: Power stars with Don Ameche and Alice Faye in this Irving Berlin tune-filled schmaltz. Faye starts out as a brassy broad with a set of pipes, and is groomed to the hilt by Power. Ameche (also pretty darned fetching) croons. The band gets popular, and Faye leaves for Broadway. But ETHEL MERMAN steps in as the new singer! You can imagine what the ending is, but this is all about TyPo's HAIR!

IN OLD CHICAGO: Another teaming of Power, Faye and Ameche. Power and Ameche are the O' Leary Brothers (guess what heiffer THEY'RE related to...no not FAYE!), and they spend a lot of time vying for Alice's affection. Who wins? Mother O' Leary's COW of course! She knocks over a lantern and BURNS THE CITY TO THE GROUND! This is a 20th Century Fox disaster flick, and the special effects are swell, considering the era.

Speaking of Fox Disasters: THE RAINS CAME. Power, Myrna Loy, George Brent, Laura Hope Crews, Jane Darwell and a bunch of other familiar faces star in Fox's Backlot Ranchipur, India. The days of Colonization by the English are coming to an end. The Brits are on the way OUT. But not before the Scandalous Lady Eskwith (LOY) puts the moves on Raja Power. Then the rains come, and keep-a coming. An Earthquake, a dam busts, Ranchipur is in a complete plague infested wreck. He the effects are even more spectacular than before. Pretty amazing for 1939.

One of Power's lesser known flix, NIGHTMARE ALLEY is a dilly of a film noir featuring Joan Blondell as ZENA SOOTHSAYER, who teaches Power the ropes of the carny life. Studio Chief Darryl F. Zanuck resisted Power's starring in this vehicle, fearing it would spoil his matinee idol status, but Power fought for the role, got George Jessel to produce, and shows what acting chops he had. Needless to say, this is one of his best roles, and yes, he is shirtless quite a few times. The supporting cast is perfect. I was IMPRESSED. Five Stars for this one!

On another note. One hell of a sappy movie, LOVE IS A MANY SPLENDORED THING, is only worth revisiting for the UNBELIEVABLE restoration! The Cinemascope is WIIIIIIDE as ever, The Technicolor dazzles, the Stereophonic Sound is booming. Filmed partially on location in Shanghai, this tear jerker stars Jennifer Jones (I knew her grand daughter---take THAT Hilary!) as a Eurasian Doctor and DELICIOUS William Holden as a bathing suit wearing American journalist star in this star-crossed love story. Worth the watch for the spectacle.

Speaking spectacular disasters: 16 YEARS OF ALCOHOL. Based on some Scots memoirs about a life of drink (how trite), this first time director's crack at his own memoir is blatantly arty (read: I'm just so full of myself now that I'm sober-r-r-r) and oh, so Scottish. I have better drinking stories than this clown....and more years quaffing!

NETFLIX QUICK PIX!

GUN CRAZY

OK, no noir fan am I, but I just happened on a couple of great ones

DEADLY IS THE FEMALE (AKA GUN CRAZY) Has the hottest film duo since, well, Tarzan and Jane. Peggy Cummins and John Dall (woof) give great performances in this little known noir of two bank robbers on the lamb. AND THEY LOVE GUNS!!! This is a hot one for your queue. I was amazed.

Naturally, their is no other Femme Noir than Joan in MILDRED PIERCE. Watch her stalk around in house dresses and heels, tote guns, smoke like a fiend, and deal with her HORRID daughter Veda, and ineffectual hubby. She gets glam, and quick. You'll hate Zachary Scott, but love Ann Blythe as the wretched daughter. Who could as for anything more?! Just think, Crawford was just over 5' but she looks HUGE.

IN THIS OUR LIFE. OK, not exactly noir (too early) but Bette Davis and Olivia DeHavilland play bad sister/good sister with aplomb. A box office bomb, Davis hated it, but a pretty good watch. Charles Coburn and George Brent costar. Oh, this one is a potboiler, but sheesh, Davis hams it up, walks around with nails dripping of BLOOD. Watch her try to frame the up-and-coming black lawyer for a crime he does not commit. Hattie McDaniel is great. Jeannine Bassinger gives great commentary. DO NOT MISS THIS ONE.

Eat your heart out over PAUL NEWMAN and ROBERT REDFORD in THE STING. Yeah, you seen it before, but this is a dazzling 90 mins of sheer pleasure. The plot moves along so quickly, you cannot believe it's over.

Speaking of over: Sidney Pollack. At 73. Director of TOOTSIE, this guy was a pro. How he shall be missed.

A DOCUMENTARY FOR THE AGES!

YOUNG AT HEART

On Thursday, Mom and I decided to go see YOUNG AT HEART, an uplifting (?) film about a choir of fossils who sing covers of songs by such bands as Sonic Youth or tunes by Bruce Springsteen. Funny, huh? Well, yeah...up to a point. While the movie was enjoyable, well produced, the theater experience was not. First of all, the audience was packed with folks who were somewhere betwixt 70 and death. Now this called to mind the days when I lived in LA, and the County Art Museum would show revivals of films from the last century for on Tuesday afternoons for a BUCK! If you've never seen a Technicolor flick on the big screen, you ain't seen a movie. The trouble was, the Bing Theater was always packed with cantankerous, old, deaf codgers from the (mostly) Jewish retirement centers of the Fairfax district. Talk about a Festival of Flatulence! A Symphony of Snores! A Chorus of What'd He Say?! Naturally, this is what I expected...a movie in Smell-O-Vision.

We found seats in the rear of the Pickford Cinema, Bellingham's only Art House. The seats date back to the Silent Era (hence the name?); You want to be sure and take an Aleve before you go. There's no leg room, no heat, no air. Generally speaking, a sort of Cinema Torture. I hate going there since the movies that get here were seen in other places MONTHS before the burro they strapped the film cans to the back of was pointed northward, slapped on the backside, all in hopes that the flick will arrive in Bellingham before it comes out on DVD. And if you don't see the movie in the week it plays here, then you're screwed. Oh, sure, the popcorn's swell, especially if you don't have dental work that is removed before going to bed. One simply CANNOT gum Jujubees!

Ok. So things are going fine until about the second preview trailer plays, when this old broad with the biggest hair since Ann Miller decides to plant her saggy buttox into a seat in front of me. This cotton candy coiffure, held aloft by HOW many cans of Aqua Net I've NO idea is determind to block my view. I wanted to ask the cow to kindly remove her fall, but instead I changed seats. Oh, I fussed and fumed before making the decision to move, and then decided that I might as well just do it because I wouldn't enjoy the movie at all. (This had happened to me once before at a screening of an Almodovar flick, where this garagantua with Gene Shalitz hair came in mid-film, sat in front of me, obscuring the sub-titles. As far as I'm concerned, I only saw half of one of Almodovar's best...BAD EDUCATION.)

I hate the Pickford!

Anyway, if you enjoy seeing dinosaurs doing a novelty act, dropping like flies, wazzing into colostomy bags or breathing with the help of portable oxygen tanks....YOU'LL LOVE YOUNG AT HEART.

But you probably saw it months ago already.

THE NEXT TIME SOMEONE TELLS YOU JOAN CRAWFORD FLIX ARE PASSE....

Sex and the Golden OldieIn between the years Sex and the City lynchpins Michael Patrick King and Darren Star were born, a Joan Crawford movie came out that looks today like a virtual blueprint of the pair’s HBO home run.

Friday, May 30, 2008 at 9:10 AM

By Pam Grady

A few years ago, in a DVD review for another web site of the 1959 romantic melodrama The Best of Everything, I wrote that this nearly half-century old saga of three single gals in New York hunting for careers and husbands reflected such a different era that it seemed to come from some other world. But after seeing the big screen version of Sex and the City, I stand corrected.
I had never before really thought about the obvious parallels between the HBO series and this Hope Lange-Suzy Parker-Diane Baker starring romantic melodrama. But at 148 sometimes punishing minutes, the sloppy, wholly redundant big screen Sex and the City: The Movie offers plenty of moments where the mind simply wanders.

Few TV shows have exited as gracefully as Sex and the City, so this clumsy monstrosity in which writer-director Michael Patrick King takes many of the story elements and even some of the lines from the series and throws it all into a blender is something of a shock. Did anyone really need to hear Miranda (Cynthia Nixon) say to Carrie, post-fight, as Carrie once said to then boyfriend Aidan (John Corbett), "You have to forgive me, you have to forgive me, you have to forgive me!" in the exact same desperate tone? And was it really necessary for Samantha to reiterate, "I love me more," years after she flung the same line at hotel magnate Richard (James Remar.

While it is impossible not to root for the happiness of sweet Charlotte (Kristin Davis) and her wonderful Harry (Evan Handler), or for caustic Miranda to not completely emasculate her affable, overmatched husband Steve (David Eigenberg), it is also hard not to roll one's eyes at Carrie. The most iconic recent female TV character this side of Jennifer Aniston on Friends trips over predictable romantic misadventures, grating shallowness and a shoe fetish that seems more ridiculous than ever.

So, do yourself a favor and gather around the gal pals this weekend to watch The Best of Everything instead. First released on DVD in 2005, the film revolves around a slightly smaller group of best-friend single Manhattan women who all work as secretaries at a publishing company in a pre-feminist 1950’s world. Although this trio is younger – all three women are in their 20’s - they are, given the times, basically in the same place as our SATC girls, looking for the man who will give them love and a safe harbor.

Was the 1961 minted Darren Star partially inspired by the 1959 movie?
There is no real equivalent in The Best of Everything to Miranda, unless one wants to count one of the group's bosses, steely Miss Farrow (a scary Crawford), whose affairs belie her status as a middle-aged spinster. There is a Charlotte in wide-eyed country girl April (Baker), who comes to New York to meet Mr. Right, but finds instead decadent playboy Dexter Key (a gorgeous, pre-Paramount Pictures Robert Evans in a bit of genius typecasting; this would be his final acting role). There is a brittle, more vulnerable version of Samantha in aspiring actress Gregg (Parker), who lets love get in the way of her better judgment when it comes to womanizing Broadway director David Wilder Savage (Louis Jourdan).

And there is a Carrie in Caroline Bender (Lange), though it is not an exact match. For one thing, one cannot quite imagine down-to-earth Caroline going gaga over overpriced, over-hyped Manolo Blahniks. But The Best of Everything basically reflects her point of view as she is left brokenhearted by a fiancé who jilts her for an oil heiress. And like Carrie, Caroline is vulnerable but ever hopeful in her search for love.

She even has a Mr. Big of sorts in editor Mike Rice, a man portrayed in Rona Jaffe's runaway success 1958 source novel as a warm but dissipated drunk - and still an alcoholic here - but one transformed by the ravishingly beautiful Stephen Boyd into an urbane charmer. And while Carrie, at least professionally, eventually morphs from party girl and intrepid (some would say insipid) columnist to author, Caroline is not long for the secretarial pool as she quickly works her way up the corporate ladder to editor, despite the warning that she will end up alone like Miss Farrow.

Here comes the sublimated bride!
A main difference between the two films is that in the pre-feminist world of The Best of Everything, the friends – except for Caroline after her metamorphosis – have jobs, while the post-feminist SATC bunch have careers and, in the case of lawyer Miranda and now-manager Samantha, high-powered ones at that. Oddly, the Sex and the City women seem to have more time on their hands; the ease with which these supposedly busy women socialize together was always a credulity-stretching hallmark of the show, and it has made its way into the film with a designer vengeance.

Perhaps most ironically, the Sex and the City movie pines for a fairytale ending of the sort that was a given back in the waning days of Hollywood's Golden Age. This sentiment, made explicit in the SATC movie when Carrie reads Cinderella to Charlotte's young daughter, inexorably binds these 1959 and 2008 groups of women together.

In a sense, those earlier New Yorkers could be the SATC group's mothers, and as much as the feminist movement and the sexual liberation that exploded with the introduction of the Pill in the 1960's has determined their choice of careers and their decision to delay marriage and motherhood until middle-age, Carrie et al are still their mother's daughters.

Has nothing really changed nearly 50 years after The Best of Everything? On a certain level, women and men both, straight and gay, are indeed still ultimately just looking for love. But what is most depressing about the overly long SATC movie, one that could just as easily have been called The Worst of Everything, is that it matters not a whit that Carrie, a writer who doesn’t seem to own any books, has grown professionally to the point where she now has an assistant (a wasted Jennifer Hudson). All that matters is Big (Chris Noth).

In the wake of the SATC movie, I now clearly see the errors of assumption in my The Best of Everything review. After going through her romantic travails during the course of the movie, Caroline Bender emerges stronger. She will never be the housewife her mother expects her to become, but she will also never be as embittered as Miss Farrow. She will have it all.

And she will never be the wimp at the mercy of a mercurial Cupid that Carrie Bradshaw is. Caroline does not get the traditional happy ending, just a hint at what might be to come, and the certainty that this woman is the mistress of her own fate. In the world of Sex and the City, that, alas, would be a radical notion.

NETFLIX QUICK PIX!

OH, GOODY!!!

Craig finally blogs again!!!

Here are some pretty fun flix to whet your appetite for Life!

WHO ARE YOU POLLY MAGGOO? This nifty 60's flick will take you back to the time of false eyelashes, super-models (ala Twiggy), Diana Vreeland. I loved it!!! Highly stylized by director William Klein (a fashion photographer of the era), this sarcastic send up of fashion resonates as much now as it did then. Truly stylish. Get out the tin dresses, kids! Be Vapid and PROUD!

THE AMAZING MRS PRITCHARD: A made for BBC mini-series features Jane Horrock as a well meaning housewife/grocery store manager who unwittingly becomes Prime Minister. With all the humor and drama you could want from the BBC, watch as Horrock (Bubbles on AbFab) tears into the role like she hasn't done since LITTLE VOICE. A slick six hour watch.

GREAT EXPECTATIONS: Directed by David Lean, starring Alec Guinness, John Mills, Jean Simmons, this is the quintessential telling of a looooooong Dickens tale, condensed into 90 minutes. You'll miss nothing here. The plot moves fast and furious, but ultimately satisfying. Who needs Cliff Notes?!

LITTLE VOICE: Again, Jane Horrocks stars as LV, a shy girl with a big old voice. Mimicking greats such as Judy Garland, Shirley Bassey, Marlene Deitrich...and...uh....Marilyn Monroe, Horrocks sinks her teeth into a role that she originated on stage. She's Absolutely Fabulous. Brenda Blethyn as her drunken slag of a mum, Michael Caine as the sleazy agent who wants to exploit her. Jim Broadbent and oh, so grrrr Ewan McGregor round out an all-star cast. LV's final scene is the BEST!!!

THE DIVING BELL AND THE BUTTERFLY: OK, I watched this movie over and over. Yeah, I think Julian Schnabel is a big fat self important pig, but this movie, based on a true story, about a man trapped in his own body after a serious stroke is a masterpiece. Truly something to be seen. You'll stop whining about your lot in life after seeing this one.

THE GREAT LIE: Bette Davis and Mary Astor are at odds over leading man George Brent. And then the BABY arrives! Who's the mother?! This soaper from 1941 is sheer delight. Mary Astor won an Academy Award for her portrayal of a caustic concert pianist. And well she should have. Hattie McDaniel blows her nose copiously into her apron. What fun!

SLINGS AND ARROWS: Canadian TV at it's finest. A struggling theater, a fetching leading man, a ghost. THE SCOTTISH PLAY?! Witty, realistic, funny. I could not stop watching it. After disc one, I was hooked. If you are into THEATAH at any level, this is one to see!

THE MRS BRADSHAW MYSTERIES: Based on Gladys Mitchell's slight books from the 20's, divorcee Mrs Bradshaw (Diana Rigg) and her chauffer (who ever the hell he is) fall into situations that are rife with mystery. Mrs Bradshaw is an enthusiast of the supernatural, Freud, and, most importantly, sharp, biting wit. AND COCKTAILS! The costumes are BBC faboo. Look for Phylidda Law, Emma Thompson's mum in one episode. Well worth the watch.

CAMP: A bunch of school kids run off to a performing arts camp. Schlock. Whose gay? Who ain't? Who cares?! This is a waste of your queue time. See FAME for a better view of talented kids who want to be STAHS! Give me a little theater version of CATS over this anyday...

Lastly, THE WAR, a film by KEN BURNS. I've only watched a couple episodes, but BOY! am I learning a lot. I'll keep you posted on this one....

Ah, yes. I think I'm getting over it. It helps to get laid.

Kisses to you all!

WHERE IS HE GOING?!

FIVE

“Wasn’t Ruby marvelous?” asked Marjorie in the back of the chauffeured Lincoln Towncar. “I had no idea she had it in her.”

“Who would have thought?”

I felt quite grand riding up La Brea, pretending to be royal, with one of Hollywood’s old guard elite at my side. We’d deposited Ruby at her home and tucked her in, wig and all, and decided to have another drink at a notorious bar on Sunset, where older gay men with money meet boys with financial problems. My reasoning was simple: Marjorie Sherwood Forrest Alcazar Wyatt was entitled to be the star that she is, and, with that in mind, and knowing the clientele, I figured some aged dandy would recognize and remember her from her glory days as the Merry Widow, if not for the days before talking pictures ruined her budding career.

“Good God!” I cried, spying a rattletrap Alfa Romeo a few car lengths ahead. It wasn’t hard to figure out who it was, with the smoke pouring from the exhaust pipe. “That’s Preston!”

“A friend of yours, Talmadge?”

Affirmative.

“Driver!” Marjorie commanded. “Follow that flivver!”

We pulled forward, darting through traffic and came up next to Preston, who was nattering into a cell phone, driving with one hand on the wheel and a black cigarette holder clenched between his teeth, ala FDR.

Marjorie had the driver roll the window down.

“PRES-TON! DAAH--LING!” I called from the left lane.

“JAMIE! What are you doing in that CAR?! It’s awfully late to be going to a funeral. Who died?”

“No Preston, DEAREST! The name is Talmadge! And I’ve just been promoted to Marquis thereof.” I stood slightly and flashed the family crest. “You’ll never believe who I’m with!” I bellowed. “Marjorie Sherwood Forrest Wyatt!”

Preston dropped the cigarette into his lap.

“HELLO PRESCHTON!” Called Marjorie, coyly waving an end of her serape out the window. Diamond “cufflinks” glinted in the moonlight. They were actually earrings, but Marjorie, in a moment of genius, had transformed her deceased husband’s white dress shirt into a fabulous evening blouse, crimson sash (a scarf) cinched at the waist. “Driver! Have you a phone?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Why don’t you give us a call, Preschton!”

“We have to pull over Marjorie,” I whispered theatrically. “He hasn’t paid the bill in months.”

“Well, who the hell is he talking to?”

“Himself. It looks good.”

“It looks ridiculous,” snorted Marjorie. “The pretensions of this town! Have him pull over.”

I stepped out of the car and made my way over to Preston, who was desperately trying to extinguish the ashes that had fallen onto his Brooks Brothers khakis.

“My God, Jamie! I nearly burned a hole in my trousers. Are those cufflinks real?”

“I should assume so.”

“And who Markeed you?”

“Mrs. Wyatt. Preston, she is too fabulous. Where you off to?”

“The Brits are having a party in the hills.”

I groaned. One despised those arrogant bastards.

“It’s only 10:30, doll. You never arrive at those Eurotrash parties before midnight.”

“I know. I have to stop at my dealer’s.”

Preston has a bad habit of owning everyone, including the teller at the savings and loan, who he refers to as “my bahn-ker.” The guy he bought cocaine from was, naturally, his own.

“Where are you off to?”

I quickly related the events of the day, including the impromptu performance by Ruby, explaining why we were off to Numbers for a nightcap.

“You should come with us, doll. I have a feeling it’s going to be a swellegant elegant party.”

“Jamie…”

“Talmadge,” I haughtily corrected.

“What-ever. You know how I hate that dump. Besides, the Brits are counting on me to bring party favors.”

“Goddamn it Preston. You are passing up the evening of the year to hang out with those fucking snobs with bad teeth and cockney accents. Now, I’m with Hollywood Royalty, the greatest hostess in the history of tinsel town (aside from Dani Jannsen), and you’re going to blow off this opportunity to sit around in your Gucci loafers with a bunch of creeps who are coasting on their parents’ success, while pretending to be veddy uppah uppah, when we all know that they’re no better than the rest of us.” I scoffed. “Besides, Mrs. Wyatt palmed me 100 bucks, just so I could have a good time.”

“Well, at least you won’t have to sell yourself to some doddering old fart for rent money this month.”

“I’d watch my mouth if I were you, young man!” called Marjorie from the car. Her eyesight wasn’t good, but that woman could hear like a Mastiff. “Both of you! Get in this car!”

“Come on, Preston. It’ll be fun. You’re with royalty now. A tad better than the crowd you usually run with.”

“Bitch.”

Marjorie was delighted to visit Preston’s dealer.

“Just like the old days,” she exclaimed. “Do you have to have a secret password to get in? Oh, the speakeasies! My heavens! This is thrilling! I’ve not been on this side of town in years. It seems a bit shabby these days, from what I remember.”

“I’d say more ethnic than shabby, Mrs. Wyatt.”

“You are sounding rather snotty, Talmadge.”

“Preston was admiring your cufflinks, weren’t you, Preston.”

Preston nodded.

“These things? I’ve had them for ages. I’ve always thought diamonds should only be set in platinum.”

“A sign of great taste,” agreed Preston.

“A gift from an admirer,” Marjorie sighed, sadly. “When I had such things. Believe me, I knew the best.”

Preston stepped out of the car and disappeared into the apartment complex. It was perfect timing, as anytime a conversation got slightly maudlin, he’d extricate himself from the room, or make a stinging wisecrack, totally devoid of sympathy. I was used to this flaw in Preston’s character and accepted him for what he was. Preston was a fair weather fellow; shallow but fun.

“Do you boys do this sort of thing often?”

“What?”

“Talmadge, don’t play stupid. I’ve seen what cocaine does to people. My goodness, do you remember Louise Brooks?”

“Not personally.”

“Of course not personally. But you do know of her.”

“I do.”

“Such a lovely, but tragic creature. Anyway, I remember once at San Simeon. She and the mistress of the house….”

“Marion Davies.”

“Goodness, Talmadge! You’re good. I would swear we were the same age. My, my. How old are you, anyway?”

“34.”

“All those years between us, and yet you sound like a contemporary! Even your use of the English is sterling. Do you believe in reincarnation?”

“Well, in a way. I do believe if you don’t learn the lessons this time, one might have to come back in a lesser form and do it all over again,” I said. “And that, dear Mrs. Wyatt, is my idea of hell.”

“So you believe in the exotic religions of the East?”

“Hmmm,” I pondered briefly. “I’ve looked into them. I spent several years searching for answers. I do believe in a Deity, but your standard vengeful Christian god floating around in the clouds is, to me, a lot of baloney.”

Marjorie laughed.

“I’d say you were a philosopher, Talmadge. A very bright young man indeed. Extraordinary.”

I wanted to tell Mrs. Wyatt why I’d thought so much about religion, and deeply questioned life’s meaning, but why bring a smashing evening to an end based on a not so secret secret of illness and my own mortality? The evening was young and we were having a ball.

“Thank you, Mrs. Wyatt. I appreciate the sentiment.”

“There is no sentiment here, Talmadge. And goddamit, call me Marjorie. All my friends do. And you most certainly are a friend.”

“Thank you, Marjorie. I’m enjoying your companionship, too.”

“Piffle and poppycock!” Marjorie snorted. “Let’s try not to get too sappy, shall we? We’ll just start a mutual admiration society all our own.” she flicked a wrist dismissively. “Where the hell is that Preschton?!”

I explained that you don’t simply dash into a drug dealer’s apartment. You have to sit and chat for a minute, do some of your coke with them, stay long enough so as not to look like you were in the building simply for a fix but a visit, and then discreetly leave as if you’d seen a dear friend.

“Just like the bootleggers used to be,” said Marjorie. “Though in those days, the bootleggers really were our friends, came to our parties, and were generally a hell of a good time to be around. Of course, you could make your own gin in the bathtub if you had to.”

“Gallons of rubbing alcohol, grenadine and ice?”

“This conversation is getting bizarre, Talmadge. Yes, that was roughly the recipe. It had to be simply frigid (we called it a frappe) else you’d taste just how awful it really was. Have you a cigarette?”

I did.

“Why have you not smoked earlier?” Marjorie demanded.

“I’m down to my last one, and I didn’t know if it would offend you.”

“You’re manners are exquisite, Talmadge. A sign of fine breeding. That jacket suits you more each minute. Shall we share?”

“I haven’t got a light.”

“I do,” interjected the driver, passing a lighter and a pack of smokes to the rear. “Keep them.”

“Thank you, driver. You are a dear.”

Back then, Numbers was secreted away off of Sunset. They’ve gentrified since and moved to that ghastly strip mall of gaydom called Santa Monica Boulevard. The front door faced the rear and you could make dazzling entrance from the upper floor descending a winding mirrored staircase. Marjorie was delighted.

“What a magical place! Take my arm Talmadge, don’t be a numbskull, you handsome devil. Would you like me to fall pell mell into the club? Where’s Preschton?”

“In the bathroom, I presume.”

“Needs another jolt does he? Is there anywhere to sit?”

“Nothing but a couple of stools at the bar.”

“Talmadge, never in all my years have I sidled up to a barstool. It absolutely isn’t done. Terribly gauche for a lady, of my age, especially.”

“Marjie? Marjie Wyatt?” A portly codger in a salmon silk shirt and cravat wafted toward us in a cloud of expensive Patou Pour Homme. “My goodness! It’s been years!” He clapped his manicured hands.

Marjorie, though unsure of who’d approached, graciously reached forward.

NOW WHERE TO?!

THIS IS FOR YOU, MY CHERMAN FRIEND!

SHE'S BEEN HERE BEFORE, BUT SHE MAKES ME SO HAPPY....ESPECIALLY AFTER A NIGHT OF TEARS! MY NEIGHBOR ACTUALLY CALLED 911!! THANKS FOR BEING KATIE!!!!

Molly McDowd

The curious thing about Molly McDowd

Was her burning ambition to draw a big crowd

A burning ambition (which she would confess)

Would greatly influence the style of her dress

And the colors she wore (which demanded attention)

Which caused passersby to gloat and make mention

Of “garish displays” or “pallets too loud”

In the wondrous wardrobe of Molly McDowd.

The wondrous wardrobe that was Molly’s pride

Was an heirloom from Molly’s Old Granny who died

Old Granny Aurelia McDowd Smith Van Orr

Was a former fit-model for Christian Dior.

“’Twas the day of the New Look,” Old Granny would say.

“Though the war blighted Europe Parisians were gay!

With songs on their lips and hemlines to here

Ah, Forty seven, a MAH-velous year!

And our shoes and our gloves, these handbags chapeau

(That’s the charming French word for a hat, don’t you know)

And look Molly here’s the first faux Chanel bow,

Which would suit you just fine if you wore it just so.”

Then tears of nostalgia would wet Granny’s eye

As she’d draw Molly to her and heave a great sigh,

And say “Those were the glory days, where did they fly?

When style was everything. Life passes by

How I cry for the modern age, pigs in a stye!

Are these modern day people who let glamour die.”

“Actually, in Granny’s opinion, they killed it, Molly.”

Old Granny was finally laid to her rest

In her favorite Dior with the man tailored vest,

As Molly McDowd stood at Old Granny’s grave,

She vowed to Old Granny that glamour she’s save.

Heartbroken, Molly McDowd stood and cried

Because without her glamour Old Granny had died.

And during the service they heard Molly pray:

“Dear God what the heck’s glamour, anyway?”

Now heiress Molly had style galore!

Old Granny bequeathed her the gift of glamour

In the form of a wardrobe in whose contents bore

Every old frock and old hat that Old Granny wore.

As one could imagine, these old frocks were cool.

Molly McDowd like to wear them to school.

But modern age people in glamour don’t dress,

So the modern age students called Molly a mess.

They called her a harpie, a horrid old hag.

They asked why her mom tied her up in a bag?

They told teacher “Molly’s clothes make us all gaga.”

And Molly said “Nonsense, it’s Balenciaga!”

“It’s a cape for the opera, this in my hair

Is a faux Chanel bow that Old Granny would wear.

Go ahead, gawk, I know why you glare!

It’s because of my glamour and I really don’t care.”

“Molly,” said Teacher, “get down from that chair!”

“Molly McDowd your behaviour’s the worst!

I refuse to submit to your angry outburst!

And one thing I can’t stand is a glamour whiner!

A wretched excuse for a couture designer

Are you in your finery, my little lass!

I will speak plainly, I’m sick of your sass!”

Molly said “YOU are a squealing jackass.”

“Molly!” said Teacher, “that’s it you’re suspended!

Miss Molly McDowd’s fashion tirade has ended!”

It’s true to be glamorous in school is a folly,

But do you think folly would discourage Molly?

She wants modern age folks to take up her cause

And honor Old Granny with new glamour laws

That would legislate strictly against fashion flaws.

Wouldn’t Old Granny have truly been proud

To pass legislation with Molly McDowd?

The logical place to put out the call

Was the tackiest fashion emporium of all

That retail Hades, the Sunnyside Mall

Where in March or in April you’ll find clothes for fall

Which drove Granny crazy and straight up a wall.

On top of a bench Molly made her decree.

On top of a bench in the food court on three.

She spoke to the diners who put down their forks.

She called them “a lot of ridiculous dorks!”

“Citizens, I’m glamour queen of the land,

And as glamour queen I do hereby command..”

Before she was finished she saw someone stand,

And Molly knew nothing was going as planned.

The woman was German. Her accent was thick.

The assassin was eating bratwurst on a stick

Which she waved overhead as she bellowed aloud:

“She isn’t royal! She’s Molly McDowd!

She’s fake! She’s phony! Princess Macaroni!

The grand duke! Her highness! The queen of baloney!”

And clever as Molly was here’s what she said:

“It’s lucky I’m not queen because I’d behead

An impertinent peasant like YOU if I could!

Instead I’ll just sit on the bench where I stood

In my Balenciaga and look really good.”

The assassin and Molly stood nose to nose.

It looked like the two of them might come to blows!

And everyone else in the food court just froze,

Except for a woman in excellent clothes.

“I knew it! I knew it! There must be a saga

Behind such a young girl in Balenciaga!

With that opera cape I am VERY impressed,”

She said as she tugged on her man-tailored vest,

Which was actually vintage Christian Dior.

Hand to her chest Molly dropped to the floor,

And cried, “I am not glamour queen anymore!”

The excellent woman said, “Don’t be a bore.”

“Molly McDowd you listen to me.

There’s room for us both to be royalty.

For although glamour is YOUR crown and flag,

My royal title is Queen of the Drag!

I’m terribly sorry for this intrusion,

I couldn’t help saying that glamour’s illusion

Which might put an end to your you