Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Line, Please...

A couple of weeks ago, I watched the American Film Institute's 100 Years, 100 Movie Quotes show on Bravo, in which they counted down their Top 100 favorites movie lines of all time. The quote at the top of their list was from Gone With The Wind, "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."

OK, not one of my personal favorites, and I can see how it topped their list, but it's just not something that I ever heard any of my friends say, and like all gay men, my friends love to quote from movies.

And that started me thinking.

I went back to the AFI list and scanned it for famous movie quotes that I've actually heard gay men repeat in my presence.

No. 7: "Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up." Check

No. 72: "No wire hangers." Oh, yes.

No. 99: "I'll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too!" More times than I could count.

But still, overall, only around ten of the AFI's "all time most famous movie quotes" are lines that I can ever recall have heard spun out by the queens. Gay men don't ever EVER say "Say hello to my little friend." (Scarface) We say things like, "Get away from her, you BITCH!" (Aliens). We prefer our movie lines to be clever, catty, and importantly, cunty. And above all, spoken by a female. (Or at least, a man dressed like a female.)

So what would a list called Gay Men's 100 All Time Favorite Movie Quotes look like?

Let's make one.

I'll start with my personal Top Ten, and you good folks drop in with your own favorites. This is just for the gay boys, remember....unless your fag hag status is truly bona fide. After a week or so, I'll compile the responses from the comments and post the list. Don't worry about repeating a quote that someone has already mentioned, be true to your favorites.

1. "Did IQ's drop suddenly while I was away?" - Sigourney Weaver, Aliens

2. "It looks like a penis, only smaller." Bernadette Peters, Pink Cadillac

3. "What more can they do to me?" Madeline Kahn, What's Up, Doc?

4. "Don't you act for me!" Diana Scarwig, Mommie Dearest

5. "You most certainly ARE retarded, Taffy. - Divine, Pink Flamingos

6. "5000 dollars? It's not even leather!" - Joan Cusack, Working Girl

7. "All gay men are named Mark, Rick, or Steve." - Olympia Dukakis, Steel Magnolias

8. "Cavier should be round and hard and it should explode in your mouth at precisely the right moment." - Goldie Hawn, Overboard

9. "I kill with my cunt." Anne Carlise, Liquid Sky

10. "I love him so mu-uh-uch!" - Holly Hunter, Raising Arizona

Now, you.

100+ comments below

Monday, December 05, 2005

And the nominees are....

Me. Just me. Certainly not me AND five other worthy gay bloggers. Ignore them. By the way, did anybody see that story on CNN where it was announced that December was International Vote For Joe.My.God. Month? No? Really? Maybe I saw that on Fox.

Yes, gentle readers, I made the cut. I'd like to thank my coworkers, my friends and the manufacturers of Mountain Dew, all of whose support I need to keep writing my freaky little stories.

Voting for the Gawker Media 2005 Urban Blog Awards has commenced. You may vote for me here. And here. Aaaaaaaaaaand HERE. You may vote once a day, until you figure out how to hack around that, I think. Meanwhile, I've got to catch a plane to Bangalore, as I'm outsourcing my teams of hired voters. Sure, their pay is only 14 cents an hour, but it's not like they have to click their mouse more than once a day.

Lastly, I give my humblest thanks to you, gentle readers. If it wasn't for you all, I'd be putting my face into the blender most mornings, instead of two bananas and a lithium.

(P.S. - Vote HERE.)


My First O.M.E.

The embargo is...lifted.

Saturday night, after 4 years and 8 months of living in New York City, I had my first Out of Manhattan Experience. Yes, gentle readers, I finally went outer borough. Recently, I let slip to you here that I had not yet explored more than the lower half of Manhattan. This revelation, delivered without pretension or embarrassment, resulted in my suffering much incredulity and ridicule from my readers who live here, who used to live here, and who wished they lived here.

Hence, one might presume that I was shamed into making a half-hearted foray into Brooklyn, grudgingly clambering onto the heretofore mysterious "L" train with its logic-defying cross-Manhattan route. But you'd be wrong.

I went to Brooklyn to see Bob Mould in concert.

I was accompanied by Farmboy C, who would act as my trusted guide and wary protector for the trip under the East River to the place called Williamsburg, rumored to be where the concept of wearing trucker hats jauntily askew was first seized upon, an epochal event without which we surely would have no Ashton Kutcher. That eureka moment aside, Williamsburg was utterly unknown to me and I worried that I would endure discomfit from the residents, whose odd manner of dress, curious language and generally queer ways are the stuff of barroom chatter throughout Manhattan.

But Farmboy put me at ease and suggested that if I were to encounter a curious local, I should respond with, "Sup?", a word with the utility and flexibility that "Aloha" has for Hawaiians, only in Williamsburg "Sup?" means "Hello", "Good-bye", "Let's fuck" and "I'd like a hit of that, please."

Our evening got off to an uncertain start as we tried to coordinate our meeting point in Grand Central Station.

"So do you wanna meet me at the top of the bottom escalators or at the bottom of the top escalators?"


Despite that muddy issue, I sailed down the East Side, Farmboy down the West, and we joined up on the downtown 6 with no problem. Minutes later we connected to the Brooklyn-bound L train. Farmboy and I sprawled on the bench of the sparsely populated car and I began to brief him on the Bob Mould catalog, as Farmboy had only a passing awareness of Husker Du and Sugar and only knew of Bob himself from Bob's relatively recent incarnation as Famous Out Rocker / Godfather Of Punk & Grunge.

Then, from the end of the car, this: "You motherfucking faggot! You think I'm some motherfucking homosexual? I'mo pop a cap in yo' faggot ass! I don't play that motherfucking way, you damn punk ass bitch! You ain't gotta sit down all next to me with yo' faggot Chinese ass! You got this whole motherfuckin' train. Why you gotta sit yo' punk ass down right on top of me? Motherfucking faggot!"

Eyes left. Our speaker, playing the well-trod role of Angry Black Subway Man, was standing menacingly over a slender Pacific Islander-looking man, whose less than entirely masculine, legs crossed at the knee, sitting style caused my Gayger-counter needle to leap into the red zone, passing even the Cats, Original Cast Recording reading that I had gotten earlier in the day when I passed by the young man wearing a Carhart jacket and reading Martha Stewart's Baking Handbook. This beleagured queen, shrinking before his menacer, registered well into the Barbara Streisand, Back To Broadway portion of the dial.

Glances, uncomfortable and yet supportive, were shared between the other riders. The glances said, "Why is this psycho freaking out?" and "Should we go help the other guy?" and "Aren't you glad we sat down at THIS end?"

Farmboy and I got off the train at the Bedford stop. As we walked past the last door of our car, Angry Black Subway Man was giving his only-moments-ago victim a dumbfoundingly genial seeing off, waving to him and saying, "OK, you pretty cool for a Chinese guy an' all dat. We should hang sometime. You have a good night, a'ight?"

Somebody outta sell tickets. I know I'd buy one.

Five quick blocks through a neighborhood that looks suspiciously like central Jersey City, and we were at the venue, a nightclub called Northsix. Coatcheck, a Brooklyn Lager for Farmboy and a Budweiser for me, and Bob Mould was at our side, lingering with us at the back of the audience for the duration of the opening act.

Bob took the stage to a genuinely warm reception, in contrast to the more traditional rock star "wooo!"ing and screaming that I'd seen when he and his band (including Rich Morel) took their places at Irving Plaza two months ago. The Northsix audience greeted Bob like an old friend, with broad smiles and outstretched clapping.

Immediately, a disappointment. Bob announced that his 12-string was "fucked" and that the show would be all electric. I had been looking forward to hearing Accoustic Bob, but it seemed I was the only one dismayed. And Bob was in great voice, his signature howl/yowl/growl sounding much bigger in this cozy room. Farmboy began recognizing songs he hadn't realized were Bob's, and pulled me close to say, "I hope Eddie Veder is sending this guy checks EVERY MONTH!"

The audience was attentive, almost Children Of The Corn attentive. There wasn't nearly as much of the usual bar traffic and customer chatter that I've come to dread at smaller venues. Bob was gregarious and chatty with the audience, even giving me a cloaked shout-out when he mentioned that he'd served turducken for Christmas dinner last year, "which someone here tonight can actually attest to." I almost let out a whoop so everyone would know that he was talking about me.

After the show, Bob sat on the stage to sign autographs and chat with fans. A tall, bald, handsome, muscular man (Farmboy and I had "noticed" him earlier) was whirled around by a fan who said, "Hey, Rich! I love your stuff, man!" The big guy just smiled broadly and said, "I know I look a lot like him, but I'm not Rich Morel." Exit fan, mortified.

Farmboy and I enjoyed a death-threat free trip back to Manhattan, where he suggested a nightcap at Siberia. Silly not to, and all that. We arrived at 2AM to find the first floor deserted, but a fairly packed and happy crowd in the basement disco. I got us a beer and Farmboy disappeared for a few minutes. When he returned, he handed me a fresh beer and said, "I got you another beer in case I don't see you again, in which case thanks for a great night!" I looked around the small room and wondered what he meant, but only for a moment, until I saw him slip around the black curtain behind the stairs, where shirtless gay men were doubtlessly discussing welfare reform and this pesky outsourcing problem.

A few minutes later and I was up on the street. When my cab rolled up, the first snowflakes of the year had just hit my face. I rode home slumped over on the backseat, thinking about the Rich Morel lookalike back in Brooklyn.


Thursday, December 01, 2005

The 2005 URBS

Gridskipper, part of the Gawker Media blog empire, is running their 2005 Urban Blogging Awards contest right now. I've been nominated (blush) in the "World's Best Urban Gay Blog" category. It looks like they will be culling the field of nominees down to just a few, at the end of Friday, December 2 and then the finalists will be voted on begining Monday, December 5th.

If you're feeling the love for Joe.My.God., you can add to my nominations here, which requires petitioning Gridskipper to become one of their sanctioned commenters, from what I can tell.

Or you can simply fire off an email to tips@gridskipper.com explaining how the sun doesn't rise until you've read Joe.My.God. Tell them how you've laughed, you've cried, how I became a part of you. That kind of stuff. You know. Make something up.

And if I win, you totally don't have to get me anything for Xmas.


Color Me Yenta

Inevitable? Perhaps, but I just got an email letting me know that two of my readers have hooked up (or will hook up this weekend, more precisely) after "noticing" each others' pics on my Frappr map.

Gentle readers, I am the soul of discretion. I shall not reveal who will be frapping like dirty gay frapprs this weekend. But I will say that they do not live in the same state, which rather impresses me. Because these days I can't be bothered to go more than three subways stops.


The Last Word

Cafe Luka, Upper East Side, Sunday 10AM

I'm eating alone, trying to balance the massive Sunday Times on my little two-top . My table abuts the rear of the last booth where an elderly man and woman have just been seated.

Old Lady: Are you getting the corned beef hash again? I don't know why you won't try new things. You are such a stick in the mud.

Old Man: .....

Old Lady: Just don't put so much salt on it this time. You know how your blood pressure is. You never listen to the doctor. You're gonna drop dead from the salt. Then you'll be sorry.

Old Man: .....

Old Lady: There goes Doris and her Jacob. Such a nice young man. You know, it wouldn't kill you to call your son, should you forgot you had one.

Old Man: ......

Old Lady: Oh, don't forget we have that thing tonight. At Mona's. I'll pick out something for you to wear. Don't worry you won't have to lift a finger, not that I expect you to.

(waiter arrives)

Old Lady: He'll have the corned beef hash. And dry toast. He can't have dairy. I'll have the blintz. Two coffees. Make sure it's decaf and make sure it's fresh this time. Would it kill you to brew a new pot?

(waiter departs)

Old Lady: I wanna make sure that we get there early tonight so don't be going anywhere. I don't wanna sit around all dressed up and waiting for you.

Old Man: .....

(food arrives, they eat in silence)

Old Lady: I'm going to the ladies room. I hope it's clean in there this time. Don't leave until I get back, I'm leaving my purse. Remember when you left my purse sitting on the table that time? Pay attention to me, are you paying attention? OK, I'll be right back. Don't leave.

(Old Lady goes into the restroom)

Old Man: (shouting) I'M GONNA GIVE YOU SUCH A SMACK!

(Old Lady returns)

Old Lady: OK, I'm ready. Let's go get something to bring to Mona's. I'll pick it out, you never get the right thing.

Old Man: ......

(they leave)

From my table, I watch them toddle down the sidewalk.

They are holding hands.