April 29, 2007


Carol Channing's tongue-twisting film star character. I think this is from the Carol and Pearl Bailey TV special.


From FREE TO BE YOU AND ME starring a slightly demented Roberta Flak and a sweet as sugar Michael Jackson.

April 27, 2007



Fox News Sinks To New Low, Repeatedly Reports Parody Story As Actual News

On Tuesday, Fox News morning show “Fox & Friends” aired at least eight segments on a purported “news” story that was actually a parody article written by a publication similar to The Onion.

The backstory: Last week in the town of Lewiston, Maine, a group of Somalian Muslim middle school students were the subject of a cruel prank when their peers placed a ham steak next to them in order to personally offend the students. School officials filed a report because the students considered the act to be a hate/bias crime.

This actual story was then spoofed by a parody site called Associated Content, which made up quotes and details, such as the school’s intention to “create an anti-ham ‘response plan.’”

On Tuesday, Fox & Friends reported these parody quotes and details as actual news. Poking fun at the students, hosts asked whether ham was “a hate crime…or lunch?” and showed screen shots of ham sandwiches, starving Somalians, belching, animal noises, and mock “reenactments” of the incident. Ironically, the hosts assured viewers several times, “We’re not making this up!”

Watch a compilation THINKPROGRESS.ORG


For more of Claudia Parentela's fantastic work, visit her at CLAUIDAPARENTELA


Performed by Sandy Belle, a co-founder of the ridiculous NYC comedy troupe Pu Pu Platter. It's real nice, y'all!



Another winner from bon vivant Simon Doonan's delightful weekly column in The NY Observer"

Last week I was speaking at a ladies' luncheon in Palm Beach-if that doesn't qualify as the most poofy column-opener in the history of this newspaper, then I cannot imagine what would-when I suddenly did a total Alec Baldwin. It happened during the Q&A, when one of the immaculately coiffed attendees asked me to talk about the ways in which I was currently "helping young people fulfill their dreams of a career in fashion." Young people! Young people! Young people! ... All of a sudden the room started spinning-along with my head-and I began channeling the seething thespian.

"I am completely and utterly against the idea of helping young people," I told the gobsmacked crowd. I then ranted on about how I was sick of hearing about young people's hopes, aspirations and career goals-how come nobody wants to help old people?-and that I had been driven so insane by the current generation of Eve Harrington-esque overachieving fashionistas (Mr. Baldwin would probably call them "ungrateful little pigs") that I had reached the point where, instead of helping them fulfill their dreams, all I wanted to do was crush them. Just call me "the Dream-Crusher."

O.K., so I got a bit carried away. But seriously, folks, don't you think the whole concept of bending over backwards to help "young people" achieve their dreams is a little dotty? (I'm not talking now about hardscrabble inner-city kids who genuinely deserve a leg up, I'm talking about middle- and upper-class kids who are already clutching a first-class ticket.) The last thing these "young" people really want or need is a bunch of old farts disempowering and infantilizing them by trying to optimize and micromanage their career opportunities. Why can't young adults just be the big, fat, freewheeling losers that people in their 20's are meant to be? Why are we attempting to deprive them of the pleasures of all that character-building striving and bungling and blundering? As Sir Bob Geldof once said, "Hey, teachers! Leave them kids alone!"






Old Mike, new Christine
By Mike Penner, Times Staff Writer
April 26, 2007

During my 23 years with The Times' sports department, I have held a wide variety of roles and titles. Tennis writer. Angels beat reporter. Olympics writer. Essayist. Sports media critic. NFL columnist. Recent keeper of the Morning Briefing flame.

Today I leave for a few weeks' vacation, and when I return, I will come back in yet another incarnation.

As Christine.

I am a transsexual sportswriter. It has taken more than 40 years, a million tears and hundreds of hours of soul-wrenching therapy for me to work up the courage to type those words. I realize many readers and colleagues and friends will be shocked to read them.




And the animated short stars Tom Cruise! Truly nuts, and there is a part 2 as the next video down on youtube if you want more.


Cpme home to Jamaica, the tourism ads read. But don't come homo! I did not write and do not know the source of it.

Gay Jamaicans are being murdered--with police and government collusion- and leading reggae singers encourage their fans to join in the killing

"It is like living in Afghanistan under the Taliban," says Richard, a 28 year-old gay Jamaican. "I wake up in the morning not knowing whether today I will live or die."

Richard is lucky. He is still alive. But he bears huge scars from a machete attack by a homophobic mob. Jamaican police stood by and allowed the crowd to chop him up like a piece of butcher's meat. Amazingly, he survived.

Others are less fortunate. The Gleaner newspaper reported a gay man being chased by vigilantes into a Baptist church. Cornered by the altar, he pleaded for his life. They pumped him full of bullets.

In June, in Montego Bay, a man was beaten to death with police acquiescence. He was accused of "looking" at another male. There was no proof he was gay or had looked at another man. Mere suspicion was justification enough to kill him.

A few years back, the Jamaican media reported there was going to be a Gay Pride march in the capital, Kingston. Hundreds of people wielding guns, machetes, clubs and knives turned up at the starting point. They had come to kill the "batty men" (patois abuse meaning queers and faggots). The police turned up too, not to protect the gay marchers, but to help murder them.

Under Jamaican law, homosexuality is a crime punishable by 10 years hard labour. Paedophiles are treated more leniently. Men who sexually abuse girls in their early teens face only seven years jail.

Jamaican police view gays as criminals. They refuse to protect them. Queer-bashing victims cannot go to the police for help because officers are likely to abuse, assault and arrest them.

Amnesty International confirms that gays and lesbians have been “beaten, cut, burned, raped and shot on account of their sexuality.” Instead of helping the victims, Amnesty says Jamaican police are often guilty of homophobic violence and torture.

Gays taken to hospital after being queer-bashed sometimes have to face the ordeal of hostile doctors and nurses. Badly injured gay-bash victims have been insulted and ridiculed by hospital staff and made to wait nearly 24 hours for medical treatment.

Jamaica's Prime Minister PJ Patterson refuses to speak out against the murder of gay people. His police chief has failed to crack down on homophobic violence. The killers of gays literally get away with murder.

Homophobic hatred and violence is whipped up by Jamaica's eight leading reggae singers, including Beenie Man, Vybz Kartel, Buju Banton and Elephant Man. Their hit tunes urge listeners to shoot, burn, stab, hang and drown gay people.

Buju Banton's song Boom Bye Bye exhorts: shoot queers in the head, pour acid over them and burn them alive. A track by Elephant Man, A Nuh Fi Wi Fault, goes: “Queers must die. Shoot them like birds.” And Beenie Man's record, Han Up Deh, includes the incitement: "Hang lesbians with a long piece of rope."

These murderous lyrics get prime-time air-play in a society where real-life homophobic violence is a daily occurrence. They reinforce and sir up anti-gay prejudice. This prejudice fuels queer-bashing attacks. The Jamaican gay rights group, J-Flag, says the popularity of "kill gays" songs often coincides with a rise in homophobic violence.

While people have a right to criticise homosexuality, free speech does not include the right to commit the criminal offence of incitement to murder. Gays are entitled to live their lives without threats to kill them.

Even though incitement to murder is criminal offence in Jamaica, the government and police refuse to prosecute the singers. Likewise, no one appears to have been convicted of any of the many homophobic murders.

Buju Banton doesn't just sing about bashing gays. He is now wanted by the Jamaican police on gay-bashing charges. This vividly demonstrates the link between homophobic lyrics and homophobic assaults.

Meanwhile, sections of the British black community say the real racism is not a campaign against murder music, but most people's indifference to the persecution of gay Jamaicans or black gays in general. In Britain, black lesbians and gays are intimidated into silence and invisibility. No one would tolerate such abuses against white people in Britain; it is racist to allow them to happen to black people in another country - whether in Jamaica, Zimbabwe or anywhere else.

April 26, 2007


Dean, from the UK, befriended me on myspace. His interests are meeting other born-agains and pregnant women!!! (I do admit to browsing wistfully in a maternity window yesterday.)

Of course, a lot of black guys have hit me up since I started using this photo as my main pic on my myspace page recently.

It was taken by Elaine Lancaster in South Beach recently. Save the beached whale jokes, already!

I guess he just added a few words of praise to the Lord and then copied and pasted some diatribe about red carpets and designers, which is actually kinda interesting.


i belive in singing and praising God ALL WAYS, I CALL ON THE BLOOD OF JESUS EVERY DAY AS MY HAND GUN, IT IS MY WEAPON OF MASS DISTRUCTION, HES SO POWERFULL AND MIGHTY NO POWER ON EARTH CAN STAND HIM HIS THE LORD OF LORDS A-LIST HOLLY WOOD RED CARPET CHRISTIAN Red carpet revenue am an A-listhollywoodred carpet glamour celebrity gossip enjoy the red carpet awards,gossips,and events e.g Award shows give a look at celebrity style, but in a new era of deals between designers and actresses, a star's stroll can mean... The Hollywood fashion machine is crossing into a new, more commercial era in celebrity dressing as designers and jewelers have begun contracting with actresses to wear their labels at high-profile events. It's a turn in business as usual that could leave fans wondering if their favorite stars are becoming walking billboards for the highest bidder. Fashion and jewelry houses have long offered gratis designer gowns and sparkling accessories to red carpet-bound celebrities, hoping to catch the right eye and have the creations seen globally on telecasts and in the thousands of magazine pages devoted to awards show coverage. But with all the big-name designers wooing the same big-name actresses, it is a gamble as to what might end up being chosen. Many of those companies are no longer willing to play the odds. "It's the dawn of a new fashion deal in Hollywood," said Wanda McDaniel, who has been Giorgio Armani's Hollywood liaison since 1989, when the designer became one of the first with permanent West Coast representation. "When you are preparing your wish list [of celebrities] for the Oscar season, there is a new category and it's called 'off the market.' " According to McDaniel and other publicists and spokespeople, as well as a number of celebrity stylists, a handful of companies are offering either one-time payments or are signing celebrities to well-paid, exclusive product contracts. In addition, some actresses have begun demanding sole access to particular designers. This latest artifice of rigged pop culture risks squeezing smaller designers out of the promotional game and could signal the end of seeing any real personal style in Tinseltown, loading the red carpet instead with product placement dominated by a handful of mega-brands. The practice is also forcing those companies who don't pay celebrities to weigh their financial savings against the risk of being aced out. The stars' publicists would not comment on whether their clients accepted money to wear the dangling Chopard earrings, as noted in a Women's Wear Daily item after the event. Chopard spokeswoman Stephanie Labeille said the house did not have formal contracts with the actresses. But she did say the company has used money as an incentive in the past, defending the practice as commonplace. "Saying one brand pays stars, when they all pay stars is ridiculous," she said.

If you dare to


You're gonna love this rap about Weng Weng, the midget action star from the Phillipines! Starring that Thrilla from Manilla, Weng Weng himself! The only thing sicker than a bowl cut is a greasy bowl cut!


Just when your fears of hijackers, shoe-bombers, bad weather, drunken pilots and SARS had begun to fade, now this!

Can't the airlines get it together???

Actual crack in a US Airways Boeing 737 window frame! Fliers beware of the sub standard maintenance on the airplanes that you fly on. This is an actual crack that was found in the window frame on a 737. I'll definitely think twice before flying US Airways.


There will be lots of good stuff happening in New York. LET'S DO THIS, PEOPLE!

Mimi, a military mom,
and Amillie are looking for a thousand people to help form a Beach Impeach
"human mural" at Coney Island. For more info and to sign up please click here: VOLUNTEERFORCHANGE

There will be an
impeachment fair at the Great Hill in Central Park (near W. 106th Street and
Central Park West) from 11AM to 4:30PM. There will be music and festivities and
we plan to create a "human mural" with 1,000 people spelling out IMPEACH with
their bodies. You can now sign up for the human mural here

If you need more info
please e-mail mermaid423@aol.com. An ImpeachPlane will be flying around NYC
trailing a banner reading "IMPEACH!" and taking aerial photos of the human
murals. Jen and the Rude Mechanical Orchestra will be hosting a raucous
letter-writing/marching band party in Tompkins Square Park starting from
1:00-400 PM. For more info about that, and to sign up to help out, please click

More on what's happening in your city at: A28.ORG


Then for christ's sake, take a moment to sign this petition.


The Postal Board of Governors recent decision to support an unfair increase in periodical rates will have grave consequences for the free speech that our Founding Fathers struggled to foster when they established the U.S. mail system.

The rate increase was devised by Time Warner -- the largest publisher in the industry. If implemented, it will have an adverse effect on smaller periodicals, while easing the postal burden on the largest magazines.

This goes against more than 200 years of postal policy, which has promoted the spread of diverse periodicals in competitive markets as a means to foster a free press and inform and engage citizens.

Congress must step in to protect smaller media from new regulations that would undo this history.

Please join the call for public hearings to determine how this case was decided in such an unusual and unorthodox fashion. Before any increases occur, we must ensure they don't imperil small and independent publications and stifle public discourse in America.


April 25, 2007


Look, I know he's the devil, but if he weren't saddled with the task of ruining the planet, the sorry bastard might atually be fun at a party!




405 West 39 Street and 9th Avenue
Doors Open 9pm, Show at Midnight

HK, Midtown's hot spot for fine food and fine boys,
just opened their dangerously chic nightclub of the
same name this past weekend. At the Hell's Kitchen
club (next door to HK the restaurant), legendary DJ/
Producer JOHNNY DYNELL and Drag Superstar SWEETIE have
teamed up for a new Wednesday night soiree called
SWOON. Dynell and Sweetie first worked together in
the early Nineties at legendary boites including
BOYBAR and Dynell's JACKIE 60, and have many other
performance-rich evenings between them.

Splashed against a backdrop combining old Hollywood
glamour and Clockwork Orange "Milk Bar" effects,
Johnny and Sweetie deliver pumping dance music,
glittering performances and a fabulous mix of
downtown's movers and shakers and midtown's hoofers
and Broadway babies. April 25 features Queens of
Comedy DUELLING BANKHEADS in a sure to be
side-splitting midnight show. If you're a leading
lady, matinee idol, ingenue or waiting to be
discovered, settle into a casting couch, lap up some
hooch and get ready for your close up!


Known as Leslie Gore until she came out, the 60's singing sensation is back!

Join Lesley Gore at a private after party--hope she doesn't cry!-- following her Joe's Pub concert. She became a pop icon singing "It's My Party," and now you can meet Lesley at one of her famous parties --- while helping in the fight against AIDS. Enjoy complimentary vodka cocktails throughout the party!

Your admission charge is a donation to LIFEbeat, the Music Industry Fights AIDS. Just $10 advance, or a minimum $15 donation at the door. Advance tickets are available at www.SpinCycleNYC.com.

The party takes place from 8-10:30 PM this Friday, April 27, at Bar 13, located at 13th and University in Manhattan. Use the VIP Entrance: 121 University Place.

Here's some crazy vintage clips on YouTube, including her appearance on Batman as Pussycat, Catwoman's sidekick. She's also an out-of-the-closet lesbian.

Pussycat sings on the episode "That Darn Catwoman"


"You Don't Own Me"


"Sunshine Lollipops & Rainbows"




Hi everyone!
Now that Spring has sprung here in balmy NYC, it's officially Spring
cleaning season. That means it's YARD SALE time!
Do you crave vintage finds? Are you looking for a new costume peice or some
kick ass shoes? A Pam Ann T shirt and maybe some Dirty Panties!!

I'm having a yard sale with infamous nightlife promoter DanielNardiccio, so
men will be able to shop too.
It being New York where yards cost a pretty penny, we will be holding
the sale indoors at the fabulous Rapture Cafe and Book Store.

Rapture Cafe & Bookstore
200 Avenue A (between 12th and 13th St.)

Come see Hattie Hathaway, Mr. Joe and the gang. There will be a go go
auction. Buy the clothes off my back!! The sale will go on into the
evening and we will be taping the D List Radio show so come make it
special with your presence.


Yes, the legendary NYC rocker will go disco on you as the dj at Christina Visca's DISCO TEA this weekend. Dean doesn't dj often but he always attracts a fun and sleazy crowd of rowdy rascals, so pop by and see him. (I'll be back to spin on 5/6.) In the meantime, check out some of Dean's new tunes on his myspace page.



April 24, 2007


Oh god! Totie Fields' vintage stand-up act! Of course, I guess it was kinda hard to do stand-up after her legs were amputated! Miss Polly Grip's crazy ass sent me this and it is genius!



So what if they don´t know how many sides a triangle have? Or who Tony Blair is? That is not fair...just because their president is as intelligent as a door, it doen´t mean they´re all like that...if you still think american people are stupid, watch this video and change your mind.


Link fixed!

I am not sure if this is a joke or not--the film company is called Brownmark Films--but there is something fascinating about Samwell and his little ditty. And I'm not the only one who thinks so!

"A short music video posted online by a fellow calling himself Samwell has circulated around the world via the Internet. In response, naturally, Samwell has his own Web site where he boasts that the video has had more than 425,000 views in one week and announces that a "teaser" CD is out with more on the way. Samwell tells us he is gay, but he's not tapping into a gay audience, necessarily. He is tapping into the stupendous growth of interest in anal sex among everybody else."

Brian Alexander MSNBC

April 23, 2007


That's how Liza Minelli's ex, David Gest, signed an autograph on the premiere of his new UK reality show THIS IS DAVID GEST That was the highlight, unless you count the pimple that he popped on his mouth in the show's first "scene". In case you don't live in the UK and can't tune in to such quality programming, here are a few revolting clips:

David films the intro for his show "doing the David Dance" which according to his website, will sweep the nation. (Doesn't he call it the Diamond Dance at one point? Is that even a dance? I'm not quite as hip as David.)

Or this segment features borrowing a Liza-esque line THE PEOPLE LOVE ME AND I LOVE THE PEOPLE greeting Londoners in a horrific English accent.

After viewing these clips, you may wonder why this repulsive, charmless toad was ever given a show in the first place. He does rival Anna Nichole in trainwreck territory--without her obvious use of drugs, but apparently he was likeable on some British Survivor-type show series and he also plays the queen-y Simon Cowell-esque judge on Greased Lightning, in which actors compete for roles in the musical GREASE. (Don't we have a similar show on in the US? How can shit like this apeal to people around the world??? In a way, it makes me feel better about the States, since British tv--even their commercials--always struck me as more intelligent than ours.) So now he's been given a six-part series on ITV.

What I can't understand is that pre-Liza, David was a successful producer of large music shows and supposedly quite wealthy and connected from it. Then he marries and quickly divorces Liza and they film a cancelled-before-it-ever-aired US reality show for VH1, I think. So I guess it was then that he was bitten by the show-biz bug. It seems so odd to me that someone who produces events successfully from behind the scenes would suddenly want to become a performer in his 50's. Even more maddening is that someone with zero talent would be given a show. I mean, the man's two main characteristics are annoying and badly surgerized. But I guess his show-biz instincts were dead-on, and he's obviously waited for the right moment for public tastes to sink low enough to accept a show based on a snappish, neurotic, unnattractive ham. Keep on sinking, honey, and maybe I'll have my own show on the telly soon! But from one queen to another, if your going to spray on your hair, do it in every scene. With those yanked-up brows and jet-black painted-on hair, he looks like a comic devil cartoon. And the show continually cuts back to him undressed and lounging in his bed as if he's sexy!

OK,OK! Tomorrow I promise to call your attention to something which isn't disgusting. I know I'm only fuelling David's ambition by dishing him. But for those of you who like closeted trainwrecks with tragic surgery... He's actually had his nose built back up! It's larger now than when he was with Liza, his eyebrows are less plucked and he's more "manly" with the addition of a beard--by beard I mean facial hair, not Liza! I guess he read too many reports that he looked transsexual...so he added the bulb back onto the tip of his fucking nose!!!! See for yourself and see if you don't agree. As Gothamist.com put it, the guy's plastic surgeon is more like a second rate mortician. Click here to see a picture of him between nose jobs with collapsed nostrils a la his friend Michael Jackson.




The twisted comedienne Julie Brown in the role of Ms. Stone.



"Me transforming into my leather... everyone wanted to know how it got dressed for the altanta eagle"


For this anti-gay slur on national TV! SHOCKING!


Sorry that I have been so out of touch, but I've been on the road for weeks and my schedule finally calmed down in London during a freak tropical heat wave--(ie: it wasn't raining and chilly), which didn't exactly make me wanna sit in front of a computer. But it's turned cold now, so I though you'd enjoy this "music video" for Beatrice Lillie's nutty I HATE SPRING. Thanks to friendlier999 for sending it my way!

April 18, 2007


April 17, 2007



April 16, 2007


April 14, 2007


Dan Mathews is best known as the PETA campaigns director responsible for such national ads as I'd Rather Go Naked Than Wear Fur and Fur Is A Drag. Through the latter campaign, Dan and I met and become fast friends and worked together for years. He's a hoot, and it translates beautifully in his fab new book. Dan was gracious enough to allow me to post Chapter 11, Ladies Who Lunch, about the time I met his "delightful" mom Perry in Miami. The pic is from Hooters, where we'd originally intended to have a launch party, but they didn't give a hoot! Don't dare think Dan's book is a preachy animal rights tome--he's a party animal who's done it all from hustling in Rome to, well, read this free chapter and if you like it, buy the fucking book. It's a totally fun spring/summer read from a hilarious new gay voice.

Chapter 11 Ladies Who Lunch

“I want to meet her!”

“It’s not really a her. It’s more of an it.”

“You mean he’s had the surgery?”

“No, it has the plumbing of a man, and the voice of a woman, but the disposition of, well, I just refer to it as it, as in ‘a class by itself.’”

Thus, I attempted to explain Lady Bunny to my mother.

We were in sunny Florida for Thanksgiving to escape the chill in Virginia, where mom had recently moved to be nearer to me and the handful of others who indulge her at the PETA headquarters. Ma hadn’t been in Miami since the fifties and was curious to see how a rainbow had replaced the Star of David on local flags, so we booked rooms at the adorably dilapidated Dorchester for a low-key weekend reading by the pool or shuffling to the beach. The only real mission she had was to visit a salon for her annual yuletide nail treatment: pale red polish with snowflake appliqués stuck only upon the nails of her middle fingers. Invariably, some poor soul sees the sparkles, and, to make small talk with an old lady, says, “Let me see your holiday nails!” to which mom responds with a genteel, obliging double flip-off and a mocking “Merry Christmas!”

Our simple South Beach plans were to liven up, however. Hobbling along Lincoln Avenue, mom spotted a poster on a telephone pole for a party hosted by Lady Bunny, the razor sharp queen of quips behind Greenwich Village’s annual Wigstock drag festival. Bunny is also one of my dearest and queerest friends.

Delighted to hear that we were in town, Bunny had the party promoters send over VIP passes and a favor bag, which mom and I poured out in a frenzy onto the faded floral bedspread. We ignored the lube and condoms, fought over the Stoli Orange mini, and exchanged an anxious glance after reading the event’s flyer promoting some superstar dj and a wall of bass-thumping speakers. Mom has to struggle to hear people with high-pitched voices, and Lady Bunny’s is so high that Bun was actually employed by a phone sex line as a woman.

“This will not be a good hearing situation,” mom lamented. “Can’t we have lunch with it instead?” I phoned Bunny back and we made plans.

“I know from the stories that she changes her name more than the drags,” Bun wheezed over the phone in a delicate Tennessee drawl, “so what does your mom call herself now?”

“She has been Perry Lawrence for the last few years,” I replied, “but she also answers to Baby Jane and Mommie Dearest—if you holler loudly enough for her to hear you at all.”

Most gays are highly selective about which of our ilk we’ll expose our parents to, ever careful to showcase the most “regular” folks. Many homos would sooner reconsider pussy than set up lunch with their 72-year old white-haired mother and a gutter queen who still had a bruised nose from a rendezvous with a Gentleman Caller who refused to remove his belt buckle. But my mom likes people who treat everyday as Halloween. She has been a drag enthusiast since Rocky Horror, through La Cage Aux Folles, and right up to Pedro Almodovar’s latest. Growing up, my brothers and I were much more familiar with Divine and Tim Curry than whoever the current sports heroes were, and if there had been tranny trading cards we’d have collected the whole set. My biggest concern in Miami wasn’t that Bunny would be too much for Perry—or vice-versa—but that they would both hold back out of awkward politeness and not be their true, sarcastic selves.

I first met Bunny in the late ‘80’s while barhopping in the East Village with Goldie Loxxx, during my years in his closet. Bunny, a go-go dancer at the Pyramid, lived in a rough walk-up, with skinheads in the apartment above who were antagonistic to gays, but for some reason liked their freakish downstairs neighbor. They were probably afraid of it. Bunny isn’t your typical glossy female impersonator, but rather a scary clown drag, with multiple pairs of heavy black eyelashes and ridiculously huge blond wigs like an exaggerated Barbara Eden, a voice like a hung over Scarlett O’Hara, and the often-vulgar quick wit of Triumph the Insult Comic Dog. At Bunny’s raunchy cabaret shows, a hand-scrawled sign reads, “Make-up by Sherwin Williams, Choreography by Stevie Wonder, Music by Marlee Matlin.” Bunny has an hourglass figure—though much of the sand is stuck up top. What you’ll usually see is lots of shapely leg in opaque pantyhose topped by a large, distracting, garish blouse and flashy costume jewelry.

“Is there any topic off limits?” Bunny asked as we walked across the Dorchester’s deco foyer to mom’s room, the clip-clopping sound of large Lucite heels echoing around the hotel lobby as if Mr. Ed were checking in. This question perplexed me, as Bunny had already prank called her, pretending to be the Dade County VD Clinic phoning to report that “over a dozen clients had listed me as a contact.”

“He’d better come in quick for a test!” Bunny chortled before hanging up.

When we keyed ourselves into mom’s room Bunny screeched “Hi-eee!” and hugged her, then stood back to give her outfit the once over twice.

“Wow—where’d you get that dress?” asked Bunny.

“You like it? I got it at Lerner,” mom bragged.

“Hmmm—more like slow Lerner,” Bunny quipped. Mom laughed out loud.

“Well, I love whatever it is you’re wearing,” mom said, eyeing Bunny’s green and red muumuu with a giant gold bow tied across the chest.

“I’m the Christmas present nobody wants to unwrap,” Bunny replied in a fake sob.

“It really shows that you have a swimmer’s build,” mom said. “Like Shelly Winters in Poseidon Adventure.” The holiday weekend was off to a promising start. Perry was well-prepared for Bunny, as I had been sharing stories ever since Bun and I fumbled into our peculiar working relationship years before.

One evening near Union Square, after Bunny and I were ejected by a movie usher because we couldn’t control our laughter (the theater was showing a somber tear-jerker), we developed an idea about doing a PETA party at Love Machine called “Fur is a Drag.” The event would feature a runway parody of a fur fashion show, with cross-dressing models wearing donated furs accessorized with leg-hold traps and paint. As the emcee, Bunny would ridicule each ‘model’ on the catwalk with acidic, anti-fur color commentary. Many of the insults were self-directed: “This show has made me think about giving back my leather jacket—it looked better on the first cow.”

We did the underground event on a Tuesday night, each of us snagging performers to participate, such as Lypsinka, Elvira, Deee-Lite, Hedda Lettuce, Mistress Formika, Mona Foot, Miss Guy, Julia Sweeney (aka “Pat”) of Saturday Night Live, Flotilla de Barge the Empress of Large, and Miss Understood, who sang Gilda Radner’s “Let’s Talk Dirty to the Animals.” The goal was to amuse ourselves as much as to make a point, but the response from the public and the press was so tremendous that clubs all over the U.S. and Europe wanted to have the “Fur is a Drag” show, offering to fly us in, put us up, and garner additional talent. k.d. lang even volunteered to perform—for the first time all dressed up as a girl. She wore a flowing yellow chiffon gown, a tall brunette wig with curls, and lots of make-up, even false eyelashes; she was almost unrecognizable. The giveaway was her clunky pleather Doc Marten boots.

What I liked about this effort was that it boosted PETA as a good-time group, not dour and over-earnest as many causes are pegged. We worked it out so that Bunny organized the local drags and I oversaw press and promotions. Soon, our little joke became a full-fledged campaign, covered by magazines as diverse as The Advocate, The Face, and People, and even by CBS News. In Paris the anti-fur soirée was held on the Champs-Elysées during Fashion Week and attracted trendy designers and stylists, and in London, the sold-out event was promoted by Boy George and featured the petrifying Australian performance artist Leigh Bowery.

It was a balmy late afternoon in Miami, and Mom and Bunny chatted as the three of us strolled down Collins Avenue to Gino’s, a friendly Italian dive. I had stopped in earlier for coffee and they couldn’t change a twenty so they gave it to me for free; since kindness should always be repaid I insisted we give Gino some business.

“Is it safe to eat here?” asked Bunny, glancing around the sparsely populated dining room.

“Sure,” I said, hesitantly. Because mom and I are both vegans, I offered the dead fly on our white tablecloth to Bunny as an appetizer.

After ordering, we took in the beauty of our surroundings: Gino’s is decorated with colorful plastic flowers intertwined with lots of twinkling white lights, draped around Roman arches and columns. The setting evoked a fond memory in Bunny.

“Does Perry know about our trip to Rome?” Bunny asked with a look that suggested both shame and glory.

“Oh… no,” I said, pouring each of us some wine. “Tell it.”

Bunny proceeded to explain how we were flown to my beloved Rome by the swank nightclub Gilda for a “Fur is a Drag” event. On the afternoon of the show, they had us host a surreal news conference, after which we went sightseeing. Bunny, in full Jayne Mansfield regalia, discovered that those ancient roads can be hell in heels.

“After we hit the Spanish steps, the Trevi fountain, and the Pantheon, I was ready to change my name to Lady Bunion,” it recounted as our food arrived. “But that didn’t deter us from visiting the Vatican.”

Thinking back on it, I’m amazed that the Vatican allowed us inside. Seeing gaudy Bunny hop into a nightclub is one thing, but watching it mince into bustling St. Peter’s Basilica in broad daylight is quite another. Bunny, who was happy for the opportunity to give the hooves a rest, joined me in kneeling in a pew under the big dome in order to attempt a conversation with God. We’re both dubious of the fantasy of Christianity, but wanted to remain open to a message from above, figuring that if we were ever to be reached it would be right here, within spitting distance of the Pope. To be clear, our question wasn’t a strident “why does your church persecute our kind?” or “why would an Almighty allow such suffering in the world?’ but rather a neighborly “howdy—anyone home?”

We closed our eyes and concentrated, but nothing answered. With arms outstretched heavenward, Bunny assumed a pious pose, as if the glimmer of a gigantic plastic diamond ring might attract a response, even a bolt of lightning. Still nothing. We started snickering, and despite our best efforts, we were soon hunched over in the pew laughing uncontrollably. Because Bunny’s cackle can shatter glass, even stained glass, the convulsing, bewigged jester soon seemed to draw more awestruck picture-taking Japanese tourists than the nearby Sistine Chapel. Just as in the movie theater, the authorities intervened, only this time it wasn’t a minimum wage usher in black polyester pants, but the famous Swiss Guards, resplendent in their yellow and purple striped outfits and over-the-top hats. They swooped in and escorted us not only out of the basilica but across the square and off of Vatican City limits.

“Why is the Pope the only man allowed to wear gowns in church?!” Bunny asked in a huff as the men brusquely hustled us out. This question met with a response as deafening as the simple query we had made of God. Fortunately, I was able to take lots of pictures, several of which appeared in Genre magazine under the headline, “Lady Bunny’s Papal Smear.” We were relieved not to be arrested and to make it back to Gilda in plenty of time for the PETA show.

By the time Bunny finished the story, mom was in such hysterics that she had stopped even trying to finish her pasta marinara. Finally, she caught her breath and leered at me.

“Danny Lee!” mom scolded. “How dare you visit the Vatican and not bring me a rosary!”

“Oh shit,” said Bunny. “Are you into all that?”

“Don’t worry,” Perry explained. “I was brought up in strict catholic foster homes but I always thought the bible was just fables for people too simple to decide for themselves what’s right and wrong. But I love the rosary beads! I have them in almost every color.”

Bunny pretended to be relieved.

“Now in Norfolk I live in a HUD building surrounded by desperate Baptist widows,” mom continued, working up a rant. “Danny calls it ‘God’s waiting room.’ Every Thursday night they have prayer meetings, and even with my deafness I can hear them down the hall, singing and making those asinine sheep sounds: ‘We’re poor little lambs who have lost our way, baa baa baa.’ And have you ever noticed how suggestive the lyrics are in gospel? Listening to my neighbors sing, it sounds like they all want to get laid by the Lord; they want Him inside them, He fills their longing. Since the church is against sex maybe it’s how they work out their frustration, but it’s embarrassing.”

“Ewww…” Bunny laughed with a rare, shocked face.

To further prove her point, mom crooned an old hymn while batting her eyelashes and gyrating her septuagenarian frame a bit in her creaky chair:

“Have Thine own way Lord, have Thine own way
Thou art the potter, I am the clay
Mold me and make me, after Thy will
While I am waiting, yielded and still”

When you sing, you use a louder than normal voice. When you sing and you’re almost deaf—and tone deaf in my mom’s case—people can hear you clear across the state. As Gino’s kitchen staff gathered in the corner to gawk at mom sensually bellowing out gospel, each verse punctuated by Bunny’s hyena-like snort, I figured it was time to walk up and pay the check. I wanted this heartwarming holiday scene, with family and friends bonding, to end on a high note. Plus, I was afraid that the waiter was about to come over and ask mom about her Christmas nails.

Back outside on busy Collins Avenue, the sun was starting to set and Miami was revving up for another chaotic Saturday night. As we arrived at the Dorchester, Bunny asked Perry if she’d had a nose job.

“No, but I’m flattered you asked,” she said, taking Bunny’s arm, not only out of affection, but for help in climbing the stairs.

“Wow!” Bunny marveled. “You must have been a real beauty—what happened?” Mom began giggling again and took forever to make it up the steps. For a minute, I thought I might have to stand at the top and wave a Zagnut bar to lure her to her room. Again.

The door was barely shut behind us when Bunny eagerly asked, “Do you think I made a good impression?” Mom asked the same question the next morning.

“You made a fine impression,” I told each of them. “But I’ll never again be seen with the two of you in public.”


As if you needed more proof that it doesn't and can never work:

WASHINGTON — Students who took part in sexual abstinence programs were just as likely to have sex as those who did not, according to a study ordered by Congress.


April 13, 2007




She sings Liza's classic in front of Liza on The Clive James show in 1996. Love her!


You can even paste this Bush timer, which counts down the seconds until he and his rotten cronies are gone, right onto your desktop.

Unless, as I heard on Air America the other day, Cheney's suggestion to lengthen the presidential term's limit due to the extraordinary nature of the terrorist threat is heeded.


Ever wonder what happened to aging breast implants? To borrow a line from RuPaul...






By Harvey Fierstein from the NY TIMES:

AMERICA is watching Don Imus’s self-immolation in a state of shock and awe. And I’m watching America with wry amusement.

Since I’m a second-class citizen — a gay man — my seats for the ballgame of American discourse are way back in the bleachers. I don’t have to wait long for a shock jock or stand-up comedian to slip up with hateful epithets aimed at me and mine. Hate speak against homosexuals is as commonplace as spam. It’s daily traffic for those who profess themselves to be regular Joes, men of God, public servants who live off my tax dollars, as well as any number of celebrities.

In fact, I get a good chuckle whenever someone refers to “the media” as an agent of “the gay agenda.” There are entire channels, like Spike TV, that couldn’t fill an hour of programming if required to remove their sexist and homophobic content. We’ve got a president and a large part of Congress willing to change the Constitution so they can deprive of us our rights because they feel we are not “normal.”



Check out HAIRARCHIVES.COM! With stunning do's like from the 20's until now, complete with step by step styling instructions!



The devil busts a funky move.

And while we're on the subject, watch Hitler perform I WILL SURVIVE.

April 09, 2007





As danced by Chita Rivera on The Carol Burnett Show.


April 07, 2007


What other site gives you brand new dirt on forgotten stars? Actually, I'll never forget Laugh-In's wackiest broad and die for each new siting. A friend caught her act in Atlantic City a few years ago and was spell-bound by hula-hooping her gigantic string of pearls around her neck while hitting a high note! WORSHIP HER!

Now another friend happens to work at a Broadway costume shop. Who waltzes in but Joanne, loudly and cheerily announcing to all "I'm Joanne Worley and I'm here for my costume fitting!" (Gasp!) She's stepping into the role or Mrs. Tottendale in The Drowsy Chaperone in a couple of weeks. After being shown her costumes, she pulls a huge bat-wing muu muu out of her bag and proclaims "I like dresses like these!" Needless to say, the employees of that costume shop are now scurrying to make just such a dress in every color for Miss Worley. With her trademark boas to match!

For more pix of Joanne visit her unofficial fansite at JOANNEWORLEY.NET

April 04, 2007


Dance diva Ultra, best known for her international smash FREE, has a cute new video to accompany her latest Tommy Boy release, complete with tons of wigs, lashes, a Leigh Bowery/Amanda Lepore clone and a horny guy getting off on his lap-top! Check out Miss Ultra's AUTOMATIC!

Also. to celebrate her 20 year anniversary as a recording artist, NYC drag queens including Peppermint Gummybear, Girlina and myself will perform a tribute to Ultra on July 17th in conjunction with Suzanne Bartsch--details to come.



Please tell me this is a joke! THREAT ALERT JESUS. If you order two you get a free reading light so you can comfort yourself with the bible during the next terrorist attack!

April 03, 2007


Leonard Nimoy, the STAR TREK star does THE BALLAD OF BILLBO BAGGINS! Love the female back-ups doing the shoulder-shrug in psychedelic sweatshirts!




LONDON (AP) - Keith Richards has acknowledged consuming a raft of
illegal substances in his time, but this may top them all.

In comments published Tuesday, the 63-year-old Rolling Stones guitarist
said he had snorted his father's ashes mixed with cocaine.

"The strangest thing I've tried to snort? My father. I snorted my
father," Richards was quoted as saying by British music magazine NME.

"He was cremated and I couldn't resist grinding him up with a little bit
of blow. My dad wouldn't have cared," he said. "... It went down pretty
well, and I'm still alive."

Richards' father, Bert, died in 2002, at 84.

Richards, one of rock's legendary wild men, told the magazine that his
survival was the result of luck, and advised young musicians against
trying to emulate him.

"I did it because that was the way I did it. Now people think it's a way
of life," he was quoted as saying.

"I've no pretensions about immortality," he added. "I'm the same as
everyone ... just kind of lucky.

"I was No. 1 on the `who's likely to die' list for 10 years. I mean, I
was really disappointed when I fell off the list," Richards said.