Make it Work!

Isaac Mizrahi reveals the contents of his head. Without surgery!

The competition is getting fiercer and fiercer on The Fashion Show. With only eight contestants broken up into teams of two — and only four designs to judge this week — it's getting pretty hard to sort the haute couture from the clearance rack.

This week, Isaac sits out the mini challenge so he can make a dramatic entrance later as the inspiration for this week's assignment: design a dress for his collection! They're on the job this week — and appropriately they have an eight-hour day to complete their finished designs.

As if that's not bad enough, Daniella gets randomly assigned to work with Reco. Not only do they have to deal with each other (or not deal, as the case may be), but their colleagues, and we the audience, are treated once again to their bickering.

Daniella and Reco (don't) feel the love. More importantly, what IS Merlin wearing? He looks like an extra from the Mos Eisley cantina scene in Star Wars.

There is a ray of light, however, when the producers pull Becky Newton (Amanda from Ugly Betty) out from behind the curtain to judge the mini-challenge.

Previously... on Ugly Betty...

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The Fashion ... Shoe?

These shoes rule.

Finally, an episode of Bravo's The Fashion Show that does not involve teams! Reco isn't the only one getting sick of this team business week after week.

With the designers unencumbered by each other, and left to their own devices, we got the best runway show yet this season. They really shone through as individuals, and even poopy-pants Isaac had kudos for them.

Episode 4: The Shoe Must Go On

The challenge this week was all about working from the ground up: Design a dress inspired by a pair of shoes.

Maybe the best part (for the designers) was the field trip to Fifth Ave landmark Bergdorf-Goodman so everyone could pick their own favorite among the impressive inventory of Jimmy Choos, Manolo Blahniks and Alexander McQueens.

The designers are transported to Shoe Paradise! One pair... How do you even begin to choose?

Anna and Haven have a little spring in their step after their little Bergdorf's shoe-stravaganza. *Sigh...* I know just how they feel.

Even without teams, the judges narrowed down the field down to the worst two designs. By creating their little drama about whose look they’re "not buying" and who is left "hanging by a thread," the judges force themselves to make a 50/50 decision. Let's call it their "which is worse" moment.

Last night's "which is worse" moment was a decision between the designer who made a bold but disastrous choice and the designer who made a safe but boring choice. The judges made a bold choice themselves.

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Gay Blood? Don't Bank On It.

Shall I be insulted by, or merely appreciate the irony of, a sign posted outside my office in the elevator lobby encouraging us to donate blood. As corporate social service initiatives go, it's a fine idea in concept. But since 1985, gay men have been banned by the U.S. Food and Drug Administration from making blood donations.

This floor is occupied by Logo, the GLBT network. I guess they're going after the handful of folks across the hall who work for Nickelodeon?

To their credit, the Red Cross and the American Association of Blood Banks want all donors to be treated equally. Right now it's a lifetime ban, but they would have the deferral period be reduced to a year, which is the current rule for heterosexuals who may have been exposed to HIV risk.

The FDA is undergoing a review, but who knows when they'll make a final decision.

I think they're still missing the point, though. The risk comes not from man-on-man action, but from the absence of condoms. Straight folk may have unprotected sex within a year of their blood donation and pose no apparent risk.

That's still kinda discriminatory, no?

Fortunately for me, I can't give blood anyway. I have such anxiety about needles, whether it's an injection or an extraction, that I'm likely to pass out and hit my head on something. That, to me, is a more immediate threat to my health than the idea of getting blood from a gay guy.

A More Pissed-Off Project Runway?

While Season 6 of Project Runway is lost to the ages somewhere between Bravo and Lifetime (Hint: Wait for it on Netflix.), fans can make do with The Fashion Show, the latest cutthroat couture reality show and Bravo's response to getting their signature show snatched away from them.

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Mission Accomplished

The dirty little "secret" about RuPaul's Drag Race is it doesn't matter who wins this competition. RuPaul is not passing on any crown. Are you kidding me? She's just gettin' started! This entire season has been all about one person: RuPaul.

And I'm not saying that's a bad thing.

Fittingly, Season One closed on one more example of the contestants acting as co-stars warming their hands on RuPaul's fire. The girls had to learn new choreography for a guest role on RuPaul's new video and they had to record a rap for inclusion in her single. However, I think what we saw this week firmly placed Nina and Bebe among the fiercest of the fierce.

Camaroooooon! [www.bebezaharabenet.com

Tonight Bebe won the crown and our hearts. I had always hoped Nina would win. She's the only one who has never had to lip-synch for her life, and her heart and charisma enriched the experience for everyone. But I would have been satisfied with either of her or Bebe. And Bebe's plans to start a charity for kids in Camaroon with HIV/AIDS is, frankly, one of the highest marks of a true champion.

Rebecca's lucky star, on the other hand, seemed to have faded this week. From the start of this episode (and frankly before), the race was down to Nina and Bebe. Through every step this week, Rebecca just couldn't cut it. She didn't hit the choreography, she had half as much rap as she needed, she couldn't pull herself (or her wig) together for the video shoot, and she had no capacity for taking direction from Mike Ruiz.

Either she's finally feeling the pressure, or it's just a bad day. Or maybe it's because she shouldn't have gotten this far in the first place. "You never, ever rush a queen," she says. But the other two seemed to manage just fine. She's full of excuses this week, but even she knows her time is up.

In this week's "Under the Hood," Nina confronts Rebecca with a few things. It's a classy moment: Rather than part ways with bad blood, she calls out Rebecca's shadiness and makes peace with her. Nina and Bebe bend over backward to give her the benefit of the doubt: "You probably don't know you're doing it" and "you probably don't do this intentionally." But it was a real barrier to her ability to make any friends on this show, and it did a lot to keep people from trusting her. It's nothing personal, but it's an important lesson for them to impart.

And they seal it with a kiss. Mwah, mwah. "Ay, Loca. Work it out."

Rebecca concedes a few times this season that she probably appears standoffish to the others, but it's not intentional. "It's just the way I am."

But when asked about the others' reactions to her, she always says something like, "I'm used to it." In other words: I am a victim, those bitches don't like me, they're jealous of me, and I'm used to it, so whatever. She recognizes she's improving her look or her performance, but she's not improving herself or her professionalism: witness her Viva Glam breakdown, tonight's disastrous video shoot tardiness.

Ru asks her point-blank, "Do you think it's this kind of behavior that alienates you from the other girls." And her response is either ugly or just thoughtless, I'm not sure: "I think it's maybe because they're a little older..."

Nothing to do with her, of course.

When Nina and Bebe are talking about staying in touch and working together after the show, Rebecca says nope, I'm here to win, and "I can't let things like friendships get in the way." If this is just "how she is," it sucks, and it will always hurt her.

So, while she's fixing her wig and being friendless, Nina and Bebe are holding hands, blowing kisses, and forging a friendship that will carry them through their success in ways Rebecca can't seem to imagine.

I Can't Believe It's Not Fabio

One idea of male physical perfection is the romance novel cover model. It's the swashbuckling hero, stripped to the waist, wrapping himself around a fair damsel, her frills and ribbons swirling up around him, licking his bronzed, hairless torso. It's the tamed savage, all leather straps, shells and feathers, towering magnificently over his prize, one ham-sized hand firmly grasping her arm, the other gently touching her chin as she, on her knees, reaches desperately up toward him, her hair a wind-swept tangle nearly as long as his.

There's enough there to excite the dreams of a young boy for years into his adolescence — whether he wants to be the hero ... or to receive the hero's ill-fated, undying desire. It was rivaled only by the box-cover underwear models lining the rows of men's department store intimate apparel aisles. (I never wore the stuff. I always had the simple Fruit of the Loom numbers. Instead of the triumphantly muscled gods of Calvin Klein and Jockey, I had a few guys in fruit fetish wear.)

It was enough to take Fabio all the way to the top of a margarine ad empire.

Recently this dream has been playing out on the walls of the New York subway. In all their half-naked, air-brushed glory, Hollywood hotties Eddie Cibrian, Jerry O'Connell, Ivan Sergei and Jason Lewis are doing their best to out-Fabio each other, tenderly grasping their respective leading ladies, in a collection of posters for a series of Lifetime movies based on novels by Nora Roberts.



I don't know anything about her or her work, but the art direction of the posters tells me all I really want to know.

The films themselves are probably decent, perfunctory, uncomplicated TV movies. But the candy-colored posters are ridiculous caricatures. And the assault of all four of them taken together, which is how they appear in the subway, makes the whole thing look a little like a joke. On the Web site, we learn further that erstwhile hot mamas such as Cybil Shepard and Faye Dunaway also co-star. Could it get any gayer? It's like accidental high camp.

But this is "television for women," after all. The images above are all arms and chest. Not a single nipple shows. And no gay soft-core porn, however accidental, would be caught dead without a couple of Susan B. Anthonys peeking through.

The Right Looks Up 'Marriage' and Finds 'Revolution'

A right-wing Web site is fuming over their recent discovery that Merriam-Webster has added a secondary definition of marriage to its pages.

World Net Daily sarcastically reported Tuesday:

"One of the nation's most prominent dictionary companies has resolved the argument over whether the term 'marriage' should apply to same-sex duos or be reserved for the institution that has held families together for millennia: by simply writing a new definition."

The change occurred years before any states legalized gay marriage. It went unnoticed until now, apparently because writers at World Net Daily do not make frequent use of dictionaries.

(Personally, any publication that accepts written work from Ann Coulter, and that hawks "Where's the birth certificate?" bumper stickers (attempting to call into question Barack Obama's citizenship), doesn't have much of value to say to the more thoughtful readers of the world. But I digress.)

Merriam-Webster editors are mystified by the fuss. From the story:

"Its inclusion was a simple matter of providing dictionary users with accurate information about all of the word's current uses," the company said, adding that it was surprised by the recent attention because it was "neither news nor unusual."

"We were one of the last ones among the major dictionary publishers to do this," said Merriam-Webster spokesman Arthur Bicknell.

Someone who commented on a YouTube video complaining about the definition says, "The word 'marriage' has never been synonymous with same sex relationships," said the forum participant. "What is happening is the meaning is being changed to trigger it becoming synonymous, not the other way round."

If he'd take his bible out of his ass long enough to concentrate, he'd realize that the definition does not make heterosexual marriage and same-sex marriage synonymous. What it signifies is merely that the term is used in that way. It is a figurative meaning.

Dictionaries include figurative and idiomatic meanings for a great many words. Note definition No. 6 of dig and definition No. 5 of bird.

The World Net Daily writer goes on to cite a 1913 dictionary definition that not only doesn't mention same-sex marriage, but in fact adds biblical references to the traditional definition. In fact they are citations, meant to show context, not that Matthew, Mark, Luke, John or God himself are editors of dictionaries. It could have just as easily referenced a Jane Austen novel.

More importantly, should we be shocked that a word's usage should change between 1913 and the year the Merriam-Webster change was apparently made? Of course not. Why would a 1913 publication of any sort refer to "same-sex marriage" when that concept wasn't even part of the public consciousness? It would be like expecting Oscar Wilde to identify as "gay." He never would have done so. Does it mean he wasn't a big flaming queen? Certainly not.

Completely outside of the argument for or against gay marriage, consider the idiocy of World Net Daily's complaint. I'm not thrilled that "ain't" is in the dictionary, and that school students gleefully point to it to justify poor grammar. However, its legitimacy is determined not by whether you or I like it, but by whether or not it is used — and useful — by speakers of English. Whatever you think "ain't" implies about its user, we all know its meaning. Ergo: ain't.

Same-sex couples in long-term relationships have long thought of themselves — and referred to themselves — as being "married." It's a matter of convenience, being far less wordy than "partnered with a member of the same sex." And until very recently on the scale of human history, we didn't have a choice but to be figurative.

Mommie Draggest

[source: Life & Style, 3/30/09, vol. 6, issue 13]

Logophilia

The other night, in a fit of ebullient drunkenness I declared the Oxford English Dictionary the single greatest achievement of mankind. For whatever reason, all Anglo guilt aside, English is the language of record. So, to my mind, the most comprehensive and respected volumes that record its meaning and history are a treasure for humanity. "Its more important than buildings, ... fire," I said, "and makeup."

My friend Joey has become somewhat obsessed with this statement. I'm sure it's because of my inclusion of makeup. And I'm sure that is the influence of RuPaul's Drag Race. My geek-out moment is apparently one of the gayest things he's heard in a while. It's doesn't rise to the level of Wildean wit, exactly, but it does my ego marvelous good to get such attention.

Shannel, No. 6

I'm beautiful, dammit! [www.poptower.com]

Oh, Shannel ... Say it ain't so. A sixth contestant has been cut from RuPaul's Drag Race. And she was wronged!

I'm a little mad at her for giving up the fight. Her "I don't want to be here anymore!" was a major disappointment for me. Week after week, she has taken harsh, often meaningless criticism with dignity and respect. Even tonight, Santino said she's "saying everything right," but she's just not connecting with him. What does that even mean? I think it says more about the judge than the contestant.

It's hard to say how much her announcement affected the judges' decision. I think it was honest exasperation, not a strategy. And who could blame her? You can see it in this week's "under the hood" and, sadly, her exit interview. What more can she do?

When she got pitted against Rebecca in the lip synch, she put up a fight again. I think she saw a light at the end of the tunnel. I did. And maybe I'm no judge of these things, but I think her performance was better than Rebecca's.

Maybe it all went wrong when she lifted up that dress and shook her little butt. That and the Hannibal Lecter-esque lip-smacking earlier on, which was met with the sound of crickets chirping, may have been just a step too far. Oh, I wish she'd just hold back a bit and let her talent carry her forward. Instead, she always resorts to a trick: snakes, juggling, those assless chaps. I picture her as a trained circus animal, with Merle Ginsberg tossing her lumps of meat after each jump through the fire hoop.

Everyone wants to ditch Rebecca this week — even 47% of the audience! I wanted her to get far, but her time has come. She was so overrated during the vogue-off. Shannel characteristically pulled a cartwheel out of her ass, but her posing was better. I thought the whole drag ball/vogue theme, a nice nod to the drag history, would have given an advantage to the more seasoned of the girls. But that Rebecca has nine lives, and I think RuPaul has a soft spot for her.

The best part of the vogue-off was RuPaul's commentary: "Paint your face, honey!"

"Face! Face! Face!"

"Why you all gagging so? She bring it to you every ball!"

This was a tough episode: swimsuit, evening gown, and business suit. Forget about Miss America, honey. And these ladies aren't even ladies! Plus, these colors were truly awful — more Froot Loops than mango mojito.

The inclusion of Charo was a stroke of genius on so many levels, not the least of which was a welcome lightening of the mood. I don't know where she went, but I'm glad she's back! (Looking strangely the same as the last time I saw her — on Pee-Wee's Playhouse!) Who can resist her? She even got the pit crew to dance. I wish to god she had stayed on as a judge, but the flamenco diva magic ended far too soon.

The runway question, "Why should you win?" was a telling moment. Bebe led with a dignified answer: "There is pride and dignity in dressing up." Nina said she wants to inspire others. Shannel answered like a politician, saying a lot without ever really answering the question: "I love myself," essentially.

But I hate, hate, hate Rebecca's answer. When someone asks why you should win, you need to have a real reason, something personal and meaningful. I want to make my grandma proud. Or I need the money to buy a house for my mom. But the best Rebecca can come up with is "I want this."

That's not a reason; it just restates the question: I want this because I want this. OK, obviously she's working hard. This is not easy. So, let that be her reason. It would have been better if she'd said simply, "because I deserve to." At least that speaks to the competition, not just some childish sense of entitlement.

Line of the night: RuPaul's repeated declarations of "Extravaganza eleganza!"

Charo, on the dance: "Be careful. Spooning leads to forking."

Charo, on the posture: "Even if you don't breathe, nevermind. If you drop dead, you drop dead with class."

Charo, on the walk: "Uno, dos, uno, dos. I am the biggest bitch in the world."

Nina: "How am I gonna place a mango in an evening gown?"

RuPaul, to Shannel: "Yes... something to wash down the fava beans."

Dress You Up

This week the girls get to play with some real live dolls. These fierce fairy queens have to drag five tomboy bruisers out of the fight and into the light — and down the runway. How hard can it be? Women wear drag all the time: Dolly ... Cher ... Edina and Patsy.

More Gay & Lesbian Video At LogoOnline.com

After last week, Rebecca is clearly public enemy Number One. Shannel, for one, can't wait to see her go. It sets up another nice rivalry. Shannel wimps out at first, when the lady fighters lead the queens in a boxing ring workout. But then she rallies and comes back swinging, ultimately putting up the best fight against Rebecca.

But Rebecca pulls out ahead. Her reward for winning the mini-challenge is decide which boy gets paired with which girl. But all of those women look like a challenge to me. How much can she really stack the deck?

Since episode two, when Rebecca said she'd eliminate Shannel, she has shown herself to be a fiercely smart competitor. Of course, the assumption is that Rebecca is sabotaging the others. But behind the curtain, and "under the hood," she says she tried to split them up fairly.

It's touching to see the boys coaching the women. You get the impression that they're giving the lady fighters real life advice, not just runway pep talk. And to their credit, the fighters are game for this challenge. They do their best, but it's not like they'd normally be seeking this kind of "help." It's as much work for them as the workout was for the queens. These women are not gonna go back home and put these new skills to use.

This episode plays with the meaning of drag. In the runway show, the real women look no different from men in drag. Is this show about men teaching women how to act like women? Or is it about men teaching women how to act like men acting like women? How many layers are there?

What's real? It's almost as if the women have to exaggerate more than the queens do to "act like women."

What's natural? RuPaul says Mia has a "natural beauty" — but only after Mia has been all dolled up by Nina.

The results are impressive, and this is a tough one to judge. Clearly it's getting hard on RuPaul. He has said many times in the press that he was surprised by how close he got to the competitors. He excuses himself before he can give his verdict this week. I just want to know where he goes. To meditate? Is there a chapel in some corner of the studio where he prays? Does he call in a life line? Does he consult the Psychic Friends Network?

The lip-synch showdown was a disappointment with Bebe practically tearing herself to pieces. Is everyone going to flip their wigs from now on? Is this what it takes to win?

What made Shannel's performance remarkable was how she ran with an unfortunate wardrobe malfunction and turned it around. I don't think ripping off your hair shows passion; I think it's just kind of ugly. But someone has to go. Au revoir, Ongina.

Ryan Ong Drops a Bomb

Ongina: Good things come in small packages. [tv.yahoo.com]

What a shocker this week! Not the win, but the reaction. And the drama is kicking up a notch.

The "dolls" are competing to a be a spokesperson for M.A.C Cosmetics. It's a pretty cool deal. She'll be the public face of the M.A.C AIDS Fund. Each queen has to demonstrate in a screen test what makes her a Viva Glam girl.

We start with a round of constructive criticism. The self-analysis is a bit tedious, so thank goodness it doesn't last long. The take-away is that Rebecca is feeling isolated, partly out of shyness, partly because she thinks the other girls are hogging the spotlight. Everyone wants to see more Rebecca. Quien es esta niña?

The focus on Rebecca and Jade is interesting, because it begins to bring out the conflict. I've always thought of them together as the dark horses, because they are always the safest: not bad enough to go home, not good enough to win. They are probably competing with each other more than with the other queens. And now that their group of rivals is shrinking, they are more and more exposed. Some shit is gonna hit.

The girls pair off to do each other's makeup. You know Shannel thinks it's in the bag, just because she does good makeup all the time. The importance here, however, is not the skills but the results. Jade wins the mini-challenge, but all it gets her is five more minutes for her screen test.

For the screen test, Nina pulls out another pants suit, but she works a sort of exotic, regal glamour. This looks a little to me like her audition video. When she gets the words down, she's a real charmer.

Meanwhile, whatever Rebecca has done to her face is not working. Has she been out in the sun too long with her oversize D&G sunglasses? Even worse is her breakdown.

Apparently, like many of us, she has a friend with HIV. But in her case, it's so emotionally overwhelming that she can't even finish her screen test. I have a hard time believing it's real. Look at how sensitive I am! Look how in-touch I am! Whatever. She's taking someone else's tragedy and making it about herself. So not "viva." So not "glam." So not winning.

Jade's screen test is a worthy effort, but a little too "Welcome to my Home." It's well-prepared, but the words don't match the whip.

Bebe's grande dame Africana is gorgeous. I thought she might win this week. But even this could not match the effervescent Ongina, who I thought looked like a boy in mom's makeup. But her tone and her optimism wins me over. She stages the shoot red balloons, an empty picture frame, a silver tea tray. Where's the party? And, OMG, I want learn how to write backwards, too!

Shannel, once again, is all talk. Even the models are rolling their eyes. "You might want to try something that actually fits into 30 seconds," RuPaul says. It's like pouring your soul out in a phone conversation after the person on the other end has hung up. I'm so glad you understand me. No one else listens like you do. Hello? ... Hello?

In the runway show, many are clearly safe. Bebe is glorious as Cameroonian Ascot Gavotte. Ongina looks to me like she did in the first episode. Nina, winging it literally this time, is an exotic bird in a punk-rock pants suit and feathered gauntlets. But she is not very womanly. Merl complains about the arms, but it's the chest that kills it for me. And I wonder which intern's head rolled over the slippage on the stage. (Maybe it was from Rebecca's hysterics.)

I still think Jade looks manly, too. He's going for dominatrix, but all I saw was permed lion-tamer. By the way, what is it with RuPaul's obsession with his junk? "There's still a lot of snakes on this motha-fuckin' plane!" she shouts.

The runway's more dramatic changes are born of desperation. Rebecca takes a risk as a glam-rock KISS roadie. And we see that her screen test didn't go nearly as badly as we were led to believe, though it is rather artless.

Shannel moves on from last week's huge jugs to juggling. The circus has come to town! She teeters between supreme overconfidence and abject failure every week. I wish she'd stop talking so damn much and just see what's happening around her. Again, the screen test was not awful, but she is lucky to escape the bottom two.

Jade and Rebecca face off for the lip sync elimination. Jade is a little too precise, not enough Annie Lennox, but Rebecca is all rock 'n' roll. And she gets a little ruthless, pushing Jade down to her knees — a little too harshly. Jade walks out of the show full of piss and steam, and Rebecca stays on to feel the survivor's guilt another day.

The most dramatic moment is the announcement of Ongina as the winner. He breaks down and confesses to the world (and his parents) that he is HIV positive. It immediately changes the tone. Ru's shoulders drop, and she melts into an icon of compassion. Merl is crying. Santino is shaking his head. But Ru brings it back with a simple acknowledgement: Ongina is an inspiration, and these kids are all sisters.

Ongina's screen test and personal philosophy seem all the more remarkable and meaningful in this light. And it makes Rebecca's freak-out moment all the more bizarre and insincere. Rebecca says, "It's not a challenge. It's personal." That may be true. But while others may witness the disease, Ongina is living it full of happiness and energy and strength.

This is why I love this show, these surprises. I am continually amazed that a competition ostensibly about surface and image is so revealing of inner beauty. When these girls bounce back, they are not just picking themselves off the floor. They are elevating themselves six inches higher — and further.

25 Songs To "Lip Synch For Your Life" To

In every episode of RuPaul's Drag Race, the two contestants with the worst scores are made to compete against each other in what RuPaul likes to call "Lip Synch For Your Life." Recently, these little contests have been fascinating microcosms of drag desperation.

I've always admired the queens who sing for themselves. It seems more honest to me. But lip lynching (done well) does require its own set of skills. It got me thinking: If I were made to lip synch for my life, what song would I wish for?

So, in the spirit of Facebook's recent "25 Things" phenomenon, I present to you:

25 Songs to "Lip Synch For Your Life" To
1. "More Where That Came From," Dolly Parton
2. "Love Is a Battlefield," Pat Benatar
3. "Fist City,” Loretta Lynn
4. "Kiss Me Deadly,” Lita Ford
5. "Alone,” Heart
6. "Money Changes Everything,” Cyndi Lauper
7. "Sooner or Later,” Madonna
8. "I'm the Greatest Star," Barbra Streisand
9. "It's Today," Angela Lansbury
10. "Anything Goes," as sung by Patti Lupone
11. "Fancy," Reba McEntire
12. "Chain of Fools," Aretha Franklin
13. "Diamonds are Forever," Shirley Bassey
14. "Twist of Fate," Olivia Newton-John
15. "Karma Charmeleon," Culture Club
16. "Is You Is or Is you Ain't My Baby," Dinah Washington
17. "You Don't Have to Say You Love Me," Dusty Springfield
18. "Murder on the Dance Floor," Sophie Ellis Bextor
19. "Love Letters," as sung by Alison Moyet
20. "Vibeology," Paula Abdul
21. "I'll Be Your Shelter," Taylor Dayne
22. "No One Is Watching You Now," 'Til Tuesday
23. "Steel Claw," Tina Turner
24. "You're Making Me High," Toni Braxton
25. "So Emotional," Whitney Houston

Some of these are obvious (e.g., "Fancy"); some of these I just think would be fun ("Steel Claw"), either because it's very fast or very slow, or it's a real rocker or it's very quiet, or because it's sexy or it's just silly, or because the original performer has a signature style or because you could make it totally your own, or because there are a lot of words or because there's a long time between verses (what are you gonna do with your hands and feet and face when you're not singing?).

In my research, I came across this special treat. It's not a lip synch, but it'll do.

What would be your 25?

Drag Queen of the Damned

What, me work? [www.rupaulsdragrace.com]

Poor Akashia just cannot catch a break! And for once, I feel sorry for her.

Her exit interview segment is incredible. She opens like a flower and spills out a shower of jaw-dropping humility: "Shannel deserved to win..." "I had so much fun, and I'm so happy to be here, and I'm so happy for the other girls..." It goes on and on.

"I have not cried in, like, four years," she wails. Honey, maybe there's something to that.

I think she's relieved. All that pressure to out-bitch everyone else. They're not crocodile tears. Now she can be a real girl.

We started out a little weak in this episode. Jade took the Oprah challenge way too literally, all but smearing a burned cork on her face and putting on a minstrel show.

And then Shannel proclaims herself expert of all things Winfrey. "There's no challenge for me here," she says. No challenge? Oh, you know that's the first sign there's a problem. The moment you get that comfy, you're in deep enough to drown. I'm noticing that the ones who are convinced that they've won don't typically do so well.

I'm still a little disgusted that not a single one of them could pronounce "Ahmadinejad." OK, it's a hard word at first sight. But it's not very Oprah-like to blurt out in its place any old random combination of letters, is it? At least be a sport and sound it out. It's the vocal equivalent of pounding out the middle row of keys: "sdjfjsdkafajkdsfjkasdfhkasdf"

Then it gets a little better. Nina Flowers with a blow dryer: priceless. And Ongina's Connie Chung crack exposed enough white guilt in me to make me laugh out loud. (There's a little bit more of her in the video extras online. Worth watching.)

Unfortunately, I have zero interest in seeing Tori Spelling and her hubby interviewed. I would rather have seen her as a judge. Instead, this insertion came off as poorly executed cross-promotion. Dean does get one point, though, for painting his toe nails and trying on a pair of heels.

Akashia was the predictable diva bitch on the floor. No grace at all. On the opposite end, was fur-festooned PETA nightmare, Nina Flowers. Her language barrier worked against her at first, but her playfulness won me over. Of all the contestants who screwed up her lines, she was the best at admitting it and moving on.

Shannel — what a talker, again. She was interviewing herself. She says she was being sincere and true. Yes, but sincerely and truly a self-indulgent bore.

It seemed poetic that she should be covered in snakes in her runway session. She is so slick and untouchable, poised and still, and very sharp and dangerous. Total Las Vegas surface. Meanwhile, pixie-like Ongina was a cutie pie in baby-doll chic. Some girls need the big hair, but I love how good this one looks bald.

Rebecca Glasscock is g-g-gorgeous, statuesque and classy, but I still feel like she is holding something back. She is so safe. She doesn't fail the challenge enough to get cut, and she doesn't succeed in the challenge enough to win. How long can she hold out?

Jade makes me feel the same way. In her swaying, flossy nightie, she was a little too Eva Longoria-meets-Joan Crawford accepting the Oscar at home. It was an odd shape for her body. And that enormous belly-button bauble — a huge distraction. I love the wink, though, when Ru says she can stay.

Bebe Zahara Benet pulled out some Lion King on us again. God help me, but I still love it. She deserved to win. I bless the rains down in Africa, because we are on fire up in here!

When Nina walked out, Ru totally nailed it: Madonna at 50. It's the first thing I thought. (Are you there, Madonna? It's me, Nina.) She has proven herself to be more versatile than I would have expected. In the "Under the Hood" segment, after the girls make fun of themselves for about 10 minutes, Nina walks in.

Loca! (my new favorite catch phrase of the show)

She rips off her wig, looking for all the world like Uncle Fester just stepped away from the M.A.C counter at Macy's, and blows the roof off the place. I think her linguistic challenge has made her into an excellent improviser. She is always Nina — but show Nina is is constantly unfolding in ways that I think surprise her as well as us.

And then Akashia. I'm mad she fell, mainly because there were already enough reasons to cut her. To add that shame makes the whole thing sadder somehow; she's almost less deserving of the hook.

The whole time during the runway show, I was wishing we had Tammie Brown back! That would have been her strength. And I can see her wackiness shining through in the interviews. What a loss we suffered in episode two! Shannel rightly gives Tammie props at the top of the episode. (Shannel may be a loquacious know-it-all, but she is also very graceful.)

So, it came down to now standard baseline-setting Akashia and a clearly shocked Shannel. And what an amazing Lipsynch For Your Life it was! First of all, how incongruous for that big-tittied medusa to be singing "I believe the children are our future." Girl, she believes the children are our lunch. And I never thought I would see a white girl from Vegas — even with a headdress — out synch the Queen of the Damned with a Whitney Houston standard. But she was on it. And when it all fell apart, how inspired — to tear off that drag. Just keep going. Peel off the layers, dig down with those press-on nails, and find the greatest love — something human and vulnerable, inside of me.

Both girls fell and both girls dusted themselves off and got back up and gave us everything we needed — and made the final decision as tough as it should be.

"This is not then last you'll see of me," says Akashia, peeling off her bumps later in the green room. I desperately hope not.

Sweet Low Down Tammie Brown

Episode 2 has convinced me that RuPaul's Drag Race is one of the best shows on TV. It is not only fun and at times educational, but also surprisingly heartwarming, and ironically, very real. These guys are a few sequins and a couple of falsies away from being Barbie dolls, but they really are putting some realness back into reality TV.

OK, lame. I know that was a line from the show's promotional campaign, but I'm seeing now why it's also true.

"See you later, in the magazines. Wah wah wah wah." [www.myspace.com]

One of the benefits of watching the show online is all the extra revealing goodies to be found there. Among my favorites are the "Under the Hood," segments shot in the green room, just the girls talking among themselves, revealing insecurities, critiquing themselves and each other — and also building each other up. (Maybe the best part of these clips is the intro and outro with the RuPaul Barbie doll, voiced by none other than Miss Ru herself!)

These guys reveal over and over what integrity they have as performers. Each one in his own way wants truly to elevate the art of drag and raise his own level of performance. (Well, all but one, so far. Akashia seems simply to want to show off and wow the judges, but doesn't seem to think she has anything to learn.) These are not second-rate gender fuckers. These ladies are practitioners of an art form — and drag, when it's done well, is really a nexis of several disciplines.

One of the best parts of Episode 2 was the way it allowed each of the guys to play to a strength, and it gave everyone an opportunity to learn something from one of his competitors — and, honey, every one of these guys has something to learn. It also demonstrated that the contestants who respect their peers are the ones who will succeed.

The eliminations are also very revealing. Rebecca Glasscock is one smart competitor, but by no means is she a cut-throat. Asked who she would eliminate if forced to choose, she pointed to the one she saw as her strongest competition, Shannel. In a back-handed way, it is the ultimate compliment. But she also clearly had a hard time throwing her teammate under the bus. And Shannel can certainly understand her sentiments.

Shannel, for her part, stepped beyond graciousness and called out Ongina as a brilliant team leader. These are the little gems, the little rewards, scattered throughout this show, like the size 20 rhinestones in Shannel's make-up kit. It seriously makes me cry a little.

Shannel is smart and interesting and undeniably talented. Clearly she has put a lot of thought into her work and the philosophy of drag. But lord in heaven, she is like an earnest, wordy, overzealous honors college student at Drag U. Sometimes I just want her to shut up and apply some eye shadow or something.

Ongina, the talented captain, said she would have gone down with the ship. Nina admitted to being the weakest link and would have graciously stepped down if not for her immunity. There is real honesty here, real class and humility.

And then there is the other, uglier side of things.

I agree with 77% of the TV audience and said Akashia should have gone. This is strictly on the basis of her being such an awful team leader. Fierceness is more than an act; you have to back it up with talent, or you're going to be found out. She was in charge of makeup in her group, but her own makeup was probably the worst on that stage. And even as the resident bitch, she is just a bore. In this week's "Under the Hood," Tammie is talking about positive energy, and raising up her hands with her fellow queens and swaying in unison. It;s a little Kum-Ba-Yah, a little hokey, but Akashia is sitting there insolently giving everyone the finger, and it is so not classy.

That said, I'm glad Akashia was able to redeem herself at the end, leaning pretty hard, in my opinion, on that time-honored fall-back, the lip synch.

No denying it: She brought it. Michelle Williams cried, feeling touched and rewarded by Akashia's grasp of the lyrics. And in the end we see that, for all her theatrics and all her cuntiness, Akashia still cares about the judges' opinions. She radiated after her life-saving lip synch and showed that she is not made of stone. We all want to succeed. And maybe now that she has come so close again to getting cut, she will wise up and play this game a little smarter and with a little more grace.

Meanwhile, for Tammie, there was nothing sadder than her half of the lip-synch showdown. "Break the Dawn" never sounded so melancholy. The girls stood downstage holding their breath. Jade held her hands to her face, seemingly on the verge of tears. Tammie did her best to move to the music, but she did not attempt a single word of that lip synch. At one point, she raised a hand up and waved, parade style, and it was clear that she was really waving good-bye to those judges. She knew it was over. Rather than exiting quietly, she was all but forced to lay down on the tracks.

I had such hopes for quirky ol' 1940s pin-up girl fit model-cum-cracked-out glamourpuss housewife Tammie Brown. She was the clear underdog. She was from another planet. She was misunderstood and underestimated. And, again, with her departure, I think the show is missing some diversity. She stands out as a unique persona. What she does well, no one else on the show can do better. But she wanted out, and she made her exit with as much hammy dignity as she could muster.

With the specialty girls getting picked off first, I am finding that the ones who remain tend to be the most well-rounded. To win this thing, you need to bring the skills. Already we have seen that you must be able to sew, to play well with others, and to learn a song and choreography tout de suite — or at least fake it pretty damn well. Circumstances and fate led Akashia and Nina to survive this time. Poor Tammie's weakness was exposed, and she was sent packing.

Checkered Flags and Polka-Dot Panties

Watching Logo's new reality show RuPaul's Drag Race on DVR, you can't vote for which queen you would eliminate via SMS (I would have voted to cut Ongina) — but at least you can skip past the Oxy Clean guy. Oh my god, I hate him.

"Chantez, you stay" or "sashay away"? [www.rupaul.com]

I am not accustomed to seeing much of RuPaul out of drag. I seem to remember an episode of HBO's Real Sex in the late '80s or early '90s that featured him among several other queens, and I think there were scenes of the boys undergoing their transformations. Who knows which episode it was. My hormone-addled memories of those days, watching "dirty" TV shows in the dark with the volume turned down after mom and dad went to sleep, are not what I would call clear or reliable.

I had a chance to meet him today. In person, he is about a mile tall without the heels. He is fierce without the wig. He is tall and lanky and angular. He is striking. And I know he's as real as it gets, but I can't avoid thinking of that male body as a mere canvas for the feminine persona.

On the show, playing in turns the host, the mentor, and the ultimate judge, Rupaul is so classy and together. In his pinstripes and conservative (if slightly oversize) spectacles, he lends a professional, practiced air to the proceedings. One can almost hear him in the dressing room practicing all the sponsors' lines. American Airlines. M.A.C. Absolut.

Hey, a girl's gotta pay the bills.

In his tucked-and-plucked getup, he is every bit the good-old RuPaul I have frankly been missing for a long time. It took this show to remind me.

One thing that surprises me is the good chemistry among the contestants. I expected a cat fight, but I didn't get it. They dish on each other a little bit, but they outwardly express heaps of break-a-leg support. And it feels real. It's a nice change. It takes balls to be a drag queen — even if you are tucking them up and under. The grace and humility in front of the judges, so far, even when the opinions come off as a bit harsh, is refreshing. They are all so young, and there is much to learn — even for the barbecue-seasoned elder statesman Pork Chop.

The show comes off as a bit earnest yet extremely self aware and playful. Like drag, it doesn't take itself too seriously —l from the ferocious eyes to the wicked painted-on lips; the soft lighting and warm colors to the frosted lens; RuPaul's melodramatic pronunciations ("Don't fuck it up") to the whole "Gentlemen, start your engines ... May the best woman win" thing. It is one long catch-phrase.

There is no shortage of aggrandizement for host and judge RuPaul. Even the workroom clock is an image of him. He makes Heidi Klum look modest. But that larger-than-life ego is also very drag. He's got two people inside of him. You try to contain that.

So, Pork Chop is gone. I'm disappointed the fat girl got cut first. It would have been nice to have a diversity of size up there. But as it turns out, whatever her skills as a performer, Miss Victoria Parker can't sew a stitch. And that will never do. What was she thinking?

(Plus, all those skinny bitches are making me hungry. Have a chicken wing and a plate of ribs, honey. Don't try to look like one!)

Nina Flowers looks promising, but I wonder if she's a one-trick pony. I like Bebe, but I'm always gonna pull for a girl from Minneapolis.

I'm looking forward to seeing some growth from Jade. As a boy, he is a cutie, but a little girly. Strangely, as a queen, she looks like a boy in a wig and makeup.

I think the underdog so far is Tammie Brown. She looks like a coked-up Bette Davis with a Great Plains forehead, but there's something I like about her. She's got a fire in her, and I think we'll see it come out before long.

Best lines from tonight's show:

RuPaul: "Ooh! This ain't no truck stop, honey!"

RuPaul: "... hotter than Tyra. In a fat suit. In July!"

Akashia: "Jade is real cute. Um, I might be a lesbian wit' him."

Merle: "Hmm..., 'Ongina.' This sounds like a cross between a heart attack and a yeast infection."

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A Day Without Gay

There's a clever little short story that made an impression on me as a young college kid, just fresh out of the closet, just beginning to figure out how to use my newfound super powers. (For good? For evil. For good? For evil. Good? Evil...)

It's called Am I Blue? In it, all the gay people are blue, and the narrator is trying to figure out if he (or is it she?) is blue too. I think he (or she) is a sort of pale blue, somewhere in between. Anyway, it's not the gender the matters, but the concept: What if we were all suddenly revealed? (Bearing in mind, of course, that some of us reveal ourselves just fine without any trouble at all, thank you very much. We can't help ourselves!)

There are a ton of us. It would be a big damn blue planet.

(Oh ... wait. Too late.)

What would happen if we were all suddenly revealed in a way that was obvious to everyone? Say... by our absence? What would it be like if gays stayed home? Here's something some of my more clever colleagues cooked up:

Gay music and video from NewNowNext.com

I, of course, cannot call in. I am a professional homosexual at my little gay network, and I am already fighting the good fight! We have to keep those gay wheels turning, or the entertainment industry would shut down. It's the gay people in non-gay jobs that could make a difference. We'd notice the school teachers, security guards, bank tellers, bus drivers — certainly the waiters.

If all the gays stayed home, we'd all be a little blue.

UPDATE: There is some good, clear thinking about the impact of this project at Queerty. Most interesting is the analysis of how the focus has changed — or, rather, been completely lost. A fine idea in theory, but impossible to measure effectively in the real world.

Water Pressure

"I'll tell you something for nothing," the bartender said. "You want to buy water."

"Water," I said.

"It's the cheapest thing we sell. And you don't have to finish it here. You can take it with you."

I considered what he was saying, fingering the label on my $6 beer. "Water counts?"

"Sure. I tell you what. Towards the end of this competition, people are buying whole cases of water and taking them home with them."

A friend of mine is competing in an American Idol-style singing competition at venerable old, historic Stonewall Inn. It's a little silly. A little shabby. The sound goes out at intervals. The lighting is bad. But it's precisely that silliness, that shabbiness, that gives those West Village gay bars their charm.

Each week, someone gets eliminated based on the previous week's voting. It's all very democratic. Everyone in the audience can vote. And you get a ballot for every drink you buy. Every drink. So the trick, it would seem, is to round up all the drunks you can find. Finally they'll do you some good!

The competition is realm and the contestants are talented. By and by, they reveal their strengths and their personalities. There's a different theme every week, so everyone's bound to expose some weaknesses, too. Over time, the competitors become friends. The same folks who come every week in support become familiar. It's a little Wednesday night community.

So the water trick seems a little cynical to me. (Almost worse than exploiting your friends' alcoholism!) Whole cases of water, really? Can't we trust ourselves to suss out the winner based on talent? And do we have so little faith in our friends that we'd rather stack the deck to be safe?

These things can't always be based on merit, can they? Sometimes a real stinker gets the votes. Sometimes the person who gets cut wasn't the worst one. Sometimes the judges say useful, thoughtful things; and sometimes they're more interested in getting a laugh. In the end, no matter who gets cut, it's a love fest every time.

The closer we get to the end, I feel the heightened sense of danger that the person who ultimately wins may not actually "deserve" it. Boo-hoo. I guess in that way the competition is a very good representation of reality indeed.

Shave and a Haircut

MR. VALDERGELDER: I've got special reasons for looking my best today. Is there something a little extra you can do? A little special?

JOE: What?

MR. VALDERGELDER: You know, do some of those things you do to the young fellas. Smarten me up a little bit. Face massage. A little perfume water.

JOE: [shocked] All I know is fifteen cents' worth, like usual. And that includes everything that's decent to do to a man!

— Hello Dolly!, 1964

At my last haircut, my barber made me an offer I regret turning down. He swiveled me to face the mirror, and held a hand mirror to the back of my head to show me the neat shape he'd made at the base of my skull. "Anything else?" he asked.

"Nope. That'll do it," I said.

He poked my chin suggestively. "A shave, maybe?"

I noticed earlier that day how scruffy I was looking. I was a little embarrassed, like my careless grooming was an affront to his professional sensibilities. I was curious about what it would be like to get a professional job, but it always seems like an extravagance. My mom always said she could never hire a maid, even if she could afford one, because she'd be too embarrassed to let a stranger into an untidy house. A haircut — sure I'll pay someone to do that for me. I'd just make a mess of it by myself. But a shave I should be able to handle without help.

"Uh, no. No," I said.

"Have you ever had a barber's shave?"

"No. Actually, never," I said.

"Oh, you should try it!"

But I was in a hurry. I didn't have the time — even if he'd offered a freebie. And, I noted, he wasn't offering.

I pretended to consider it. "Maybe next time," I said.

"Definitely," he said. It was emphatic. Like we had made an ice skating date or he had invited me over for stuffed cabbage. Like he was looking forward to it. "You should treat yourself every once in a while," he continued. "And it's very good for the skin. Opens up your pores."

A man's relationship with his barber is a solemn, sacred thing — intimate like a secret, as masculine as pissing your name in the snow. Sometimes it's friendly, sometimes it's just business. But it's not merely a service. It's a transaction of trust. It takes some letting go to sit back and allow another man to stroke a blade so close to a major artery. It makes that thin line between life and death much more appreciable.

But I admit to having a little bit of a crush on my barber, which can play tricks on the mind. My barber makes a living by laying his hands all over my scalp, my face, my chin and neck. My friends don't even touch me so much.

Make no mistake, he's straight. He opened a barber shop, he told me once, because he didn't want the temptation of a ladies' hair salon. And thank God, frankly. A gay barber would totally intimidate me, but to daydream about someone off limits is perfectly safe.

He's not even what I would call handsome. But he has a dark, serious confidence that's undeniably sexy. He'll lean in and accidentally brush his chest against my ear. I can feel him breathing close. Sometimes I can catch an improper glimpse up his shirt sleeve at the hair under his arm. The thought of his hands on my chin, my eyes closed, my face steaming and tingling, his quick but gentle hand running that steady razor against my neck, is maybe a little too thrilling.

The meek shall inherit, bitch!

Leanne Marshall absolutely deserved to win tonight. I love that the mousy librarian-looking granola girl had such a lion inside of her! Screw all those mouthy shrews.

(Run)way to go, Leanne!

And Kenley was a totally graceless sore loser.

I still miss my Wesley. :(

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Faith in Gay Humanity: Safe for Now

The recent finale of "Make Me a Supermodel," or rather more specifically, the fact that Ronnie did not win, has bolstered my faith in gay humanity.

You know the homos were coming out in droves to watch those boys love themselves week after week. And week after week, polished, hairless gay hero Ronnie Kroell, glowing like a like a spring pig scrubbed in buttermilk, was snatched from the jaws of death.

Ronnie is hot, but not supermodel hot, whatever that is. And he's nice. And he's one of those people we hate who will be successful at everything he does. Yet there can be no other explanation than an army of gay well-wishers with cramped thumbs and light hearts sending text messages from far and wide to vote him back on the next week.

I was one of those gays. No matter the options, honestly, shirtless boys will win out every time.

His not winning was one of the few things that gave that show any credibility. I have a hard time feeling sorry for really beautiful people. I have a hard time believing that it's so hard to walk down a cat walk. But after watching the show, I am willing to concede that there is in fact a skill to modeling. Not a terribly complicated skill, but a skill nonetheless that clearly comes more naturally to some than others.

So, now I can believe that the contestant with the most — a-hem ... skill won. As long as Holly avoids talking to her clients, I think she has a long and successful career ahead of her.

"Let me see, kid... Republican, Democrat or gay?"

Just before my husband voted yesterday, one of the ancient poll workers was chatting him up.

"McMillan!" he said, looking at his last name. "Ah... like McMillan and Wife."

"I can't believe he turned out to be a homosexual," said a woman.

Another woman spoke up. "It seems like everyone is. There's 10 million of 'em."

"It's terrible," said another. And everyone at the table murmured and shook their heads.

Truly, you never know where one will end up. Maybe even right in front of you. Trying to vote. Doing his civic duty. Well, way to go, old folks! You've just committed voter intimidation.

But what's Jeff going to do — yell at an old man? His calling the election board to report the situation was probably more effective. And by that, unfortunately, I mean "probably not effective at all."

Is the board really going to screen for anti-gay bias? They should. Would it be acceptable for one of them to spout off their views on a racial or ethnic minority? About women's rights? Never. Especially on a Primary day, when every citizen can cast an equal vote.

New York Gay Rugby Team Reaches Milestone Game

UPDATE: The game will be at Wassening Park in Bloomfield, NJ, at 1 p.m. on 10/27. See gothamrfc.org for directions.

Following their defeat of Fordham University's Old Maroon RFC 41-5 on Saturday October 20, 2007, the Gotham Knights will advance to the the final round of the New York Metropolitan Rugby Union Division III playoffs this coming Saturday.

This is unprecedented for a gay rugby team in New York, or rather, a gay team that plays rugby. But since we've got a few straight guys on board, we can't really say that, so we say "predominantly gay." Which is fine by me, because even that is unprecedented. The win last weekend also makes us the first such team to play in the Northeast Rugby Union championship tournament in he spring, the first stage of the USA Rugby national championship playoffs.

And, wouldn't you know it, this happens during a season I happen not to be playing. (Maybe these two things are not unrelated...)

The championship game will be played at Brookdale Park in Montclair, NJ. I won't be there, because I'll be cleaning house for my husband's birthday party. But I will be on pins and needles waiting for that email from someone's Blackberry. Stay tuned.

More Than Broomsticks and Skeletons in Hogwarts Closets

J.K. Rowling outed Albus Dumbledore on Friday. From the BBC:

She made her revelation to a packed house in New York's Carnegie Hall on Friday, as part of her U.S. book tour.

She took audience questions and was asked if Dumbledore found "true love."

"Dumbledore is gay," she said, adding he was smitten with rival Gellert Grindelwald, who he beat in a battle between good and bad wizards long ago.

...

Rowling told the audience that while working on the planned sixth Potter film, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, she saw the script carried a reference to a girl who was once of interest to Dumbledore.

She said she ensured director David Yates was made aware of the truth about her character.

There is a lively and thorough discussion going on at AfterElton.com. One of the major criticisms of the revelation is that it's too late, and she should have been more forthcoming in the novels. I agree that her not revealing this fact before the publication of the final volume may smack of a cynical fear that sales might have been adversely affected. Religious zealots had enough to complain about with witchcraft (even though the characters clearly celebrate Christian holidays throughout the series), let alone the Gay Agenda. A scandal might have actually increased sales. Who can say? But clearly she was playing this carefully.

For a while I wondered (hoped?) if Harry might be gay. But it was soon put to rest. There certainly seemed to be some gay fodder with Remus Lupin, a character whose status as a werewolf inspired such discrimination against him, I thought for sure Rowling was making a statement about intolerance of homosexuality. But then she threw me for a loop when Lupin married and fathered a child with Tonks, a witch who surely could have been a lesbian. Lends credence to that common pitfall of American gaydar: Is he gay or just British? But I gave up on the notion that there might be obvious gay characters in the series.

Ultimately, though, I think the news about Dumbledore is good. If it's true that she sent a note to the Half-Blood Prince director to ... er, straighten out the script, it shows some integrity on her part. Makes me wonder what else just didn't make it into the books. There is an opportunity in the two final films to make more of his relationship with Grindelwald, if even only visually and subtly. Let's hope that Dumbledore's official outing encourages the filmmakers to not ignore the subject and to treat it with some dignity.

Tomas Mendes: Worst Cab Driver Ever

Sometimes you just don't have any luck with a cab driver. Jeff and I were once refused a ride home because the driver didn't feel like driving to Queens. He told us this after we were in his cab. he just refused to move until we got out. (This is against the rules, by the way. But what am I going to do? Take the wheel myself?)

Once a driver took offense when Jeff asked him to hang up his cell phone. He was rude and unresponsive to the point that he wouldn't look up to take our money when we reached our destination. Jeff dropped the cash in the front seat and got out. Thinking he hadn't been paid, the driver started shouting at us, calling Jeff a whore in Spanish.

Jeff is extremely friendly and respectful to cab drivers. He's a little picky about cell phones, maybe, but unlike many people in this city, he does not treat taxi drivers like servants. If they're amenable to conversation, he'll lean forward and chat them up. "How are you doing tonight?" "Where are you from?" And that kind of thing. "Pakistan? Ah. You from Lahore? Oh, yeah? I'm told it's a great city."

We're all people, and why shouldn't we talk to strangers? They don't always love it, but usually they'll at least be friendly. Sometimes it charms the drivers. Sometimes it just sort of fizzles. A couple of nights ago, however, it inspired something close to rage.

At closing time early on the morning of October 6, we hailed a cab outside of Xth Ave. Lounge in Hell's Kitchen. Jeff leaned forward to strike up a conversation with the driver as usual. He started out asking the guy about his name, Tomas Mendes, and tried to guess the origin. Mendes with an S indicates one thing, whereas Mendez with a Z indicates another, he was explaining to me.

"I don't like guys," the driver shouted.

Jeff paused. "I asked, 'Where are you from?'" he said, at which point, the driver pulled over and started shouting. I was so confused by the reaction, I couldn't even follow what he was saying. But it was soon clear that he was threatening to throw us out of the cab.

What? OK, I'm not going anywhere, I thought.

Jeff recoiled, wide-eyed, and sat back in the seat. The car came to a stop, and Tomas Mendes wildly gestured toward the door and continued ranting. I half expected him to reach back and hit one of us.

"Wait a minute. What are you talking about?" I said, raising my voice.

He turned in his seat and kept shouting and waving his hands. "You get back. I don't want to talk! I don't like mens!"

"OK, then. Just drive us home!" I shouted back.

"I don't like mens! I don't like mens!" he kept shouting.

You don't like English, either, do you? I thought.

"You know ... I was just trying to talk to you," Jeff said.

The note of confusion and dejection in his voice made my heart swell and raised all the hate I had in me toward that driver. He seemed to be waiting for us to exit the cab, but I was not about to get out of that car. Not for some homophobic moron. And if our presence irritated him so much, the back seat of that car is exactly where I wanted to be.

After a moment of silence, we began to move and we rejoined the traffic of 45th Street — and I fantasized about all the things I would do upon exiting the cab.

By the time we hit the 59th Street Bridge, I decided I'd spit on the back seat and then slam the door.

He studiously avoided eye contact in the rear-view mirror with either of us, but I kept a steady, scowling stare at the reflection of his large forehead in case he were to glance up.

At 21st Street in Long Island City, I decided to slam the door hard enough to break a window.

At 36th Street, I realized I had to pee, so I considered pressing hard on my bladder as long as I could stand it, and slightly undoing my pants, so I could open the door, let Jeff out, and piss in his back seat in one swift movement before slamming the door and running.

65th street: I'm going to take a shit right on the floor of the cab and leave him with the aroma of disappointment all the way back to Hell's Kitchen or the West Village or the East Villaqe or Midtown or Chelsea or Downtown — wherever else he might just pick up another drunk couple of fags.

Oh, I'm so glad he stopped my boyfriend from seducing him, because honestly, I too was irresistibly drawn to his receding hairline, his sallow eyes, his body odor... There was such a thin line between Jeff's check-out line conversation and a sexual overture. There's no telling what might have happened ...

I felt like I had just been verbally gay bashed. And all we did was behave like any two inebriated but polite 30-something men getting into a cab at four in the morning. And, honestly, I thought about my ability to hide behind that. How did he know we were gay? Xth Ave. Lounge is only gayish. Everyone goes there. What gives him the right? How dare he?

But a bit of shame struck me. And then I wished I could show him just how gay I really am. I wished I could fellate some guy in the back seat of his cab. I wished I could spread the result across the Plexiglass barrier. I wished he had reached back and hit one of us. I wanted an excuse to hit him so bad.

Of course, I did none of these things. I just reached over and touched my husband's leg and scratched him gently with my fingernail and looked up at him and winked. That was as gay as I needed to be. He seemed still a little shocked, and I was proud of my anger. So I went back to staring a hole through the driver's head.

All through the long trip home, I thought what might happen if we refused to pay him. How fast would we run? Would he follow us, cursing and shouting? Should we be dropped off several blocks from our apartment to throw him off? But even that would have been a step too far. We were better than that. Jeff asked him in his native language: "Do you want a tip?" A nice touch, I thought. An olive branch.

He refused. "No, just the fare."

So Jeff paid him. And Tomas Mendes was silent.

Not much of a charmer, our Tomas. Lic. No. 418186, expiring 03/08/09. Taxi No. 1P25. Worst cabbie I've ever met. And that is saying a lot in this city.

If I had a jar full of loose change, I would have counted out the shit in pennies and nickels and dropped it in his front seat.

I slammed the door anyway. The window did not break.

United for Equality; Separated by Police Escort.

I don't get too worked up about the prospect of meeting famous people. I don't hound them for autographs. I don't wait in crowds behind theaters and arenas hoping to catch a glimpse or snap a photo. For heaven's sake, I felt nothing but guilt over trying to get a snapshot of Cyndi Lauper recently, and when the images didn't turn out, I thought: "Serves me right."

Let them be famous and worlds apart from me. Let them be extraordinary, in my mind, to a degree only I can know. And let them live their real lives without me. They are the performers. I am the audience. Let us not break this sacred boundary.

So it is a particular irony that my first interaction with Broadway phenom Idina Menzel was not only a complete fiction, but also an unfortunate and unpleasant experience involving the NYPD that I hope never to repeat again in my life.

I have never seen Wicked, but I own the soundtrack. I saw the movie version of Rent. Didn't care for it. A lot of people whining about the consequences of the bad decisions they've made, I think. But I guess I admire Ms. Menzel, and enjoy her work. A fan? Eh... not really. She was the headline performer at last night's annual NYC Gay Pride pier dance, where I was a volunteer. And truth be told, I was more looking forward to the fireworks than her techno remix of "Defying Gravity," but after seeing her sound check earlier in the day, I could admit to having a mild curiosity to see her performance.

Once again, my rugby teammates and I were bartending for the slick, gyrating masses of manflesh that make up the pier dance. On my way to the volunteer port-a-johns toward the end of the night, I ran into a crowd behind the main stage area, just a few tents down from ours. I tried to skirt around the edge of the crowd near the fence, and someone from behind me grabbed my arm just above the elbow and yanked me violently backward. I assumed it was just someone telling me that I couldn't go past that point for some reason, so I shook off the hand and stepped backward, with my hands out, trying to see what was going on. "Whoa! OK. No trouble. I can wait."

"What do you want to do with him?" I heard someone say.

I had my volunteer shirt on, and my credentials on me. Whatever was happening, I assumed I could just wait it out. At least they knew I belonged there.

But suddenly I was aware that I was being surrounded.

"He's out of here," said someone else.

Two police officers snapped to attention and guided me away by the arms. They marched me past my team's tent. A few of them saw me being led away, but the cops wouldn't let me stop to tell anyone what was happening. They were not rough, but they were direct and very clear about me moving along. I still had no idea what had just happened. And I still had to piss like a racehorse. So I asked them to explain.

"The head of security saw you," said one of them.

"Saw me?" I said. "I don't even know what it is that I've done. Can you at least explain to me what's happening?"

"He saw you go right for the talent," said the other one.

There had been volunteers and security folk and cops all around — as there had been all over the pier all night long — and there was no one turning people away or stopping anyone from passing. A slip in security allowed me unwittingly too close for comfort, and now it looked like someone was overcompensating for his error by making a spectacle of kicking me out. Maybe the security folks were starstruck, themselves.

"OK," I said. "I'm not going to try arguing. Clearly I'm out of here no matter what. But I have to tell you, I was just walking to the bathroom. I swear I didn't even know she was there. I didn't even see her. I don't understand how this is even happening."

One of the officers, perhaps beginning to believe me, explained to me that it didn't matter if I had done something wrong or not. The head of security wanted me out of there, so they were obligated to take me out of there. End of story.

"You're seriously telling me that I need to be escorted out of here like this?" I said. "I need to completely leave the pier?"

Yes. I did.

They walked me to the front gate. They allowed me to get my bag from the volunteer bag check. They made a guard cut off my wristband and said that I was not to be admitted back in. The whole thing was very humiliating and confusing. So I walked off down 14th street, ripped off my bar crew badge, stripped off my volunteer t-shirt and dropped it into a trash can.

I won't speak ill of Heritage of Pride as a whole. I know they're very careful and serious about safety. And they do a phenomenal job of organizing and coordinating the volunteers. But clearly some of the volunteers can be a little overzealous. I felt a lot better after speaking the next day to the volunteer coordinator, a very nice man, who asked me a lot of good questions and made sure he got the story straight before he apologizing and saying it shouldn't have happened. He was surprised that there was no first warning. My first indication that I was in the wrong place was being yanked out my skin.

I never even laid eyes on Ms. Menzel, let alone a hand. I didn't even get a chance to see who this security guy was. And perhaps the worst part of it is I still had to pee. Badly. So I high-tailed it to a bar nearby and answered nature's subtle call. I couldn't make out Ms. Menzel's voice from across the West Side Highway, but the fireworks were not half bad. Then I met my boyfriend and got roaring drunk.

"Is my 13-year-old son gay?"

The April 10 edition of Cary Tennis' Salon.com advice column, "Since You Asked," features a remarkable response to a parent's concern that his son is looking at gay porn online. I found this on OMG blog. I have never read "Since You Asked" before. I know nothing about Cary Tennis. But I think this is a really helpful way to think about the homo/hetero divide and, as Frank points out, a good way to think about anyone who is not like oneself.

Not Above Average

Garrison Keillor has issued an apology for an ill-timed and poorly executed attempt at satire he wrote last week, which I was hoping for and expecting. I agree with towleroad.com: It comes off as a bit disingenuous, because I know he knows better; I don't know how he could be surprised by the response. Keillor is no bigot. But even good Democrats can be a bit ham-handed. That column should not have happened, but I think the apology is sincere.

Not everyone gets Lake Wobegon. Not everyone thinks it's funny. I think Dan Savage overreacted last week — and I know even some of his shrieking might be taken as self parody — but he has some thoughtful things to say today.

UPDATE:
This is satire.

(Special thanks to Good As You.)

Lake Wobegon Gays

A friend pointed me today to this Slog entry by Dan Savage about a March 14 commentary by Garrison Keillor on Salon.com about taking care of the kids, in which he extols the virtues of heterosexual marriage and simultaneously defames same-sex parenting. Here's a sampling:

And now gay marriage will produce a whole new string of hyphenated relatives. In addition to the ex-stepson and ex-in-laws and your wife's first husband's second wife, there now will be Bruce and Kevin's in-laws and Bruce's ex, Mark, and Mark's current partner, and I suppose we'll get used to it.

The country has come to accept stereotypical gay men — sardonic fellows with fussy hair who live in over-decorated apartments with a striped sofa and a small weird dog and who worship campy performers and go in for flamboyance now and then themselves. If they want to be accepted as couples and daddies, however, the flamboyance may have to be brought under control. Parents are supposed to stand in back and not wear chartreuse pants and black polka-dot shirts. That's for the kids. It's their show.

Not sure what "stereotypical gay men," or America's supposed acceptance of them, have to do with any of the actually quite lovely things he says about kids and the way life can be. He's so much smarter than this, little more than a catalog of thoughtless stereotypes. Surely his world travels — and his social circles — must have delivered him a broader, truer view of gay men than he lets on.

It's a cheap shot. The whole two paragraphs are completely unnecessary. It's an intellectual and moral disappointment.

And then he throws the gays a bone: "I suppose we'll get used to it."

Well, thank you very much for that concession. I hope we don't inconvenience you too much in the meantime.

Keillor's comments wouldn't hurt so much if I didn't respect him as much as I do. Savage, for one, is fighting mad. There's not much I can add that he hasn't already said.

In his misplaced, futile and delusional longing for the Goode Olde Days, I think maybe he's confusing the whimsical, kitschy, also-stereotypical world of Lake Wobegon with the real world. Billy Joel said it pretty well, I think: "The good old days weren't always good, and tomorrow ain't as bad as it seems."

Glass of Water for Mr Grainger!

Rest in peace, John Inman. Now you're free.

Can't Come Quickly Enough

Pop! [scissorsisters.com]

It's hard for me to say who opened for Scissor Sisters last night at the Madison Square Garden Theater. I managed to glean that they are from Youngstown, Ohio, but not much more. When the duo introduced themselves to the audience shortly before exiting the stage, I couldn't understand what they were saying. Neither could I understand their name when Jake Shears thanked them later toward the conclusion of the Sisters' own set. I guess I'd thank them, too. They're the kind of act anyone would want to follow. (A scattered few politely applauded between songs, but the loud, raucous, honest hooting and hollering came when they walked off.) Case in point: The three wigs on people-length sticks (one brunette, one red and one blond) set up on stage after Youngstown left, standing in a light show while '50s-style girl group tracks played in the background, was more interesting in every way than the mysterious human opener.

They were called Wigs on Sticks. It was cute.

Following this was a DJ, about whom I knew nothing. It was good, but misplaced, I think. It would have been lovelier if we were at a smaller venue, say a music club, where we could actually dance. This kind of show doesn't work well in a theater. Maybe I'm lacking in imagination, but a DJ set seems a little empty to an audience with seats.

By the time we had sat through an hour and 45 minutes of the Ohioans, the wigs, and the DJ — and by the time the audience was well and truly crocked, having been steadily streaming out into the lobby for cocktails and beers — we were positively starved for the Scissor Sisters. The long delay made their nearly hour-and-a-half show so much more the thrill. But so would it have done for nearly anyone with a microphone and a modicum of talent.