For Those Who Would

Today brings the news that Connecticut will wed our kind. We don't know that they're given to outbursts of any kind in Connecticut. Our general impression has been that Connecticut is where New Yorkers go to avoid outbursts. But there will be many private, subdued expressions of mitigated, muted joy among Connecticutians who can finally and fatally bind themselves to someone else through better, through health, through richer, to have and to hold until wandering eye they do part. Good on them.

It's a minor salve to a major wound inflicted in California, Arizona and Florida. But if we're honest, from the confines of the good chair, it doesn't directly affect us anymore than Charmin's appearance on Russian market shelves did. We are not, as they say, "husband material". We are to marriage what those infuriating lookie-loos are to Bergdorf Goodman. We look like we might take something home, but we generally don't.

Not for lack of trying. In fact, it's the trying that has proved so trying that we no longer Bergdorf for a Good Man. We J.C. Penney for the low-hanging, quickly-passing fruit. We eat the part we want and throw the peel away - once a year or so. Our relationship disasters are Item #1 on Things That Make Us Laugh in that old gang of mine. The tragi-comic serial failures of our attempts at lasting union are the stuff of bad novels.

There's the one who wasn't really that gay.
The one who already had a keeper, though this was kept a secret.
The one who punched when he got drunk.
The one who kissed us goodbye - for good - in a hospital.
The one who admitted that he'd only been on a virgin hunt. Mission accomplished. And goodbye.

So we have no dog in the Gay marriage hunt - regardless of the state. It's a little like being banned from NASCAR races. We hope to never attend one. But it would piss us off to be told we couldn't. So we sympathize with those who really, really want to tie the(mselves in a) knot. And on some level we're a little jealous of those who have a partner at the precipice of wedded bliss(ful ignorance). We don't. We most likely would. But we don't.

So we cheer and cry for those who can and those who can't. Mostly, though, we cast our lot with the other bunch...

The ones who would.

Death Becomes Her: 2012 in Preview

This is After Therapy's first-ever political endorsement and letter to Santa Claus all in one: We would like to see Sarah Palin run for President as a Republican in 2012. There, we said it.

Since we have dedicated ourselves to the death of conservatism as practiced by Ronald Reagan and his ideological heirs, we can think of no one more capable of driving a wooden stake through the heart of the party than Governor Of A State With Less People Than Memphis, Sarah Palin.

We want the Republicans to run someone who has to defend whether or not she knows a country from a continent. We're jazzed about running against someone who spends weeks talking about who did or didn't want the fancy clothes. Bottom line: We didn't think they could do any worse than George W. Bush. And we were wrong. That well is deeper than we'd imagined.

Yes, we think Todd Palin is hotter than asphalt in a Tulsa summer, but that's in the second tier of reasons we support Gov. Palin for the Last Candidate Ever Nominated By The Republican Party. Mostly, we think that lengthy political campaigns should give us something to laugh at. And she fits the bill to a "T". What's better... A wide swath of conservatives thinks she's capable of being Leader of the Free World. We love it when movements implode under the weight of their own stupidity. This is like Christmas and losing your virginity all in one.


We also want to go on record as saying that while we think he won't - because he's greedy and unprincipled under that shiny, principled, I-Don't-Campaign-On-The-Sabbath veneer - Joe Lieberman should leave the Democratic caucus of his own accord and wallow in the oblivion he's earned. His last months in the Senate should be among his friends, not among the powerful Democratic majority on which he turned his back twice: When he said he wouldn't run if he lost in the primary and when he inexplicably campaigned against Barack Obama. The message to Lieberman: Keep facing that direction and remember all the good times on the Homeland Security Committee.

We are given to gloat around here. And we are given to grudges. Sarah, meet Joe. Joe... Sarah.

God, this is going to be fun.

This is Going To Get Ugly

Because we're Liberals and the only way we know to celebrate success is to eat our young, we will doubtless seize this opportunity to start a long, public battle royale among the Identity Factions. Black and Latino voters who voted by wide margins to nullify the marriages of 18,000 Californians have thrown down the gauntlet at Gay voters who voted by wider margins to elect the first African-American president.

Not that anyone's counting.

Don't think for a moment that this will be a flash-in-the-pan dust-up. This is the stuff of movements. While a majority of white voters supported Gay marriage - and Barack Obama - the Black community, especially, used the same rationale as its old white oppressors (Religion) to kick the Gay community in the balls.

If we know Gay folks like we think we know Gay folks, this ain't over.

There will be lots of calls to make nice and enjoy the Obama delirium. For a minute. But then we're going to need a long conversation about who's supporting whom...

And why not?

Joy Comes In The Morning

We got a little exorcised this morning over our Co' Cola and Pringles while reading the morning (Kansas City Star) paper. It was at the end of our morning routine - Sports, Front Page, Editorials - that we saw this bottom-of-the-page and bottom-of-the-barrel cartoon inside our own home.

Bein' as we're not morning people and our sinuses go haywire this time of year, we sat down and had us a one-sided chat via e-mail with the Vice-President, Editorial Page of The Kansas City Star, one Ms. Miriam Pepper (mpepper@kcstar.com). We then copied our mild thoughts to every single member of the editorial staff. No need for you to be left in the dark...

Miriam,

This is not for publication, it is simply a personal note.

I want to commend you and your staff for the enjoyable read pertaining to so many of today's issues. I was riveted by the feelings for/against/ and ambivalent toward President-Elect Obama. I was, as usual, amused by the incisive wit of Lee Judge's Funkhouser/Squitiro send-up. Then I saw the Steve Breen cartoon that you made the decision to include: "Fuzzy Math".

You made a bigoted, mean-spirited, factually incorrect statement in your Opinion section. As a native here, I understand when street people do it. I don't understand why you made it. Has some gay or lesbian person harmed you in your life to such an extent that you would posit all gay relationships to be factually incorrect? The graphic points out incorrect sums of two numbers. We are to believe that YOU believe that two people of the same gender in a marriage is an incorrect outcome.

I am above taking the bait to comment on your marriage, of which I know nothing. It would speak well of your education and position if you did the same. The logical conclusion from the graphic YOU chose to run is that marriage consists solely of chromosomal variety. You know better than that. Whether you threw a bone to your ignorant subscribers or just needed to throw a haymaker at the last acceptable target for ridicule and diminution, you hit your mark.

You're likely not talented enough to create your own graphic, but as Editor of this section, you may as well have created this one. We get that you don't embrace us. We get that you think our relationships are fodder for mockery and contempt. We get that you experience some internal, reflexive revulsion at the notion of us. You're entitled to all that. And we don't need your embrace, approval or support.

But if I'm going to get your thumb in my eye every time you bubble over in your hatred and use someone else to yell, "YOU'RE AN INCORRECT, ABSURD BEING!", then I will consign you and your paper to the collection of influences not permitted in my home. If you're going to suggest to my family and I that we are absurd enough to be on a par with 1 + 1 = 7, then I'm going to be bold enough to say,

Fuck you and your newspaper. Who needs either of you?

Rough language? That's what we thought when we read, "Fuzzy Math". Welcome to the club.

--The After Therapy Gang

Things We Need To Discuss

Exit polls for The Associated Press found that Proposition 8 (California's constitutional revision banning gay marriage) received critical support from black voters who flocked to the polls to support Barack Obama for president.


Nice.

We Couldn't Help It...

In one last jab at Democrats, Sarah Palin empties the underbelly of her campaign plane.... all over Michelle Obama, apparently. We get the whole Dress Matches Kids motif. Now don't do that anymore.

The very fabulous Mrs. Obama may be the only person on the planet who could halt dress designer Narciso Rodriguez's career with ten minutes of stage time. We prefer the Michelle who admits to ordering dresses online.

One For The Others

Dear Y'all,

You've run everything but the NAACP, GLAAD, and several reservations in the Midwest since your great-greats stepped off the right kind of boat in the 15th Century. You'd do well to show a little humility in the weeks and months to come while we indulge our urge to gloat a little and to thank your Jesus that one of us made it.

No, we at After Therapy are not African-American, but we are equally Other. We stand on the outside of society and look in at folks who have things we aren't allowed to touch and that we should refrain from wanting. We sit outside hospital rooms while our partner's family makes decisions as though we hadn't shared twenty-some years with the man in the bed. We tend to weddings - hair, makeup, flowers, gowns, music, cakes, catering, decorating and planning - like the house niggers of old who worked in houses they could never own. We know that every day on the job could be our last because of who we love - or who we'd like to love. And in a majority of our nation, there is no legal recourse for it.

We can be laughingly denied an apartment, a job, public accommodations and simple dignity because our nature defies the norm. And our only recourse is to pack a briefcase full of cover stories. As the First Lady-To-Be said during primary season, "People who love you tell you... wait..."And we got it. Because we've been lovingly urged to wait on things that most folks are born into.

Barack Obama's election is one for the Others and those tired of waiting. History will report whether our brand of Other was bettered by his service. But we understand this moment intuitively. Like we understood Judy Garland, Harvey Milk and Cher. It's a DNA thing.

It will be a moment for the memory book when, in January, we can look through the White House windows and see an Other looking back with that million-watt smile. "Wait" gives way to "Next!".

Get This Woman Some Choos

Joe Six-Pack, meet Sarah Six-Figures. Comes of late the word that the RNC (Really Nice Clothes) has spent north of $150,000 on nice duds for their VP (Very Pretty) Candidate, Sarah Palin. We say, "Well done!" But why stop there?

We noticed Cindy McCain trying to fight her way through a Botoxed facial coma to raise an eyebrow at the expenditures. "$150,000? Didn't they get her any shoes?" she seemed to ask. We applaud the bald revealing of conservative family values: Mother of 5? Spend $150,000 on your power suits while sneering at middle-class tax cuts as "socialism". Somewhere, Imelda Marcos is smiling. And buying shoes.

We are pleased that the RNC is investing in lipstick for their pig of a campaign as opposed to spending money running ads for embattled candidates like Michele Bachmann (MN), notoriously anti-gay Marilyn Musgrave (CO) and Norm Coleman, who, it appears, will lose to Al Franken/Stuart Smalley (also of MN) - a political death of biblical proportions. The quandary at NBC is who will play Franken while Franken plays Senator.

We encourage the RNC to continue the expenditures by upping the fashion ante. We highly recommend Hugo Boss, Chanel, Gucci, Prada and Vera Wang all be beneficiaries of this Republican stimulus package.

After all, in 2006, the joint income of the parents-of-four only reached $128,000 - not beating the RNC VP wardrobe budget until 2007 thanks to her governor's salary ($166,000). We believe that if you ask any family of 7 what would benefit them most, all but the Anti-Americans would say "Buy mama $150,000 in new clothes!"

It would have been cheaper to put her in a t-shirt that reads "Let Them Eat Cake".

Divide And Conk Her

(First, the obligatory mea culpa: I haven't blogged this year because, well, I was bored with it. And I rediscovered my (volunteer) theatre career. Two shows behind me and one ahead of me leaves me in a window of opportunity to finally comment via blog on current events. Thank you to both readers for prompting me to pay more attention to this medium. Now the good stuff...)

We are blogging this afternoon from an undisclosed location to protect ourselves from Rep. Michele Bachmann (R-MN), a Real Pro-America American who has called out the dogs on the rest of us. And yes, Mr. Limbaugh, this is all about race. As a white man, we are particularly embarrassed and incensed by the actions of white folks on the deteriorating right wing of society. So grab an Oxycontin and prepare to be - as we say in gay lingo - re-butted.

Bachmann, the temporary freshman Congresswoman from Minnesota's 6th District, told MSNBC's Chris Matthews that an investigation of Congress would be welcomed by the American people to separate the Pro-Americans and Anti-Americans. We couldn't agree more. We're even willing to dust off our law degree to assist.

We'd like to separate out the Anti-Americans in Congress who believe it's good practice and policy to divide people based on race, religion, gender, political leanings and sexual orientation. We'd like to weed out the Anti-Americans in the media who think it's acceptable to spew racist nonsense at people whose worst mistakes have been to shill for the Bush Administration (no small mistakes, those). And we'd like to cull out the Anti-Americans who can smile pretty and call fellow Americans "Anti-American".

As we paraphrase in Chickopee, "There ain't but two kinds of people in the world: Them what thinks there's only two kinds of people and them what don't." Until the McCarthy/Palin ticket recognizes this simple wisdom and adjusts its actions accordingly, we in Chickopee will be bunkered under where the Amoco station used to be. Unless you're from here, you won't know where to find us. We have a radio, though. We'll be doing Anti-American things like praying that America will elect its first African-American President and, in a single, profound moment, do much to heal history's racial wound. We'll be donating to El Tinklenberg, running against Michele Bachmann. And we'll be pondering just how much Joe Lieberman got in exchange for his soul.

And we'll be reconciling our own visceral inclinations with what we know of Bill Ayers. We know it's probably wrong, but we're beginning to understand the atmosphere in which the Weather Underground operated. Four decades later, in a time dominated by Anti-American divisions among racial, class and gender boundaries, we are beginning to understand the urge to blow shit to pieces. In a hopefully temporary time when help for the hurting is "socialism", endorsing someone who shares your race is "racism", and disagreeing with the lunatic right is Anti-American, we choose to identify as Anti-American and do not wish to be mistaken for one of those who capitulate to the politics of divide and conquer.

We may again be Real Americans on November 5.

Dearest Elfie...

Less than a few hours into my new gig at After Therapy, I get this bullshit in my inbox:

In my worldwide search for the perfect husband, I have come up empty. Please help!

Signed,

Hopeless romantic

Dear Hopeless in Hell's Kitchen,

Let Elfie break it down for you - old school. First of all, if you got enough scratch to be going around the world looking for dick, Elfie has some news for you: You are already better off than the rest of us. We've been going around town looking for a 4" grinder attachment to some Craftsman tool that our father-in-law "needs" for Christmas. At $2.69 a gallon, this is already not worth the effort. But "WORLDWIDE"? Child, you are committed if nothing else.

And apparently richer than a whore with two vaginae. Kwitcherbitchin'.

Second, you're looking for the "perfect husband"? Girl, please. The perfect husband is what we call a "late" husband who had a healthy estate and left it all to us. You do not need to search the world over for that kind of husband. You just have to be nice to old men. And by "nice" we mean "putting out". If you don't have scarring mental images of the things you've done for a spot in the Last Will and Testament, you're not really working very hard at it. Put elsewise, as our editor would say, if you're looking for a LIVING perfect husband, you are looking amiss.

Come up empty? EMPTY? You went around the world and consider that you came up empty? Honey, if Elfie can get a man to lick her around the world, she feels fulfilled. You need to lower your standards. A man of your means needs to stay a little closer to home, shop at a different store, and learn to be happy with what life sends your way. If all that money is bringin' you down, you can send it to Elfie c/o After Therapy, Inc. I have sent you the full address in a private e-mail.

Best of luck on your worldwide travels, but while you're in Rome next time, try spending less time man-hunting and more time shopping. You may have found some imperfect men, but there is no such thing as the imperfect cashmere sweater.

We simply need to recognize perfection where we find it.

Air Kisses,

Elfie

Taking A Partner

We've toiled alone for lo these many years at After Therapy and finally admit that we are too damned lazy to do it alone anymore. So we're branching out. Hell, even Arianna Huffington can't man her own post full time.

We introduce you to our newest (and only) contributor, Elphabah Hermberg. She initially thought it would be cute to go by "'Bah Hermberg", but we nixed that on account of our respect for Christmas and our office's location in the Bible Belt. You piss these people off and they shoot you in your kitchen or blow up your clinic office.

We'll keep it simple: "Dearest Elfie..." Think of her as Dear Abby without the class. Ann Landers with a more pronounced lisp. Heloise - only not nearly as helpful. She's a social expert, of sorts. She'll take your societal dilemmas and spin them into bytes of advice that you could never repeat to your mother.

We'll add a picture of her as soon as we can convince her that eyeliner is not of the devil and that a little foundation covers a multitude of sins.

Until then... Watch this space for her occasional contributions.

Elfie can be contacted at DearestElfie@aol.com

Soviet Bitch

Received a rambling email - complete with photography - from the Hell's Kitchen Agent just the other night. It was a picture of him with a low-level employee of some magazine or another - complete with empty implied promises of shilling my promising work to another publication. Good thing I have his ass on commission or I'd be broke from paying for all the empty promises.

I now truly believe he goes to these things solely for the booze and toast points.

The email concluded with the threat of a drunk dial before 10 p.m. I hastened to the answering machine to turn it off and instead recorded this:

"This machine has been installed with an alcohol detection device. You are over the legal limit. Please call back after a cup of coffee."

True to his threat, the phone rang minutes later and the message sounded like Portuguese, which sounds like Spanish with marbles in your mouth - only mixed with copious amounts of very dry martinis. The only part I thought I picked up was the name-calling. I could swear he'd called me a "Soviet Bitch". I replayed it twice because I have one very bad ear and thought it must surely have been "Sonofabitch". But I clearly heard an extra "t".

It was "Soviet Bitch". I couldn't fathom such a thing. Did this make me the kind of bitch who would stand in line for toilet paper? I admit that in a crisis I could do such a thing. Or did it make me the kind of bitch who would crush small Balkan states in the interest of world domination? That, too, sounded in character for me. I concluded that some truth does, in fact, come through the haze of alcohol and horrendous taste in men. I am a Soviet Bitch.

I rushed down to the t-shirt shop to have one made in my new size. I bought a custom bumper sticker and had 2 dozen generic Christmas balls stamped "Soviet Bitch" for the tree. Who needs a New Year's resolution when you have a new name? And one NOBODY else can claim at that!!

So from our bitchy Soviet house to yours.... Happy Holidays and power to the proletariat.

These Things Never Happen To Us

"Nude New Zealander Arrested After Responding to Fake Sexy Text Message" - This is a real headline. Seems two broads duped an anxious chap into disrobing and showing up for a romp - at the wrong address. All were charged, none were prosecuted. We resist the urge to cite "lack of evidence" against the gentleman.

We also note that in 43 years of opening doors - never once has there been a naked man there.

"I'm making up this song, it was a dream I had, What do you think:

'I hope you're happy. I hope you're happy now.

I hope you're happy how you hurt your cause forever.

I hope you think you're clever. I hope YOU'RE happy.

I hope you're happy too.

I hope you're proud how you would grovel in submission, to feed your own ambition.

Somehow I can't imagine how.

I hope you're happy right now. ... '"

We think somebody's not happy! We also think this is how you know that your Hell's Kitchen Agent/Architect/Elder Chaser/Songwriter has run out of vodka and Aqua Velva. Calling Kitty Dukakis!

"In Germany, the last ornament that is put on the tree is a glass pickle, which is hidden in the branches. On Christmas morning, the first child who finds the pickle ornament receives an extra present."

Funny. We never got to play Hide The Pickle at our house on any of the good holidays. Leave it to the Nazis to think of the fun stuff.

Eenie Meenie Miney Mo

Yes, I realize that rhyme will get you kicked off a Southwest flight. But you know full well I'm not talkin' about black folks. Well, not exclusively....

I was a -ponderin' today about who I'd vote for if I were to go a-caucasin' with the folks in Iowa, where once I lived. The last time, I happily moved to the corner of the high school classroom in Council Bluffs that indicated my preference for Clinton - the male version. Since I'm a hair talkative, I also got elected by my little room to go to the State Democratic Convention and cast my vote for the man. They confirmed me in the auditorium later that day after I'd excoriated a Democratic State Representative over lunch for voting against gay rights to save her ample ass in the upcoming election.

Back to the future.... I admit to being in a quandary still. I pledged my undying love to John Edwards 4 years ago. He touched my hand. With his sweaty hand. I almost fainted. He has amazingly attractive secret service people - right out of the International Male Catalogue. He just isn't turning my head this time, though. Maybe it's his insistence on heterosexuality or my short attention span.

Hillary has always seemed like the Good Democratic Thing To Do. I also believe she could singlehandedly castrate any Republican she wanted. And by singlehandedly, I mean with one hand. By castrate, I mean cut their balls off. Then again, Barack Obama has never said anything to make me doubt that he'd be a perfectly delightful man to turn the White House a little more beige. I have a feeling Mama Obama could have some throw-down state dinners, too. I know she's a refined, educated woman, but wouldn't it be wonderful to have a first-lady capable of pulling "Oh no you di-in't" out of her repertoire when Ahmadinejad utters one of his unspeakables?

The only candidate who has promised to "let" me get married is Dennis Kucinich, who is, ironically, the only candidate I wouldn't invite to my wedding. (Vegetarians: Don't get me started. They fart like a cow with colitis.)

So to all my Iowa friends - both of you. I say, "Vote your conscience. And remember - nobody will remember what you did after South Carolina, so don't take it too seriously."

(Next time: Why the "H" in Jesus H. Christ just may stand for Huckabee.)

Love your hair, hope you win....

First Snow!

Ahhhh.... The little house on the prairie has its first snow of the season today. Those of us who practice denial like a religion appreciate the symbolism most. Covering over the things you don't like until the heat comes in and reveals your crap is a beautiful respite from reality.

And speaking of reality....

Our Hell's Kitchen Agent reports that in a haze of vodka and house music, he fell in love with a much younger version of himself. Our agent is in his late-mid-40's. That's gay-speak for damn-near 50. Upon further investigation, the much younger man was revealed to be in his mid-50's. Yours truly has teeth marks in his tongue from not noting the obvious: When the nearly-60 crowd starts to look like chicken....

The little dancing boy who is knocking on Social Security's door is also a Buddhist. Nee Rosenberg. That's right. Our Buddhist is a Jewddhist. Not that there's anything wrong with that. In fact, we're a little giddy at the prospect that our chicken-chasing agent has fallen head over gefiltefish for an aged Hebrew with a penchant for chanting to fat guys. During Channukah. Tell me that won't get you through a cold winter's worth of writing.

We went on a pseudo-date with an old friend (though, to be clear, not as old as our agent's date - by a decade-plus). We saw the Kansas City Plaza Lights display and ate at what we believed to be George Brett's restaurant. It said "George Brett" on the outside. The walls were display cases with his baseball memorabilia from the 70's and 80's. The staff wore shirts that said "George Brett". The menu said "Brett's". The featured beer stuck in the salt and pepper caddy said "George's Ale". Our waitress took our drink order and I asked - in my star-struck way - "Is Mr. Brett in the building?" She curled her 19 year-old lip into a sneer and snarled "He's no longer involved with the restaurant. It's called '210' now."

"Somebody should tell your shirt," my pseudo-date said. This is a man I could love. We've been wondering around the office if it's telling that he's called twice since Saturday night. Once was today to inform me that it's snowing in my yard - 70 miles from his yard. Never having fallen for a nice guy, we wonder if this is how such things go.

Time will tell if it's a happy accident.

Or a simple snow-job.

You're So Far Away...

Doesn't anybody stay in one place anymore? OY! After 3 months of bacterial assault (most of which is not fit for printing - but we're gonna...), we have returned to the little black keys to resume our on-again, off-again documentary exhibitionism to the delight of literally dozens.



Au moment, we seem to have pneumonia. C'est vrai, PNEUMONIA! Trouble breathing? Nope. Odd-colored sputum? Nope. Raspy chest sounds? Nope.



In fact, today is day 101 of Not Smoking! (Not even a cheater puff here or there.)



Some weeks ago, we were carted off to the Nephrologist (read: Kidney Doctor) for a battery of procedures. This included storing our urine in the refrigerator next to the milk for 24 hours. One morning, we awoke to see a note taped to the outside of the fridge:



"Dear Editor,



The new neighbors are pure filth.

I think they peed on something.

Evict them or I'm outta here.



Respectfully,

Milk"



It is a fact of the universe that if you must collect urine to be stored near your food, your urine will instantly become 12 times more pungent than usual. We had a Doppler Scan and discovered we have no approaching thunder storms in our midsection. We had a Sonogram and discovered that we are not with-child. And we provided a urine "chaser" at the doc's office for a culture.



In the end, all came back normal except for the culture which showed we had been invaded by an insidious organism called "Blahdiblahdiblah PNEUMONIAE". Google ran right out and got us a definition with which we could work and - sure enough - we had the big P. Curiously enough, we did not have the lung version of pneumonia. We had a urinary tract pneumonia.

Which explains why we haven't been breathing very well through the penis.

The months away from you, my lovelings, have been due to all manner of upheaval and an artistic recharging of the batteries. The Editor-in-Chief accidentally deleted the entire blog in a fit of Klonopin, Vicodin and marijuana Dr. Pepper. Now, it has miraculously reappeared in all its maudlin, lower-level glory.

As our penis recovers from its breathing problems, we commit to posting as often as the spirit moves us. You should know that the down-time allowed for a complete remodel of the loo at our headquarters and the installation of some nouvelle lighting in the kitchen, as well.

We also took a little time off to nurture a teen-age crush on a man young enough to be our.... neighbor. (See above photo) The music may be a little hard on our nerves, but the young man is perfectly edible: Pierre Bouvier of the kiddy band "Simple Plan". It's a fixation of inappropriate intensity. But there you go.

Until next time, porkie pies!

And Now For Something Completely Different...

Drew Carey will be the new host of the Price Is Right. We're fairly certain that this was precisely the career move Carey had in mind when he filmed the documentary "Fuck" recently. Coupled with his astonishingly crude turn in the documentary "The Aristocrats", which celebrates a joke laden with sodomy, incest, and every illegal sex act imaginable, Carey must have been atop the list of Bob Barker replacements.

We are currently interviewing flies on the wall of the ladies' dressing rooms at The Price Is Right to see if Barker's Beauties are contemplating becoming Carey's Coozes. Our guess is that they're drawing up lawsuits and restraining orders for sexual harassment to save time later on. Carey is well known for his cavorting in public with hookers, exotic dancers and women of extraordinary disrepute. Our friend in Chicago who ran the restaurant across from Oprah's studio recounts several descents into debauchery by Mr. Carey and his cabal of well-paid groupies. Chalk one up for fat guys with glasses.

We wonder how long Mr. Carey's ironic jabs at the common man will play on the beloved game show before the core audience realizes that they're the butt of a running joke. Replacing Barker's daily appeal for spaying and neutering house pets will likely be an appeal by the Beauties to have Carey undergo similar alteration. CBS turned up its nose at a number of has-beens, will-be's, and might-have-beens to select Carey as the face of the venerable home of Plinko and other pricing games. Drew Carey and the price of Rice-a-Roni just don't seem like a match made in Studio City heaven. Time will tell.

Can Carey continue delivering dick jokes and hooker riffs at comedy clubs while filming The Price Is Right? Can he stay out of the bar with his entourage of women who disrobe for a living? We think probably not. Neither do we believe that Carey can re-create the rapport Barker has with the critical 60-plus demographic for the show. His teen-age boy sense of humor coupled with his Gentlemen's Club values seem antithetical to the show Barker raised to the heights of TV history.

Where Barker fended off sexual impropriety claims by virtue of his charm, age, and public perception, Carey seems unlikely to survive similar circumstances - or avoid them. Take away his adult vocabulary and Drew is just a nerdy guy with glasses and a few good lines which should wear thin over five shows a week. An over-the-hill star would have been a far better fit for the over-the-hill show that appeals to over-the-hill viewers who really, really know how much a Lane recliner costs and whether toothpaste costs more than shampoo. It would have been a fitting farewell for George Hamilton, a permanent pre-retirement gig for Donny Osmond, and a decent rehab-gig for Rosie O'Donnell.

Instead, we'll watch the snarky, condescending and not-just-a-little lecherous Carey try to fill Barker's shoes with something other than Gin. We predict this experiment has two seasons before everyone tries to save face - and the venerable show.

Vegas Blue is a fitting hair color for the Price Is Right constituency. It's not a fitting comedy style. Chalk this up to another CBS disaster.

Once More...With A Twist

Tammy Faye made it back to church one last time at the end. She may have been only as much ash as 65 pounds of woman can make, but true to form, she handled the accessories as only she could.

At Tammy Faye's request, the service was conducted by the pastor of a gay church in Arkansas (one we are now committed to finding). Pastor Randy McCain, of Open Door Church in Sherwood, Arkansas did the honors. It seems that the original religious programmer didn't miss one last chance to produce a show with a message. "My friend, Randy McCain", she said in her final instructions concerning her burial. We wonder if the public memorial will be produced with an eye to the masses who would shrink from such an overt embrace of gay Christians. If so, we expect Tammy will be spinning in her urn somewhere.

It's said the smallest acts of kindness are the ones that change the world - if not on a grand scale, then for someone. As a gay person, it is humbling that Tammy Faye thought about me in some abstract way as she choreographed her final moments on life's stage. It's a gesture like this that can end up being a defining moment in a culture shift. It's not up there with the Freedom Riders or the Stonewall Riots or the Garbage Worker Strikes, but it's of note. And we thank Tammy's children for staying true to their mama's wishes. They didn't have to do that.

We've long maintained that if circumstances alter your theology, you probably need a new theology. Tammy Faye confirmed for us that there is a right and wrong way to embrace religious faith. The wrong use of it was as a bludgeon, she demonstrated. The right way was as a self-directing force that didn't waiver as the road became rocky - or perilous - or clearly ending in cruel demise. "God on the mountain...God in the valley", an old song says. All in or all out. Go big or go home.

They could have scrubbed Mama's legacy clean by picking any one of dozens of big-name, mainstream preachers to honor the original Queen of Christian TV. Tammy, herself, could have phoned in a final interview that was only hours before her death, given her appearance and physical pain. It seems she passed on some values of integrity, compassion, and steadfastness to her kids who have reason to hold their heads high when the mourning is over.

We note for contrast that the Very Dead Rev. Falwell was associated even at his funeral with the demonizing of Gay and Lesbian people - and anyone who disagreed with his theopolitical posture. Grace is something you just can't teach, we conclude. You've either received it and have it to give. Or you don't.

We're a little less without the laughing that she inspired. We're a little heavier without the optimism that she took with her. And we wonder if we'll have another prominent Christian who will hug HIV-positive people at Gay Bingo Night any time soon. Regardless, we look forward to shaking her tiny hand at the big Y'all Come in the sky someday.

Just to say, "Thanks!", if nothing else.

Getting Ahead Of The Story

Confession: Once a Pentecostal, always a Pentecostal. You can become a boozehound, a hooker, an axe murderer or John Ashcroft, but when le jeu s'en fait, you'll be a Pentecostal first. Because of this, we have an enduring soft spot for that spectacle di tutti spectacles: Tammy Faye.

As a child, we were transfixed by her heart-rending daily appeals on TV. We knew ladies who cried in church at the drop of a hat, so watching Tammy's makeup run down her face was not unusual. That's what ladies did. Sure, she was a lot more tarted up than Grandma would have recommended, but her theology was spot-on where we were concerned. Her singing was an acquired taste - but her enthusiasm and sincerity were unmistakable. Tammy Faye was O.K.

When everything went south, it was her weaselly husband we blamed. Tammy Faye was as much a victim as everybody else when PTL became SOL. We winced when she divorced the bum, because we just don't do things like that. Then again, we like to think we don't embezzle and commit wire fraud or whatever the hell else he did. We also like to think our husbands wouldn't do Jessica Hahn. Apocalyptic leanings notwithstanding, we tend to be an optimistic lot.

We watched as Tammy Faye started over with Roe Messner, a builder from our own backyard (almost literally). We whispered about whether there was something afoot before it became official, but nobody could bring himself to say aloud that they thought Tammy Faye might have had her eye on another option pre-divorce. We bought a t-shirt splotched with colors in an abstract smiley face design: "I Ran Into Tammy Faye At The Mall." We wore it only a few times, guiltily, and retired it. Taking a swing at Tammy Faye was like running over kittens with a lawnmower. You could do it. It just wasn't very satisfying and she really hadn't earned it.

Years later, we thrilled to the documentary "The Eyes Of Tammy Faye", when she defied convention and embraced gay folks for who they are - theology be damned. Without giving away who she was and what she believed, Tammy threw the door wide open for us to join her in faith. She put a heavily pancaked face on "Judge Not Lest Ye Be Judged". She made it OK to be nice to gay and lesbian people if you identified as a Christian. And she made it OK to identify as a Christian if you were gay. For this, we will always be grateful to Tammy Faye. And we won't speak ill of her in life or her death - God forbid.

We watched her on Larry King and thought that she must have given a lot of thought to going on camera. Here was a woman who had made her name on her appearance - whether you liked it or not. When she had tipped her hat to ridicule, she still refused to soften the eyeliner, take off the lashes, or lighten the rouge. Now, at 65 pounds and only barely alive, she painted what was left and held herself remarkably upright to reveal the most intimate details of her demise. We thought her to be a woman of incredible integrity: Having made her bones and her money in front of the camera, she wouldn't retreat from it at the end. Live by the pixel, die by the pixel.

It would be a wonderful affirmation of everything we, as Pentecostals, believe if Tammy Faye were to be "raised up" from her bed of affliction and kick cancer. If she isn't raised up, we'll be among the legions who remember her fondly. We hope to be as gracious at our own end as she is in hers. Here is this excerpt from her Web site's front page:

"Dear Friends,

It has been such a long time since I've written and I am so sorry for the long delay. I have been in bed for almost a year now. I have times when I feel good and times when I feel really bad. But, I have learned one thing about feelings. They have NOTHING TO DO WITH FAITH IN GOD!! He is the same yesterday, today and forever. He NEVER changes. That is what the Bible says and God's word does not lie EVER!

...I ask in great humbleness that you pray that I will be able to eat without it coming back up. I crave hamburgers and french fries with LOTS of ketchup! When I can eat that again, it will be a day of victory!

In closing, I want you to know that I am praying for you and your loved ones and I am believing God for complete healing. God is a healer of EVERYTHING!

I will let you know when I get to eat my hamburger! HA!

Love,
Tammy Faye"

God Bless. 'Nuff said.

The Case For Gay Parenting

"Social science on this matter is conclusive: Children need both a
mom and a dad. Study after study has shown that children do best in a home with
a married, biological mother and father." -- Sen. Sam Brownback (R-KS),
Presidential Candidate, "Defining Marriage Down", 7/9/04, National Review Online

"A judge on Wednesday ordered seven young children removed from their home after authorities discovered it was infested with rats and filled with garbage, including stacks of dirty diapers nearly 4 feet high in closets.

"Authorities went to the dilapidated house after Gloria Ramirez called a funeral home seeking a casket for the stillborn, 4-month-old fetus she had delivered in the bathtub with help from her oldest child, a 9-year-old girl. The fetus was found in a baby wipe box in the refrigerator, according to court documents.

"...Anthony Moya, the 40-year-old father of the six younger children, has been charged with seven counts of child endangerment, and the same charges were expected to be filed against Ramirez next week...- 7/19/07(AP) Betsy Blaine, Lubbock, TX"

"And I believe children can receive love from gay couples, but the ideal is -- and studies have shown that the ideal is where a child is raised in a married family with a man and a woman. - George W. Bush"

"Plattsmouth (Nebraska) Police Chief Brian Paulsen said that James Cook, 6, died Monday night while playing a game of hide-and-seek with his 9-year-old sister. The boy crawled into an old microwave and suffocated to death when he couldn't get out, the chief said.

"Cook's family members told Omaha, Neb., TV station KETV that they had piled a pickup truck full of items they planned to take to the dump on Saturday..."

"I supported the federal effort for traditional marriage, defining marriage as a relationship between a man and woman,'' because "one of the major purposes of marriage is the nurturing and development of children. -- Mitt Romney, Republican Presidential Candidate (S.F. Chronicle, Carla Marinucci, 3/17/07''

"(AP) Rochester, Minn. A Mankato, Minn. couple was accused Wednesday of abusing their 4-month-old son, one of two conjoined twins who underwent separation surgery last fall at the Mayo Clinic." -- 3/8/07

Write these down. They'll come in handy when the fur starts to fly in January.