Amuse-Biatch Photoessay: The Tragedy of Christopher Ciccone: Avenged!

You may remember, possums, that when Christopher Ciccone accountably appeared as a designer during the Restaurant Wars episode of Top Chef: Miami, we channeled Rupert Everett to give you a taste of the tragedy of the pudgy, washed-up, gay bro. Chrissy has now struck back with a tell-all book in which he doesn’t tell all that much—but the first rule of Madonna Club is that you don’t talk about Madonna Club, or Madonna clubs you. Interestingly enough, Madonna’s friend Sandra Bernhard, says that “Madge has a lot of money and that she should’ve put some aside for him and then this wouldn’t have happened.” Write all the Chrissy-Hissy you want, Chris, but for what it’s worth, we think that, as the photo above shows, time most definitely does not heal all wounds, and that makes it the best avenger of all.

Amuse-Biatch Photoessay: An Idol-Rich Episode?

Possums, call us crazy, but was that "American Idol" Fantasia Barrino on the three-hour cruise? Think of it, an episode with two fantasias (the other being Hung Huynh's Smurf village)....

Miss XaXa, of course, had a different take. "First Christopher Ciccone, now Fantasia. This is the season of the Has-Been."

Amuse-Biatch Presents the Tragedy of Christopher Ciccone

Possums, we know full well that everyone is tired of forked-tongued decorator Christopher Ciccone, and we had determined to do no more posts about him, but over the weekend we were having a bitch through Rupert Everett's autobiography, Red Carpets and Other Banana Skins, and we came across an irresistible passage that may help to explain the fact and tragedy of Christopher Ciccone, or how he went from this:

("Oh my God," said Miss XaXa, "he looks like Debbie Gibson threw up all over him." "Well," we reminded her, "as Madonna's back-up dancer he necessarily had to be an electric youth.") to this:

As our story begins, Rupert Everett is attending Donatella Versace's New Year's Eve party in Miami:

"Dessert was being served. A cluster of divas, some of them stars, others not, sat around Donatella at a corner table in the courtyard. The party moved fast around us, the table was a rock, and waves of fruits de mer crashed against it, swelling our numbers from eight to twelve, and then to sixteen. Chairs peeled off in all directions in a swastika for intimate asides over cigarettes and crossed legs, but the undertow on this particular stretch of bitch was strong and soon, they had been swept back out to sea by the acid tongue of Madonna's brother Christopher Ciccone, the glum monosyllabic reply of Guy Ritchie, or the polite but firm dismissal of Gwyneth Paltrow. Madonna smiled graciously to all and sundry, secure in the knowledge that someone else would do the dirty work, and give any unwanted jellyfish 'the old heave-ho.'....

Gwyneth had been flirting with Guy Oseary, the child prodigy who ran Madonna's record company, but that liaison was another thin strand that Gwyneth cut with the brisk cheer of a dignitary opening a new wing of a hospital. 'I name this ship...Over.' It had snapped before the party even began. Actually, she was as thick as thieves with Christopher, and after midnight the two of them danced like whirling dervishes until they wound up slumped and feverish on Donatella's garden couch.

And this was the night that marked the beginning of the end for Christopher and Madonna. They had been inseparable through a trippy childhood in a huge family with a wicked stepmother, and she had taken him with her to the material world, where Christopher had provided a solid raft in the shark-infested waters. And for anyone who came into contact with Madonna, to know her at all you had to know him. The one was incomprehensible without the other. He was her dark side and she was his. People reeled in horror at the mention of his name, because he had a blunt aggressive manner, and he often looked as though he was laughing at you, particularly when he was drunk...But Guy [Ritchie] and Chris were from different planets, and in a way the one's success relied on the other not being there. Also Guy was not particularly comfortable with queens, and so, as the relationship between him and Madonna quickly deepened, it was a last call for a lot of the disco bunnies and club-mix queens that made up the fabric of Madonna's mantle. It was a surprise, because Madonna came out of the womb blowing a disco whistle, but a whole aspect of her life was about to be hit by the delete button."

There you have it: Christopher Ciccone too bitchy and gay for Madonna's husband.

As a bonus, here's Rupert's account of a master class in snubbery from that same party:

"...[S]hortly before midnight, Jennifer Lopez swept into the courtyard on the arm of Benny Medina, her new manager. Donatella got up and walked over to greet her while Gwyneth and Madonna gave two snorts of derision and noisily left the room. The men and Ingrid [Casares] were momentarily flummoxed but followed suit, leaving me and my hairdresser Jamie alone at the table. It could have been a moment from The Women....

Jennifer had given a rather startling interview a few weeks earlier, one of her best, as a matter of fact, where she had regally dished all and sundry, saying, among other things, that Madonna couldn't sing and that Gwyneth couldn't act. This broke an unwritten Hollywood law. Think it but never say it....

[E]veryone there at the party that night adored the drama. They were visibly shaking with the thrill of it, and so were the girls in question. They were like ducks during a rainstorm, preening, stretching their wings, shaking themselves and quacking. Jennifer sat with Benny, holding a beatific smile in place for longer than a porno star keeps an erection. Gwyneth and Madonna huddled around Donatella's garden couch like bullies from the upper sixth....Jamie and I locked ourselves into a bathroom with Donatella, a bodyguard at the door, and informed the rest of the world what was going on outside. We popped out briefly for midnight and then went back to the bunker like war journalists to phone in the latest explosion."

Confidential to Raggaydy Andy

Andy, possum, we can’t exactly tell you this over a martini at The Palm, so this will have to do. Possum, your plan was brilliant—dastardly, diabolical, and divine.

We all know you’re Madonna’s number-one fan; she may well get more mentions on your blog than your BlackBerry does.

And we all know that her brother, Christopher Ciccone, was excommunicated and banished by Her Madgesty, the Like-a-Virgin Queen, reportedly because, though he followed her into the kingdom of disco balls and Hurrell appropriation, he refused to follow her into the kingdom of tithing, ropy arms and Kabbala water.

Knowing that the pudgy royal sibling was in disfavor, you must have at once seen the tactical advantage of further disgracing the Scary Queen of Scoffs on national television.

And so El Chico Ciccone was asked to appear on Top Chef and run his mouth, revealing himself, as Dale Levitski put it, as an “asshole” and “one of the most annoying people [he’s] ever met.” And then getting him to “help” the cheftestants with the restaurant design after trashing their food and making their lives hell was another brilliant move. And introducing him as a “renowned restaurant and interior designer”? That was plain mean, but we don’t begrudge you a moment of MeanGay; in fact, we love it.

The subtext of “Here, Dale and Hung, let a real Gay show you how it’s done,” was breathtaking in its can’t-fail efficiency. We’ve never seen a better demonstration of waving a pink rag in front of a bull. Frankly, with Dale around, we feared for Ciccone’s safety; his life was hanging by a very thin red thread.

And who could blame Dale for seeing red? Red was all we saw, too, once Ciccone was done decorating the space. As Dale put it, it looked like Valentine’s Day threw up all over it. And, we might add, as if Valentine’s Day had thrown up after spending the evening alone eating candy hearts and having too many Cosmopolitans.

That design should definitely add to Ciccone’s “renown” as a designer, as no doubt will the scrawl on Restaurant April’s wall and those godawful wicker chairs (“Hey, Wicker Man!” Miss XaXa shouted at the television, “didn’t your sister sing a song about you? ‘Pudgy Don’t Preach’?”).

And the results? Well, for starters, you have Anthony Bourdain saying things like this:

Another good performance from Dale, who continues to impress with his professionalism. When confronted with Madonna's asshat brother, he managed to avoid telling him where he could go with his interior design suggestions and what, exactly, to do with that candelabra. A remarkable display of self-control. I am atwitter with anticipation, wondering what other food world luminaries might share their wisdom with us next week! Joe Piscopo's brother, the landscaper? Mickey Rourke's dog-groomer? This could get really, really good!

Meow!

Like we said, Andy, possum, brilliant. We bet you’re getting front-row seats the next time Madonna performs at the Garden.

Every Little Thing That He Says or Does: Bravo "Hung Up" on Christopher Ciccone?

Well, possums it seems we have another Papal "bull" on our hands.

When Madonna's apparently excommunicated brother, Christopher Ciccone (nicknamed "The Pope" by Her Madgesty) appeared as an uncredited diner in high camp and high dudgeon (though, really, it was more low dudgeon than anything; Addison DeWitt and Waldo Lydecker might have sniffed, "Here today, Ciccone tomorrow," in justifiable “Après nous, le déluge” recognition), Page Six was atwitter.

We didn't mention the Page Six twitterings because, suitably enough, they were the twitterings of twits, stating, as they did, that Top Chef was filmed at "Miami eatery The Garage." As if it were a real restaurant, rather than a dusty, empty space that a megalomaniacal bisexual and an olfactorily challenged homo had tried to turn into the vanilla-scented anteroom of a gay bath house. How could we trust anyone who didn't even know that much?

For guidance, Page Six turned to Madonna's biggest fan in the entire gay world, Raggaydy Andy Cohen, who said unto them, "All will be revealed soon," an appropriately kabbalistic, quasi-apocalyptic pronouncement that seems to presage both nudity and knowledge, the breaking of the seventh seal with the dropping of the seventh veil.

And today Raggaydy Andy comes to drop another veil:

Christopher Ciccone's quick, uncredited cameo on last week's "Top Chef" generated a lot of buzz, including mentions on Page 6 last week and this morning. As the Post reports today, Christopher is back tonight. I can tell you that he's not a guest judge - and not a random diner. Watch What Happens on an episode that I would consider a shocker.

Well, well. Still, we hope that, contrary to the twitterings, Ciccone's not getting a show on Bravo. Jeff Lewis on Flipping Out is all the KrazyGay, StereotypicalGay, and MeanGay Bravo needs (good luck getting a GLAAD Award on that one!).

Madge of Dishonor: Gay Cheftestant and Bisexual Villain Bitchslapped by Undercover Brother

Oh the homo-anity, possums!

As Andy Towle is reporting, on this week's episode the cheftestants had to deal with both an undercover blogger and an undercover brother.

Yes, possums, the pudgy queen who complained that Sara Mair's lamb tasted like metal and who euthanized a vanilla candle with a napkin on the floor is none other than Madonna's brother, Christopher Ciccone. Evidently, the awful doesn't fall far from the tree.

Not that we're complaining, mind you. If nothing else, this was a priceless exchange:

Man Living Perennially in Bitch-Goddess Sister's Shadow: If that's a vegetable medley, I'm a monkey.
Dale Levitski: I will let Miss Sara know.

It's like dialogue from a lost Samuel Beckett play, Waiting for Risotto, as rewritten by All About Eve-era Joseph L. Mankiewicz.

Our only disappointment? That the Ciccone monkey got nowhere near Hung Huynh's oft-invoked ape.