Cranky Lesbian

Look what the homosexuals have done to me!

Tag: Nonsense Page 1 of 3

I Just Don’t Know What to Do With Myself

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On December 28, 2008

In Uncategorized

“Why are those young women water-skiing in tutus?”

What the hell are people supposed to do when they’re on vacation? I’m several days into an almost two-week vacation and I’ve already run out of ideas. I decided against traveling, opting to save money instead, and the only things I told myself I had to do over the next two weeks were sleep late and re-watch the Todd Haynes film Far From Heaven, which I loved six years ago and hadn’t seen since. Now that each of those modest goals has been met (and I still love Far From Heaven, though it doesn’t knock Safe out of position as Haynes’ masterwork), what’s my next vacation-y order of business?

According to the Go-Go’s, who dispense wisdom like PEZ candy (and who were, it should be noted, coked to the gills in the early ’80s when they first made this suggestion), I’m supposed to water-ski while wearing a tutu and tiara. According to Punch-Drunk Love, I’m supposed to buy copious amounts of pudding and then rendezvous with Emily Watson in Hawaii. Or I could go the Far From Heaven route, book a trip to sunny Miami with my doting wife (who doesn’t exist, but let’s not get hung up on details) and get cruised by a younger Truman Capote lookalike who will lure me out of the closet. The second option, I guess, sounds the most appealing, but what would I do with all the pudding?

Mondays Are Bullshit

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On December 22, 2008

In Uncategorized

And so are most Tuesdays and Wednesdays, come to think of it. Thursdays are different. Thursday is the most perfect of all the days of the week because it means Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday are over, but you still have Friday and Saturday and Sunday to look forward to. What’s not to like about that?

Looking forward to the weekend is, at least in my experience, sometimes better than the weekend itself. I blame this in part on The Cure, who carried on about Fridays with such unbridled enthusiasm that it makes my own Fridays seem anticlimactic in comparison, and on Jean-Luc Godard, who made me associate weekends with being captured by cannibalistic guerrillas in hippie garb.

In any case, I am now plunged headlong into three days of existential despair (and high melodrama, judging from my theatrics in this post) as I wait for Thursday, the Barack Obama of weekdays, to arrive, bringing with it the hope of a weekend that will probably suck anyway. If only I were an alcoholic or abused drugs, perhaps I’d be happier right now.

As Awards Season Begins, A Question

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On December 16, 2008

In Uncategorized

How did Holly Hunter win the Best Actress Oscar over Angela Bassett in 1993? It’s not that I’m surprised the Academy made the wrong decision, because the Academy makes the wrong decisions all the time. It’s more that I’m surprised they’d collectively risk pissing Bassett off. Because, well, look at those arms. One shot of her in a skimpy dress in What’s Love Got to Do With It tells the story, and the story is this: Angela Bassett is unlike Chuck Norris in that she’s a gifted actor, but very much like Chuck Norris in that she could kill you with her bare hands.

(And, frankly, I wouldn’t mind her killing me with her bare hands, but that’s a private matter I’d rather not discuss in front of any strangers who might find this while Googling some horrible combination of either Holly Hunter or Angela Bassett and “fucking” and Chuck Norris. The Internet is full of freaks, and I’ll have enough of those to contend with next week when I get together with my family for Hanukkah.)

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Reflections on the Death of an Old Queen

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On December 13, 2008

In Uncategorized

If the New York Times is going to pretend the newly dead actor Van Johnson was heterosexual, how can I believe what they write about anything else?

(As a bonus, here’s a link to an old magazine cover with Johnson looking not unlike Cynthia Nixon’s partner.)

No, No, Thanksgiving Didn’t Kill Me

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On December 5, 2008

In Uncategorized

For no reason whatsoever, Steve Martin and Bernadette Peters dancing in The Jerk.

Neither did an evil fetus, if you thought that was a possibility. I’ve just been busy lately, as everyone is this time of year, and unfortunately (or perhaps very fortunately, depending on how you look at it) it has kept me from posting all manner of nonsense here.

You can imagine the mental anguish this caused when, the week before last, I read that Miranda Richardson — who still hasn’t called me, I’m sad to report — apparently expressed her desire to play a Calamity Jane type role in a Western-themed hypothetical fifth season of Blackadder. (If you guessed my response was going to involve some kind of speculation that Richardson might have sung “Secret Love” to an audience of pillows in her bedroom once or twice during her formative years, you know me all too well.)

Or the way my fingers have itched to write, enthusiastically and at great length, horrible things about Mike Huckabee every time he opens his yap about “the gays” and violence and our terrible oppression of Christians and whatnot. (If you guessed my response was going to involve some kind of link to this photo of his family, you — well, you know the rest.) It has been exasperating to me that I haven’t had time for any of that.

Hopefully I’ll be back to making all of you roll your eyes and murmur, “Christ, what an idiot,” within the next few days. Until then, I leave you with one of the greatest clips in the history of movies. Nary a week goes by that I don’t find the opportunity to work “Is this the Cocksucker residence?” or “Listen to your filthy mouth, you fucking whore!” into a conversation. Preferably with my grandma.

Parades or Killer Fetuses, That is the Question

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On November 29, 2008

In '90s Films

Babies aren’t always so cute and cuddly.

The title of this post is, of course, a quote from Hamlet. I think the whole thing goes:

Parades or killer fetuses, that is the question;

Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The murderous unborn in films produced by Roger Corman,

Or to watch a giant inflatable Snoopy take over the streets of New York

Both are almost equally pointless, and will make you want to die, to sleep.

william crankspeare

(That last part might be off by a few words. It’s been a while since I last read Hamlet.)

Yesterday was Thanksgiving here in the United States, and it’s a day that’s always been “meh” for me, perhaps because I don’t like turkey or football — or maybe because I don’t need to be reminded to be thankful for all the good things in my life.

For me, Thanksgiving means there are marathons of horrible shows on cable all day and there’s no mail service. Is that really worth celebrating? Then there’s the family togetherness concept, which always sounds so warm and fuzzy in theory and ends up being more like a bad Fassbinder film in practice, but without the very things that make bad Fassbinder films bearable: English subtitles and sodomy. (Oh, and without the Hanna Schygulla. Can’t forget the Hanna Schygulla.)

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Everyone Loves Destructive Primates

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On November 21, 2008

In Uncategorized

Because I feel bad about not posting anything today (in addition to not posting anything of substance yesterday, or practically any day since starting this blog), here’s a picture of a monkey crashing a party in the old Warner Brothers comedy Lady Killer.

Isn’t that awesome? The movie, one of five starring James Cagney to be released in 1933, would be pretty humdrum if not for the monkeys gone wild scene (in which Cagney adds a little too much life to Margaret Lindsay’s birthday bash with the help of a barrelful of monkeys) and the blink-and-you-miss-it kiss a naughty Cagney plants on Mae Clarke’s breast.

Part of the problem is the lack of chemistry between Cagney and Lindsay, who’d have made a more believable pair as platonic friends whose heads were both turned by Clarke. What I’m trying to say — read this next part in the voice of that office slut character Cheri Oteri played on Saturday Night Live — what I’m trying to say is that Margaret Lindsay was a giant lesbian. Like Cagney and Lacey rolled into one, if you’re looking to quantify it. I’ll grant you she wore a dress better than Hope Emerson or Marjorie Main, but she couldn’t have seemed less interested in James Cagney in Lady Killer if he’d been wearing a giant sign that said “Get Your Herpes Here.”

They Call It the Dirty South for a Reason

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On November 14, 2008

In Uncategorized

Ever wondered what happened at Tara when all the men were off at war?

Do you ever find yourself sitting around wondering what it is that Atlanta-based lesbians do in bed? Yeah, me neither. (I assume they do what the rest of us do, except maybe the un-PC sports fans among them throw in a tomahawk chop or something.) But in 2005, sociologist Kathleen A. Dolan approached 162 women with the kind of probing personal questions that are usually only asked by Howard Stern, and for some reason I’m just hearing about it now, via this Southern Voice article by Laura Douglas-Brown.*

The statistic that really startled me would have to be the 21% of women who reported engaging in heterosexual intercourse within the last year. Call me old-fashioned, but I leave the sex with guys stuff up to gay men, just as God intended. Curiously, none of the lesbians interviewed by Dolan reported doing what I do in bed, which is read grisly Ruth Rendell novels and obsessively check my alarm clock to make sure it’s properly set (which isn’t really necessary since I wake up before the alarm goes off anyway, but try telling my OCD that). Maybe those activities are unpopular with the lesbians of Atlanta because they don’t call for any man-penis…

* Those of you who worry about clicking the wrong link at work should know that the article is accompanied by a large photo of a lesbian liplock. Far more troubling than that, in my opinion, and even more distracting than the unusually large earrings both women are wearing, would have to be the ads for a Hilary Duff Greatest Hits CD that are plastered all over the website. I’m hoping it’s 12 tracks of silence, but that seems unlikely.

Your Weekly Dose of Jodie Marsh

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On November 13, 2008

In Uncategorized

She’s baaack…

It’s been almost a week since I last mentioned Jodie Marsh (whose lesbionic backstory you can read about here), and I think we’d all agree that’s been almost a week too long. Just as you can never have enough hats, gloves and shoes, you can never have enough news about Britain’s favorite attention-seeking clown hooker.

With that in mind, I point you in the direction of Dlisted, the brainchild of the gayelle-crazed homosexual Michael K (not to be confused with Gregory K, the kid who divorced his parents, or Kafka’s Josef K — I’m not sure how either Gregory or Josef would feel about Michael’s one true love, the celebrated lesbian folk hero Rojo Caliente), and its recap (complete with image gallery) of Jodie lezzing out for photographers the other night with her girlfriend Nina.

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Update: I’m At Least a Little Gay

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On November 13, 2008

In Uncategorized

Where’s the softball player?

In response to this bit of teeth-gnashing earlier in the week, I was pointed in the direction of Channel 4’s amusing Gay-O-Meter, which — drum roll, please — tells me I’m 33% gay and even refers to me as “straight acting.”

That, my friends (sorry, I’m still having John McCain flashbacks), is poppycock. It is categorically false. It is untrue and inaccurate. I’m running out of words here, but rest assured that I’m half-tempted to have Bert Fields send the Gay-O-Meter a letter that’s heavy on mentions of defamation and retractions and public apologies. If necessary, I could produce a sworn written statement from my aunt, who claims she knew I was gay by the time I was a toddler. (And she knows from these things, having once been a gay toddler herself.)

While I liked the Gay-O-Meter quiz, I couldn’t help but feel I’d been penalized for not having tattoos, not being handy with a wrench, never having worn leather pants, and being non-violent. So I retook the test, changing my answers to those questions, and suddenly I was 17% gayer. But does that really make sense? Since when are lesbians members of the Village People?

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