Fast Hugs

Fck Tumblr

I can't even find time to update my old baby blog, much less the one on the cool train I so hesitantly boarded and fell asleep on.  And every time I return to Typepad, I don't even recognize the interface.  It's like Typepad went through puberty and I was spared the awkward stage where it's greasy and smells weird.

I'm so damn brizzy, but in a good way.  I fled my TV job of which I grew tired quickly.  Somehow, I've managed to parlay writing about David Gest and Black Pigpen into a full-time writing gig (freelancing full time, that is).  And it's amazing, albeit surprisingly exhausting.  But as any resident of literary/dykey Park Slope, Brooklyn should, I have voluntarily joined the laptop army, busting out blog posts from neighborhood coffee shops not cheap enough to charge $6 for a one-time session of WiFi use (I used to love your foamy chai latte, Ozzie's, until your penny-pinching left a sour taste in my mouth).

I will definitely try to reclaim my home territory and pump out some more insane warbling here on Fast Hugs, but in the meantime, you can catch up with me at the following sites:

• 23/6 where I write political humor (that being said, I don't do it too often because...um...I like Barack.  The end?)
• The Apiary, where I write interviews and features about the alternative comedy scene in New York
• Buzzfeed, where I'm a "trendhunter" on the prowl for all things worthy of your attention
• Best Week Ever, where I'm still a member of the Bloggers Action Network
• Gay Men's Social Crisis, where I express my disdain for gay dudes other than, like, my 3 gay dude friends
• Psychopedia, where I write about New York stuff ("and it got me to thinking...do men have the upper hand in the game set match point blah blah fucking blah pink manolos cosmos sex")
• Tilzy.tv, where I write about TV on teh tubez
• Urlesque, where I'm always on the hunt for the weirdest stuff that ever happened online

Oh, and I got a dog!

 

He's a 4 year old schnauzer/shih tzu mix named Atticus, and he's obssesed with me.  I rescued him from a crazy awesome lady who has 25 dogs in her house. (She can't afford it, but then again, who can afford housing 25 dogs?)

Anyway, have a great summer!  Sorry we didn't get to know each other better 6-:

I Thinks I Hates Ya, Miss Bradshaw

I get the aspirational aspect of Sex And The City, and how the representation of professional urban women as unapologetically promiscuous can be considered healthy and progressive.  And I get that some find Sarah Jessica Parker's squealing pixie protagonist - especially when dressed like a toddler who got into Crazy Aunt Susan's closet - appealing in a manner reeking of mass-produced "quirk."  I get it, I really do.

But one crime of which I find the show undeniably guilty is the minstrelsy that played out with the addition of Mario Cantone's character, Anthony.  I only saw most of the first several seasons (and lost interest by the time Cynthia Nixon stopped looking like Ed Begley, Jr.), but in catching bits and pieces of later seasons, I was nauseated by the addition of Homo #2 as Charlotte's faggy accessory to Carrie's plaid-happy gay BFF, Stanford Blatt.  At best, Stanford was at least "soft and cuddly," and his sassy puns fit in alongside the same dreck that came out of every other character's mouth (sorry, but nobody - from Manhattan to Manhattan, Kansas - speaks like they're in a Neil Simon play with stupid hats).  But Anthony, from what I've seen, is no different from Mario Cantone, the bitchy Italian monster whose staid antics - yelling!  bitching!  cursing!  CUZ HE'S GAAAAAY! - have earned him a small following (I guess?).  In this case, art imitates life it seems, and both cases constitute loud noise and leather jackets, two things of which I'm not fond.

When I was a kid, I used to watch this Saturday morning show that was local to the New York area (on WWOR, channel 9).  It was the weirdest show where everything took place, like, in the sewers?  And it was hosted by this dude who was loud and bonkers, and all I really remember is him scaring Jodi Benson shitless.  The show was called Steampipe Alley, and lo and behold, a clip lives on YouTube:

It's official: once a shrieking homomonster, always a shrieking homomonster.

[Footnote:  I'm gay, so I'm allowed to spew homophobic slurs.]

If I Could Talk To The Animals

Every now and then, a Web Site surfaces that goes inexplicably overlooked by the tastemakers of Internet culture - the Kottkes, Filmoculouses, and Metafilters.  Somehow, a worthy phenomenon manages to escape the cybermasses hungry for content weird and wild.

But not today.

Ladies and gentlemen, I eagerly introduce to you Ms. Cynthia Fellowes.

How I came across her, I do not remember.  But to navigate her site is to navigate the tragic journey of the human spirit, an exodus that will leave you feeling anything but unfulfilled (seriously, you can't go wrong on a site whose homepage looks like Lillian Vernon's bathroom on an acid trip).

For starters, a traditional mouse won't do for Cynthia Fellowes, whose site comes replete with a butterfly that accompanies your scrolling arrow.  Perhaps the allusion to animals is intentional for a reason besides the fact that she is quite obviously all about "spirituality" (in, of course, the most accessible, consumer-friendly form - think Loreenna McKennitt, semi-sheer scarves, and a bumper sticker that reads, "Just Breathe").  Fellowes, as it turns out, is an "animal communicator," which means she speaks to animals both alive and dead, relaying their emotions to the public.  So when Fido is caught eating his own feces, Cynthia Fellowes will be able to translate to you just exactly what he's trying to say.  In fact, she's been on television and radio and is even available for private parties and corporate events.  Guinea pig seance, you guys?

But the fun doesn't stop there.  Cynthia Fellowes is also a prosperity coach! 

And an eBay merchant.

And an actress.  (In fact, if her face looks familiar, you probably saw the Off-Off Broadway production of I'm Zsa Zsa, in which Cynthia played the role of "Ann.")

This is why I love the Internet: if you need an unbiased review on a restaurant, you go to Yelp.  If you need to find vintage footage, you go to YouTube.  If you're looking for someone to sell you dishtowels while simultaneously teaching you how to save money, all before helping you understand why your Welsh Corgi feels taken for granted, you go to Cynthia Fellowes (and, if you're lucky, she may even throw in a monologue from Steel Magnolias [seriously, Southern accents are her specialty according to her resume]).

Below, enjoy my friend Dave Hill's amazing interview with Fellowes:

Nobody Touches Jermaine Jackson's Broach But Jermaine Jackson

I know you've been closely following the Jermaine Jackson-Alejandra Genevieve Oaziaza divorce case, so I probably don't need to tell you that it's finally over! After a lengthy estrangement, the couple have reached some gloriously entertaining legal agreements.

First and foremost, Alejandra will gain full custody of their children, Jaffar and Jermajesty. This is likely good news for the kids, whom I also hope the judge secretly helped change their legal names to ones that won't limit them to respective careers in adult puppeteering and the custodial arts.

Additionally, Jermaine will pay off $100,000 in debt, and in return, Alejandra has waived both spousal support and rights to both her ex-husband's company, Jermaine Jackson Entertainment, Inc., and his jewelry. So let it be known that Alejandra Genevieve Oaziaza will never again be seen wearing the same jewelry that has graced the sternum of the very man who most recently admitted on Celebrity Big Brother - while wearing what appear to be pants borrowed from Clarissa Darling - that he loves candy:

Your Mama Don't Dance (Unless It's On TV)

Ugh, I need time to watch TV.  I really do.  My heart lies with Battlestar Galactica, Lost, 30 Rock, The Soup and The Office.  Eventually (by which I mean in the next few years), I plan to catch up on Friday Night Lights, The Riches, Mad Men, Damages and The Wire. And there are more shows after that, too.

However, in between catching glimpses of The Dog Whisperer, Degrassi, and Groomer Has It at the gym, I haven't had the chance to discover anything new.

And yet, after seeing a clip of Your Mama Don't Dance on The Soup, I wasn't entirely convinced that the show was not a joke.  Naturally, I DVR'd the remaining season and was horrified/delighted to learn that the show is, in fact, real.  It's a cheesy, low-budget basic cable ripoff of an already cheesy, low-budget big network smash, Dancing With The Stars (and Mama's host, Ian Ziering, comes directly off a stint on Stars, not coincidentally).

I have long worshiped the cultural practice of Mom Dancing.  There really is nothing better than attending a formal event and witnessing hordes of middle-aged women in floral blouses and beige slacks take to the floor to awkwardly shuffle, twist and turn through every volume of Jock Jams.  Heck, it doesn't matter if it's The Bee Gees or The Black Eyed Peas - if there's a rhythmic pattern a Mom can defy with unsynchronized arm gestures and blind confidence, she's on it like white on rice.

My favorite team, Jesse and Rebecca (the former specializing in "street moves," the latter specializing in "watching Jesse").

As if that weren't enough, Mama also includes downright silliness in its Father-Daughter competitors.  Although there are plenty of vaguely sexual interludes, this clip of Noel and Doug is so earnest that its weirdness is almost sweet.  Almost (the faux fauxhawks are a bit much).

While many would argue that The Moment Of Truth has redefined the lowest common denominator in television programming, I think that Your Mama Don't Dance ups the ante.  It's one thing for Steve Gutenberg to flaunt his D-list status by reminding the public that he exists, dancing skills be damned.  But it's something else entirely when ordinary Americans, whose children dream of appearing in the national tour of Mamma Mia, agree to be dragged onto national TV to physically demolish a karaoke version of "Grease Is The Word."

P.S.  How could I not love a show whose role of top judge is filled by the unflappable Ben Vereen (I say "unflappable" because anyone who voluntarily appears on television in a collarless tweed and isn't a Muppet is not someone you want to meet in a dark alley)?  His nods to Bob Fosse and usage of the word "musicality" when describing the clunky footwork of the contestants are brilliant, and if he doesn't get to publicly dust off those white evening gloves from Pippin during the show's finale, I might just be forced to blow up Lifetime HQ.

Check out more videos from Your Mama Don't Dance at Lifetime.

Stuff That White People Like, #392

Riding the subway next to a woman whose voice is oddly familiar, until you realize it's the co-host of your favorite NPR show.

(P.S.  Um, she's not Black!  Who knew!?)

Viva La Awesome

Anthony Bourdain is looking for a somebody to help plan, produce, and co-host an episode of No Reservations for Travel Channel.

We at the ABNR office have been culling through tons and tons of viewer-submitted videos, and similar themes surface throughout almost all of them: Suburban America is depressing, and most Americans can't be bothered to shoot on anything that isn't a Canovision 8mm.

Here, in all its glory, is the saddest video of all, one that simultaneously incorporates death, guilt, mispronunciation, and a killer hair-do modeled after Vanna White's look at the 1988 Daytime Emmy Awards.

What's Your Trip? [Travel Channel]

Eat It, Walters

I interviewed Gallagher.

His publicist sent me that photo to use.

Again, I interviewed Gallagher.

And he's crazybones.

Climbing The V Tree

I suffered from food poisoning this weekend.  Not the awful kind where you're diminished to nothing less than an uncapped, 2-way fire hydrant (where "water" is poo and vomit), but it was like a "fake" poisoning where I couldn't produce anything besides cold chills and a really boring Saturday night.

Now that I'm slowly regaining the ability to drink chocolate soy milk again, I've found a website I'm very much able to stomach.

Vaginas In Nature via Thighs Wide Shut

This Dick Is Bananas

Since Sunday's Academy Awards, you've probably seen the footage of Gary Busey - the human revolving door of washed up, mentally ill D-list reality show contestants - in which he attacks perfectly polite Jennifer Garner and Laura Linney on the red carpet.

The wordsmith then called into Ryan Seacrest's radio show to apologize to the host for having barged in on his interview.  In fact, he called Seacrest an "innocent champion of honesty," which I believe means - upon being translated from Crazyspeak - "not bonkers like me, Gary Busey, the guy with a face made of paper mache and wet marbles."

Although you may have initially felt for Seacrest, Garner, or Linney, it seems there was another victim of Busey's genuinely frightening antics (seriously, if the guy wasn't riding high on a Klonopin-and-speed-infused cocktail, he should be jailed with a camera in his cell and told he's being filmed for a TBS reality show called "Busey Busts Out"). 

At the United Nation Children's Foundation after-party (so he was invited to the ceremony and a party?  for CHILDREN?), an eleven-year-old reporter named Grace asked Busey to share some wisdom regarding the plague of young, fucked up starlets.

So he's not only out of his mind, but he's a dick?  To KIDS?

Clearly, somebody could use a little one-on-one with Dr. Drew.