In Honor of Team Rainbow, “Prop. 8 – The Musical”

See more Jack Black videos at Funny or Die

UPDATE...Christian group to "rotund" Jack Black: Jesus Wasn't Fat!!

Chicago Sighting: I Saw a Man, He Dined with His Wives

Ah, possums, Chicago, Chicago, that toddlin' town, where the man sighted (LTH Forum via The Chicago Reader) was none other than Marcel Vigneron. The three women with him were not his wives ("Wrong gender, dude!"): Sandee Birdsong, Josie Smith-Malave, and Tiffani Faison. Holy Lesbian Triple Threat!

According to the sighting, Marcel and the Dreamgirls were spotted last Friday at Frontera Grill "with stage makeup on." Furthermore, Marcel "is growing some type of weird Abe Lincoln meets Hobbit-type beard." (There's a joke in there, possums, about Marcel, three lesbians, and beards, but "Marcel is gay" jokes are trop last season for us, and so we desist.) At any rate, what this means, possums, is that it looks as if Season 4 has already begun filming, well before next week's Chicago-based live reveal. If any of you Chicagoan possums catch sight of a stray cheftestant or two, wield those cell-phone cameras and drop us a line.

Breaking News: Josie Smith-Malave Attacked, Gaybashed, Spat On

For once, possums, we don't have a snarky thing to say.

Josie Smith-Malave, the cooking world's most affable lesbian (sorry, Sandee Birdsong, you're a close second; and Tiffani Faison, you're a brilliant cook, but affable, not so much), was reportedly attacked over the weekend on Ilan Hall's native soil, Long Island.

According to a report, Josie "was among a small group of women asked to leave a Sea Cliff, Long Island[,] bar over Labor Day weekend," after which "about 10 young people followed the women out and began screaming anti-gay slurs, spitting on them and beating them....[T]he women, who were on Long Island to attend a friend's birthday party, suffered bruises, and one received injuries to her head. One of them had a camera taken in the attack."

Our best wishes go out to Josie and her friends, and we hope authorities (or lesbian avenger Jodie Foster in The Brave One) get the fuckers.

Amuse-Biatch Bisexual Tuesday?

Sandee, possum, we looked at your hands (not that we were examining your finger-length ratio), and trust us, we know exactly how you feel. If we were sitting that close to Lia Bardeen, our hands would be itching too. Who would dare blame you? That pose, that sultry, almost half-lidded look, the gnocchi-soft lips, the gently sloping bazooms--er, pardon us while we take a moment to remind ourselves that we're gay.

But guess what, Sandee, possum? You might just have a chance with Lia after all.

Which brings us to the placement of the question mark in the headline. We have no doubt--no serious doubt, at any rate--that today is Tuesday. The bisexual bit, however, is something else altogether, but we figured the question mark would look odd anywhere else.

Our grammatical quandary is the result of two anonymous comments left by Amuse-Biatch readers suggesting that when Lia is looking to poach something in olive oil, she might favor both shrimp and scallops:

Just to comment, I've known Lia for a while. She used to have a girlfriend...[S]he was dating, and living, with the girl. She was never a shy bookish little girl. She has, and wears, black lingerie with garters and all. Curly or straight, blonde or brunette, she is, or at least was, a dangerous sexpot.

and

Well, I suppose it could be something made up, but it isn't. She just broke up with her girlfriend and moved out less than a year ago. They had dated for years...She's dating a boy now, there by [sic] making her entire family of lesbians (sister, mother) I suppose somewhat sad.

Again, we stress that these are anonymous and entirely unsubstantiated rumors, and that we are not presenting them as true, but to us they are nonetheless thrilling, titillating, and delightful. We adored literature major Lia when we thought she merely read Sarah Waters novels; now that it is possible she lives them as well, we positively worship her. If it's true, Lia, possum, welcome to the club.

If nothing else, we take this opportunity to respond to another Amuse-Biatch reader, who pleaded with us, "More pictures of Lia please..."

Well, possum, never let it be said that we are unresponsive to our readers, and since you did say please, here's what we were able to dredge up:

First Reaction: 'Cue the Violins for the Last of the Fauxhawkians

“Two puns in one headline? Isn’t that a little much?” asked Miss XaXa.

We stared at our nails. Yes, it’s true, possums, our favorite martial-arts-practicing, slogan-teeshirt-wearing, magazine-editing lesbian, Sandee Birdsong, was, in the lexicon of the game, pykagged last night.

“Besides,” Miss XaXa continued, “it isn’t even true. She’s not the last one with a fauxhawk; there’s still Dale.”

But of course. Who could forget Dale Levitski? Well, apparently, just about everyone. As we said to Miss XaXa, “If he were a superhero, he’d be the Invisible Gay.” He was hardly to be seen in this episode, but perhaps that’s just as well, as attention seemed to be an unwelcome thing last night.

The Quickfire Challenge—to use Florida citrus—was judged by Chef Norman Van Aken, who, fittingly enough, was the very definition of “acid,” and perhaps also “florid.” Micah, who is not a morning person (though Lord, is she ever a mourning person), made it into a bottom three with a dish of baby spew, er, pardon us, “avocado soup,” along with torch-wielding petal-pusher Sandee, and confused, carapaced, veiny shrimp Sarah Nguyen (really, though, we’re not the ones calling her a shrimp; it was CJ, who envied her for being 5’3”). And it was CJ who, despite spilling his citrusy seed upon the dish, was in the top three, along with Hung and Tre. Ultimately, it was Hung, huffin’ and puffin’ his way to villainy, who came out on top and earned immunity, if not camp status.

The Elimination Challenge was to cook “upscale barbecue” for Lee Schrager, founder of the South Beach Wine & Food Festival and, according to the South Florida Business Journal, the spokesman for “Southern Wine & Spirits, the nation’s largest alcohol distributor.” No wonder he has access to champagne and, by extension, women, as Hung admiringly points out. (We reiterate: you don’t have to be gay to be a Gay Villain. And really, how convincing was Hung anyway?)

Which brings us to our main problem with the upscale barbecue: where was the upscale? 14 small grills on a strip of mangy lawn by a canal does not upscale make. As Tom Colicchio himself put it, which is the greater sin, no barbecue or not upscale?

This question, along with other, more pressing ones, will be answered in a proper episode recap coming this weekend.

Welcome to Meowmi: Part I

Possums, as we pointed out last season, from an audience standpoint, Anthony Bourdain is a great Top Chef judge, since he is entertaining and can out-quip and out-bitch just about anyone. From a blogger’s standpoint, however, episodes featuring Anthony Bourdain are difficult, since he is entertaining and can out-quip and out-bitch just about anyone.

Nonetheless, we’ll do our Amuse-Biatch best with the leavings as we turn to the premiere episode of Season 3.

To the sounds of what the closed captioning helpfully identifies as “Latin music,” we get the Miami signifiers of turquoise waters and bronzed bodies on the beach, and we’re off to meet the cheftestants at the Miami airport.

First up is Sara Mair, who informs us that she is a “chef/fromagier.” Actually, possum, you would be a “fromagère,” but never mind. We so love cheese, and the chic of the puffy sleeves on your jacket, that we’re willing to overlook anything at this point. Blessed are the cheese-makers indeed.

Next up is tremulous, toothsome Clay Bowen, son of the Mississippi clay. There’s something very 19th century about him, a touch of The Red Badge of Courage underneath the incongruous guayabera he is sporting. He thinks he can win the competition, ole Clay does. “I feel the South hasn’t really been represented on Top Chef much.” Oh, Clay, possum, wasn’t that what General Lee said right before the Battle of Antietam, er, Sharpsburg? Score another point for Bravo Foreshadowing™.

And then there’s Frank Terzoli. Oops, it’s actually Joey Paulino, decked out in a blue “Italia” soccer jersey. “You think he’s Italian?” we ask Miss XaXa, who is herself of Italian extraction. The question becomes even more rhetorical the minute he opens his mouth: “If I win the money, my mother gets it.” (To which Miss XaXa said, “But if you don’t win the money, whose mother's gonna get it?”) This is followed by the curiously related, “I’m the biggest, baddest motherfucker here.” Miss XaXa groaned, “Didn’t The Sopranos end last Sunday?”

Joey drives home the point by giving us a syllogism that would have made Descartes proud, “I’m from New York; I come to kick ass.” No, Joey, you come to perpetuate stereotypes about Italian-Americans on television. Judge Ted Allen told an interviewer that Joey earned the nickname, “Joey Pickles,” which is as good in its way as Paulie Walnuts (and not as pungent as Miss XaXa’s suggestion, “Joey No-Neck”), so Joey Pickles it is.

And here comes Dale Levitski, the beefy, fauxhawked, po-mo homo from Chicago. We’re quite certain about the “homo” part, but we have sketchier evidence for the “po-mo” part, mostly those mirrored aviator sunglasses, the epitome of 1970s gay clone culture. We’d have to confirm it with Edmund White (He Who Was There), but we think Dale is wearing them ironically, which is enough for “post-modern” status (though we have doubts about the Dickensian urchin outfit he wears in the kitchen later). Mostly, we’re just happy there’s a Gay on here.

And riding along we find Tre Wilcox of Dallas, who loses no time in telling us that he has “a tattoo on [his] body” (where else?) that says, “You gotta have passion.” (However, when see the inside of his forearm, the actual text of the tattoo is the broader, “Gotta have passion,” which is significant because that makes it more of a personal reminder, more a metaphysical Post-It to oneself than a broader injunction to the world at large.)

Now, we like Tre and, as the episode shows, he’s a talented chef, but we call “merde” on his tattoo, which looks like it was done with a ballpoint pen by a fifth grader. Not that we’re suggesting he should have gotten a rose on his ankle, but something better than an item on a grocery list of platitudes. Did the tribes of the South Pacific invent tattooing so that it could end up as the equivalent of those one-word motivational office posters, the ones that say “Teamwork” or “Perseverance” and illustrate the concept with dolphins or canoes? If you’re going to risk not being buried in a Jewish cemetery, shouldn’t it be for something really good?

There’s a rendez-vous at Casa Casuarina, the former home of Gianni Versace, also known as the Gays’ own School Book Depository. The cheftestants blithely, even callously, step across the spot where the man who put Elizabeth Hurley in safety pins (sob) was assassinated (sob) by gay serial killer Andrew Cunanan (sob). The least Raggaydy Andy and Bravo could do would be to spring for a commemorative plaque.

Most blithe is potential Great Gay Hope and Potentially Gay Asian Villain-in-the-Making Hung Huynh, who starts subverting stereotypes right away, declaring, “I am not Zen in the kitchen.” It’s like a PSA with the recommended daily amount of liberal guilt; it makes you think, Hmmm, did I automatically assume he would be Zen in the kitchen because he’s Asian?

Our consciousness felt immediately raised, especially when Hung announced that for about a year he has been labeled a “CPA,” or Certified Professional Asshole. “It’s only been a year?” asked Miss XaXa. “No wonder it seems so fake.”

We reminded Miss XaXa that he was, once again, subverting stereotypes about Asians being good at math, and that she ought to give him the benefit of the doubt, as perhaps he used to be an amateur asshole before, but is now being paid and has had his assholery certified, and if that isn’t the American dream, to get paid for what you do well, then what is?

Even our favorite new lesbian, Sandee Birdsong, who hails from Miss XaXa’s former stomping grounds on Saint Simons Island and who should know better, gaily traverses across Gianni-hallowed ground and into a reception area, where, as the closed captioning tells us, “soft jazz music” is playing and the other cheftestants await.

Hung Jury Still Out

As you know all too well, possums, Bravo’s self-promotion is relentless.

But during Wednesday night’s premiere of Top Chef, it seemed that the promos for Kathy Griffin’s show were coming at the rate of one every other minute (we surmise even the Cubans don’t have to put up with that much Fidel on their televisores). As such, we think Miss XaXa can be forgiven for channeling Bravo’s seemingly new Fearless Leader halfway through the TC3 premiere and yelling the party slogan, “Where are my Gays?!”

Ubi sunt her Gays indeed. Hell, where are ours?

Not that she’s fickle, but Miss XaXa pressed the point, “Where is my Carlos for this season?”

It made us check and replace the batteries on our gaydar, for we heard only the faintest twittering during the show. No immediate sexual tension, no knives-as-phalluses metaphors, no bunkbeds (though that hot-tub does bring with it the hope of a new Mike-Melissa-and-Flora thing, but if we were you, we wouldn’t admit to getting that allusion).

(Yes, of course, there is Dale, he of the faux fauxhawk, but if you recall our screeds on the hermeneutics of homo hair from last season with respect to Marcel and Ilan, you will understand our dismay at the fauxhawk as a gay signifier. As Miss XaXa put it, “I mean, is it ‘cause he’s from Chicago?” And don’t even get us started on the whole Dickensian urchin look he sported during the Elimination Challenge, with those Oliver Twist manpris and boot-things. We’re all for “food, glorious food,” but how can you “consider yourself a [Gay], consider yourself one of the family”?)

Does that mean, then, that Hung might just be our Great Gay Hope?

(Mind you, we’re not discounting Sandee as a possibility for this season’s Josie, down to the twee ‘50s first names. Though her Bravo bio doesn’t say anything on the subject as such, the four people for whom she wants to cook a meal are Angelina Jolie, Gina Gershon, Jennifer Tilly, and Anna Nicole Smith. As Miss XaXa says, “I mean, come on.” So you have Jenny Shimizu’s ex-girlfriend, the stars of Susie Bright-approved, cult lesbian criminal sex romp Bound, and Anna Nicole Smith. Alright, we’ll give you Anna Nicole Smith, but, really, come on. But, again, even if it’s true, we are distressed by the fauxhawk. Hedi Slimane, what hast thou wrought?)

Now let’s talk about Hung for a moment. As we’ve complained in the past, Bravo breezily traffics in stereotypes, both good and bad (don’t get us started on the whole “spicy Latin” thing; we got a cramp when we heard the Bravo announcer on one of the promos say, like some drunken frat boy, “Moo-ee caw-lee-en-tay”). But there’s something altogether admirable about Hung so wholeheartedly embracing the stereotype of the (Potentially Gay) Asian Villain. He says as much himself.

Having just finished The Book of Salt, Monique Truong’s rather splendid novel about a gay Vietnamese chef who cooked for Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, we were looking forward to Hung as a gay Vietnamese chef who, well, you get the point (though in his case, the novel would probably be called The Book of Vinegar).

And yet, vinegary as he is, Hung still lacks something in the villainy department. We admire the way Hung playfully subverted the whole Asians-are-good-at-math stereotype by saying he is a “CPA…[beat]…Certified Professional Asshole,” but there was something a little forced in the quip. An asshole is usually just an asshole, and it takes more than monomania to make a good villain. It’s a question of style.

Take last season’s Marcel Vigneron, for example, whom Hung knows. Though we in the end concluded that Marcel is not gay, he was the superior Gay Villain. (As for Ilan….)

Of course, we have our doubts about Hung. Miss XaXa convincingly argues that no gay man would call himself “Hung”—too much pressure—and would instead have changed his name to “Jimmy” or “Ken.” It’s a powerful argument, though we note that Hung also has a little fauxhawk thing going on, throwing us further into despair.

Look, Hung, possum, it’s like this. We want you to succeed. We want you to achieve your villainous goal. And we think you could benefit from a little instruction. Let us tell you a story.

Recently we picked up an old magazine that had a piece on the actress Gong Li and her first English-language role as Hatsumomo, the bitch goddess villainess in gay Rob Marshall’s version of Memoirs of a Geisha. According to the piece, when Gong Li did her first scene with the child actress who was to play her nemesis, Gong Li had only to look at her and the child started crying. In fact, she couldn’t stop crying and had to be replaced. Gong Li didn’t have to say a word; all it took was a look. Now, that’s how you play (Potentially Gay) Asian Villain.

So we ask you, Hung, please, take a tip or two from Gong Li, if only so that we can make “Hatsuhomo” and Memoirs of a Gay Chef puns.

But regardless of what stereotype you want to embrace—whether you want to be known as Hung the Merciless or as Hatsuhomo—we support your endeavor. (If we were you, we’d start by burning the hat that the Vince Vaughn wannabe from San Diego is always wearing; trust us, it’s what Gong Li would do.)