Possums, Charlus is understandably in seclusion and it was fitting for me to pay tribute to my namesake, Our Lady of the XaXa Heels, the ever fashionably "late," Ms.Eartha.Fucking.Kitt. Long may she reign in a sable lined Heaven...
Monday, December 29, 2008
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Well, possums, we’ll be off for a couple of days, sharpening and tempering our claws in a fire fed by Yule logs, lost illusions and curdled bonhomie, i.e., just what’s needed to do justice to last week’s holiday episode.
À bientôt, hasta luego, and catch y’all real soon, possums.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Friday, December 19, 2008
Fauxhawked amfAR TwinkleGay: Fabio Viviani Will Flirt with Anything That Moves; Stefan Richter, However, Appears to Have a “No Fats or Fems” Policy
We find it hard to believe, possums, that we had to wait until the season’s sixth episode of Top Chef before we saw a fauxhawk.
It came courtesy of amfAR employee Barry Brown, whose post on the Natasha Richardson-hosted reception we were delighted to find.
The post served only to augment our distrust of the Bravo editors, for—what do you know?—Barry, like Cheyenne Jackson, is another gay who doesn’t, um, like seafood (duh), but who nonetheless liked Jamie Lauren’s scallop dish. It’s a conspiracy, we tell ya. F’agcuse!
Most interesting of all, Barry had these tidbits to share:
“…Fabio's real talent lies in schmoozing people. He likes to flirt...[sic] with boys and girls. And that's probably how he does well in life. The food? Merely adequate.”
Oh possum, even E.M. Forster could have told you that.
Stefan’s chicken pot pie was a “[v]ery creative use of his inspiration. Too bad he didn't seem like he wanted to talk to me at all when I was tasting his dish. I obviously wasn't important enough. It just turned me off. His food was good. But again, it was nothing special. I could have made that at home and it would have been just as good.”
We must say that we’re a little surprised. After all, we have the photo of Stefan kissing Danny Gagnon, who’s both a fat and a “phlegm.”
So, what’s the lesson to be learned, possums? Never piss off a gay in a red velvet jacket (especially Santa).
Mazel tov, oh fortunate Jews of the world! Behold the Lioness of the tribe of Judah!
Of course it ought not have been a surprise that radiant, lissome, buxom, leonine, McGill summa cum laude graduate Gail Simmons should be the most alluring literary Jewess since the Biblical Esther, Rebecca in Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe and Rachel in Marcel Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past. Still, it’s nice to know.
It should have been Gail judging the Top Chef holiday episode (Michelle Bernstein is simply not an adequate replacement); on the other hand, given what an abomination the episode turned out to be, it was probably for the best that Gail not be tainted by it.
So, we didn’t get Gail in the holiday episode, but now we get to watch her make latkes, courtesy of WPIX. Enjoy, possums.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Scallopgate Redux: On Behalf of Cheyenne Jackson, a Framed Jamie Lauren, the Gays, and Honest People in General, Amuse-Biatch Cries, “Bullshit!”
Ok, now we’re just angry.
As any faithful viewer of Top Chef (including, and especially, cheftestants) ought to know by now, scallops are the devil’s playground, an ingredient fraught with peril and the sweet but briny foretaste of doom. And so, on some level, our girl Jamie Lauren ought to know, and ought to have known, better.
Still, what Bravo’s editors have done amounts to prosecutorial misconduct.
In building their case against the scallop dish Jamie made for the Seven Swans A-Swimming component of the skull-numbingly numbskull “12 Days of Christmas” Elimination Challenge, the editors showed 6’4”, blue-eyes-and-calves-of-death gay grointhrob (much better than heartthrob) Cheyenne Jackson saying, “I just tried the Seven Swans A-Swimming. A little too slimy.” Case closed; bring in the guilty verdict.
And yet, on the “bonus footage” on Bravo’s website we get to see Cheyenne’s complete statement, which we are transcribing just in case the video mysteriously disappears (it starts at the 30-seconds-remaining mark): “I just tried the Seven Swans A-Swimming, um, and it was good, surprisingly. I’m not usually a scallops person. A little too slimy.”
See how that works? So Cheyenne Jackson doesn’t usually like scallops because they are a little too slimy, but Jamie’s scallops were good and not slimy (and, let us not forget, Miss Martha Stewart herself raved about Jamie’s earlier-in-the-episode scallop dish).
So, you wanna talk about a little too slimy? Talk about Bravo.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
It’s a question we asked ourselves, possums, after reading this blind item in The New York Post:
“WHICH lifestyle diva used a hand model for close-up shots in her latest book? She deemed her own hands too wrinkled”
Let’s see, possums. The term “lifestyle diva” was invented for Ms. Stewart. She does have a new book, as you can see in the still from tonight’s episode. And she is of an age where, thanks to the nature of time and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to, wrinkles (on one’s hands or elsewhere) are a distinct possibility. What say ye?
We, of course, refuse, absolutely refuse, to believe that she is such a perfectionist that she would deem any part of herself imperfect. Not our Martha, not ever.
Oh, and speaking of imperfections, what the fug is going on with Padma’s outfit? As we noted, for last week’s episode she brought out the cleavage in full force, even during the Quickfire Challenge, where she wore a brown t-shirt so tight and cleavage-enhancing that we thought that, rather than any cotton garment, she was simply sporting that Mexican mole sauce slathered all over her naked torso.
But now that Martha is here, she packs the bazooms away? Why, Padma, why? Surely you don’t fear that a Martha who has been in the slammer (and a West Virginia one at that) would go from Camp Cupcake to actually craving “cupcakes,” do you? Look, Padma, Martha will make you her bitch, just not in that way.
Poor Trail-“Blazering” Rocco DiSpirito Was Beaten Up by Hooligans as a Kid; Now That He’s 42 (!!), He Gets Beaten Up by Bloggers and Chefs
You’re in luck this morning, possums. The New York Times has published a delicious, bitchy, Schadenfreude-laden rum ball of an article on Rocco DiSpirito. Giggle or shake your head in sadness as you try to decide whether Rocco is trying to convince himself and people that he’s shallower than he is, or was once trying to convince himself and people that he was deeper than he really was.
Our favorite bit, though, is the emblematic disconnect between Rocco’s statements and his fashion statements. In the article, Rocco says, “I was the kid in the maroon blazer on the way to Presentation of the Blessed Virgin Mary Catholic school, in between one gang and another gang, and it was like, How did I want to get beat up today?” And so, of course, on his first trip back to Jamaica, Queens, in 20 years, what does he wear? As you can see from the picture above, a tweed blazer. Is Rocco secretly a masochist? Is he looking to get beaten up? Inquiring minds want to know.
Preview: Catering, Botulism, AIDS, Martha Stewart, Miss Universe, and Natasha Richardson’s Dead-Gay-Daddy Issues
Yes, possums, this is the episode in which the refrigerator doesn’t work, but human refrigerator Martha Stewart does; in which Fabio poses for clothed pics with a naked-pics-disgraced Miss Universe from Venezuela (beauty queens being the country’s top export along with oil and bad telenovelas), and the chefs cater an event for amfAR hosted by Natasha Richardson.
(Natasha’s daddy, Oscar-winning director Tony Richardson, died of AIDS. Despite being married to Natasha’s mum, Vanessa Redgrave, and leaving her for Jeanne Moreau, the late Mr. Richardson liked bangers with his mash. Of course, it should have been no surprise; trailing after Vanessa Redgrave and Jeanne Moreau is the classy, European arthouse equivalent of marrying Judy Garland and Liza Minnelli (we’re looking at you, Vincente Minnelli, Peter Allen, David Gest). We should know; both Nessie and Jeanne are two of our supreme faves. Speaking of which, for God’s sake, the man was directing Diana bloody Ross in Mahogany (until Berry Gordy took over); can it get gayer than that?
And let us not forget to mention that Vanessa Redgrave’s father and Natasha’s grandfather, Sir Michael Redgrave, also sailed, as the French so charmingly put it, à voile et à vapeur. We remember reading with delight this anecdote in The Guardian: “The billboard outside the Odeon cinema, Leicester Square, said: ‘Michael Redgrave and Dirk Bogarde [another famously closeted British actor, if you’ll forgive all the redundant adjectives] in The Sea Shall Not Have Them.’ Passing by, Noel Coward said: ‘I don't see why not. Everyone else has.’”
Is it any surprise, then, that, perhaps unconsciously, Natasha Richardson herself has married an incredibly desirable man who is also the world’s least likely to go gay, i.e., Liam Neeson? We think not. It all makes sense, possums, and now you have a glimpse into how our minds work when we see Natasha Richardson holding a canapé on a Bravo catering show.)
Oh, and the ever constipated-looking, South Florida chef Michelle Bernstein also appears. Woman, please get some more fiber in your diet.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
In which we weekly devote ourselves to the impossible task of culling the best gesticulations of the most extravagant Italian import since Roberto Benigni and Topo Gigio:
Monday, December 15, 2008
Uh, Padma, no. And we mean, Non, nyet, nein. How could you?
Everyone knows that female guests at a wedding are not supposed to wear white, so as not to distract or draw attention from the bride. A corollary of this rule is that you are not supposed visually to scream for attention at the bride’s wedding shower. And yet, despite this, and despite referring to her as “a very dear friend of mine” (we could almost hear the air quotes), you hosted the wedding shower for Gail, a woman renowned for her buxom and leonine charm, in a dress down to there, and in retina-searing purple, no less. We’re pretty sure that Emily Post would back us on this: One does not draw attention from the bride’s cleavage to one’s own bazooms. What ever possessed you? Badly done, Padma, badly done.
Though we must confess, possums, that we were a tad disappointed he went with the blue of the sea rather than the blue of the sky. Didn’t anyone tell him just how stereotypically popular the cheesy Italian song “Volare” is at weddings? In fact, are we sure he didn’t sing it to Gail e le ragazze as part of his introduction?
After all, the lyrics are drowning in blue, all about flying in the sky, “nel blu dipinto di blu, felice di stare lassù.” Wouldn’t it have made for better patter? And it would have meant using birds of the air, which would have prevented the problem of using a putatively endangered fish and making it bland.
And while we’re on the subject of Fabio, we have to confess that we’re fascinated and amused by his Florentine accent. In “Two Gallants,” one of James Joyce’s stories in Dubliners, there is a description of the character Corley as “aspirat[ing] the first letter of his name after the manner of Florentines.” To aspirate means to pronounce a letter as if it were an “h,” which, for Joyce’s purpose, meant that Corley pronounced his name “Whorely.” Joycean epiphany and all that, vous voyez? For us, it is fascinating that this characteristic is still part of the Florentine accent a hundred years later. Listen as Fabio says “bahon” instead of “bacon” and “behause” instead of “because.” Whatever else may be true of him, Fabio certainly has aspirations.