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Come and play! Everything’s A-OK!!!
Harmony among the monsters and people. Neighbors looking after (and spying on) one another, Oscar the Grouch as a lovable homeless “person” living in a trashcan. Of course Sesame Street is populated by lefties and their POX News hating monsters. There is no question the program promotes fairness, tolerance and a homosexual agenda. Ernie and Burt for Christ’s sake! You even know who the bottom is in that relationship.
Can you imagine if Sesame Street had been conceived by the religious right? Conservatives? Sarah Palin!!??
First of all, it would be set in the suburbs of some second-tier Southern city. Big Bird would wear Brooks Brothers and drive an SUV. Oscar the Grouch would be his illegal Mexican gardener. Elmo would have Down Syndrome (which would explain a lot actually) and Grover would take him to church and sit righteously with him up front, basking in the glow of his selflessness while the Cookie Monster looked on in admiration and thought, “He could have had Mrs. Grover abort him, but no. He had the little guy.”
Elmo would be slobbering into a high Mrs. Grover’s Sunday best. She would be smashed on the Oxycontin she takes to deaden herself to the pain of an abusive spouse and a dead-end life. Grover drinks, you know. Beats his poor wife near and far.
Ernie and Burt would be married, but not to each other. They would exchange knowing glances at the gym, toweling off vigorously before going home to their “loving” muppets. Sure, Burt would take his own life after The Count threatened to go public with their affair. But Ernie wouldn’t be so lucky, enduring a lifetime of ice cream socials and company picnics until the day, Rolf, a drunken pianist from a visiting town, plows his sedan into Ernie’s Corolla. At least the end was quick.
No, my friends. A right-wing Sesame street would be no picnic indeed. A Boulevard of Broken Dreams.
I love Ellen DeGeneres. Who doesn’t? True, I love my gay gals. But Ellen ranks on top.
While Jodie was still living an open secret of suburban bliss and playing house, Ellen jumped out of the closet and said, “Yep, I’m gay.” While Lang was trolling up the bars and breaking hearts, Ellen tried to make it work publicly with that zany media whore, Heche. While Queen coyly parties with her peeps in Manhattan, Ellen takes Portia out for a night on the town in Hollywood. Let’s face it, Ellen is right up there with Etheridge when it comes to gay saints.
So I was sad to read that Ellen had followed Rosie O’Donnell’s lead and demoted herself from openly gay talk show host to one of a panel of judges. And don’t be fooled, those ladies on The View do nothing but judge. God love ’em. Except that skinny, ultra right-wing Survivor contestant (Barbara, just fire her already. We all know you hate her from the way you look at her).
What was Ellen thinking? Going on American Idol is a lose-lose situation.
No matter how nicey nice and goofy you are, you have put yourself in the roll of judge. If you give a free pass to poor performers and do some shtick, the audience is going to deride you for not being honest. Even Paula could come down hard when necessary.
If you do say something negative about a performance and joke about it, people are going to blast you for not just being a meanie, but a meanie who pokes fun of a performer when he’s down. Your aw shucks likability is going to come off as cruel and dismissive.
Everyone in the gay community (you should see our rec center!) knew Rosie was aggressive, short-tempered and out-spoken before she had her talk show. That’s why we all rolled our eyes when the soccer mom set sat down to watch this hollow persona called Rosie. When we got the tough-talking Rosie “we” all loved when she joined The View is one thing. Ellen has never been known for her aggressive, short-tempered and out-spoken manner. She has nothing to gain and everything to lose by joining American Idol.
Ellen, Baby, rip up the contract and say, “I’m just playin’ guys!” Or you’re going to end up a “mean” lesbian. And mean lesbians don’t keep their day jobs.
I’ve set foot on every continent except Africa and Antarctica, have lived in Mexico City, Tokyo and now Hong Kong, speak English, Spanish and some Japanese, call New York home and love to travel. But I haven’t been to London.
London was always one of those places I meant to get to, eventually. But it wasn’t high on my list. Why London when Paris? Why London when Rome? Why London when Madrid? You get the idea. And so every time I went to Europe, I’d go somewhere else. Hell, I haven’t even transferred through Heathrow. I’m a complete London virgin.
Now that I’m approaching 37, I’m beginning to feel embarrassed that I haven’t been to London. People don’t help either, rolling their eyes and dropping their jaws in disbelief when I tell them.
‘”YOU haven’t been to London!? REALLY!!?? Why haven’t you been to London!? WHY!!??”
There’s a look of pity and slight disgust when people say this too. I know that look. It’s the look I give people when they tell me they haven’t been to New York.
“You haven’t been to New York!? REALLY!!?? Why not!? What’s wrong with you!!!???”
It didn’t help that one of my best friends told me after she visited London, “You’re not missing much. It’s just a low-rise, more expensive New York with bad food and ugly people.”
“What about Colin Firth!?” I demanded. This was pre-Clive Owen–I never did get into Hugh Grant.
Imagine my surprise when I turned on the television early this morning and saw Richard Quest, old rope around the dick, dildo in the boot himself, gesticulating from the Kowloon side, “And SO in the EARLY morning darkness, it’s DIFFICULT to imagine that just a few hours ago, THIS specTACular skyline was aglow with neon.”
He was jumping around the screen as usual. Poor guy, I hope he’s off the drugs. It’s great CNN stuck by their witty, weird and wild Jewish gay. A few months in rehab and presto, Richard Quest returns: quirks, twitches and nods. I love him. But I digress.
Richard goes on and on about Nylonkong: New York, London and Hong Kong smooshed together creatively. When Quest says it, it sounds like an evil Star Trek character’s name. I immediately googled Nylonkong Supreme Leader of the Anti-Federation Movement.
The idea behind Nylonkong is that New York, London and Honk Kong have managed to dominate the financial markets and thus hold the key to globalization, providing “lubrication, capital and expertise.” Come to think of it, this sounds right up Richard’s alley.
These three cities are all well known to a select group of banker wankers, high-rollers and all around tossers. Apparently, Joe Blow lives in London and often works in Hong Kong for a company based in New York (where he has a pied-a-terre and a mistress). He knows the best tailor in Hong Kong, the best sushi restaurant in New York, and the most magnificent antique gallery in London. Sounds like a fag if he didn’t have that former Miss Something or Other holed up somewhere in Midtown.
So now I’m itching to go to London. Why not? I’m not getting any fresher. I told my partner that if he has to go to London for work, I’m going with him no matter what.
“Why don’t we just go ourselves?” he says, “Schedule a trip to Europe to catch up with our friends who live there?”
“WHAT!!! I’m no going to rush through Paris and Amsterdam just to visit London. No way. Plus, I want to go back to Buenos Aires at some point in the near future, especially if my dad moves there. And what about the Australian Open? I thought we were hoping to go see Nadal pick his crack in Melbourne while he kicked some Roddick ass? What’s wrong with you? We’ll go to London when you have to go for work. Kill two birds with one stone. I’m not paying to go to some expensive, low-rise, New York with bad food and ugly people!!”
Maybe I’ll never make it to London. I’ll always be Nykong, or more specifically Las Sanicochitinko Nykong.
Miley: Daddy, when I grow up, I want to be a Musketeer.
Billy Ray: Aw, that’s sweet, Baby.
Miley: And then I wanna do a Musketeer. Oops, I did it again!
First, Miley bares her naked back. Then she gets into a sexy pose with daddy, Billy Ray. Both for Vanity Fair. Now she emerges from a trailer and pole-dances atop an ice cream cart at the Teen Choice Awards. Can we say Rocky Road?
In five years, I can see her shaving her head publicly ala Britney Spears. Hell, Miley might go one better and shave something else publicly. In seven years, after her recovery, the sex tape emerges. By now, Miley is a flabby has-been looking for a comeback. A misstep marriage will follow additional stints in rehab. Then she’ll emerge from hiding, her face pulled tightly over her scalp, a top-40 single on the charts (#39). She’ll be down for the count, but the public will play along. “Isn’t she great? What a champ!”
Is it me or does Michael Douglas‘ son look like a bird? A baby hawk? An owl? Tweetybird?
Cameron Douglas was busted at the posh Gansevoort Hotel in New York last night. Apparently, he wanted to move some meth. Not cocaine or heroin but meth. I mean, come on! If your grandfather is Kirk Douglas, if your dad is Michael Douglas, if your step-mom is one of the few women on earth I’d want to sleep with, Ms. Catherine Zeta-Jones, then at least have the decency to be caught trying to sell cocaine. But meth? How white trash is that?
Still, it must be hard to be the son of a screen legend, let alone the grandson and son of two screen legends. How can you compete? I think celebrity parents should be counseled as to how to raise their offspring. Steer them away from the limelight, encourage them to do well in school, persuade them to pursue a PhD. or M.A. in something esoteric or frivolous. Tie their trust fund to a charity. Tell the kid his monthly payments come with strings attached. He has to help raise money for orphans without feet, or clowns without makeup.
Say, “Daddy is very famous and enormously wealthy, and as long as you keep your nose clean, you’ll shop on 5th, summer in Maine and vacation on St. Bart’s. Otherwise, you’ll end up like that Ryan O’Neal kid and I won’t bail you out of jail. Understand? Now how ’bout those sad clowns?”
Every weekday morning, I head to my local Pacific Coffee, grab some caffeine and read the City Section of the South China Morning Post. I enjoy keeping up with the stories making the news in Hong Kong: the latest drunk driving accident, the next concert coming to town, the newest restaurant to open, an up and coming neighborhood, the grizzly details of a murder gone gross. I read, scowl, smile, contemplate, daydream and get nauseous.
I once read about a woman murdered by her son in my building. “150 Chops” was the title. The 27th floor is haunted!
But gory details tend not to bother me. I like scary movies, the creepy, the campy and the bloody. The best horror movies are the ones that mess with your mind, not the ones that splatter red gelatin and Jamba Juice all over a bare wall. But sometimes a man’s gotta have his Jello and Jamba, Baby.
Still, this story, these details bothered me. A woman was flushed down the toilet.
First, the woman who was killed was found by her murderer on a compensated dating website. What is that, you ask? Me too. Apparently, young women who need some fast cash to buy God knows what, can log on, find a John, meet him, screw him, and then trot off to buy that new purse. And don’t give me any of that insensitive bastard bullshit. This kind of stuff was common in Japan, except few women ended up dead or as raw sewage.
Second, the woman who was murdered was not a woman but a sixteen-year-old girl. A sixteen-year-old girl.
Third, the man who killed her was high on ecstasy and ketamine. What? Did he want to get all touchy-feely and then fall into a K-hole?
Fourth, he butchered her. Literally. In the local Chinese language newspaper, they actually diagrammed how to butcher a cadaver. Like there’s a right way.
Now it’s true that lots of sickos slaughter their victims, but this guy flushed her organs down the toilet, left her bones in a vat of pig intestines, and then wrapped her head in her clothes and tossed it into the harbor. Her poor parents.
There are some crimes that keep this liberal a proponent of the death penalty. This is one of them.
Usually it’s black or brown kids whose parents are white.
Look what we picked up in Guatemala!
Go to Malawi and come back a Mommy!
But Michael Jackson’s kids are white. At least two of them anyway. And did he give them boring, run-of-the-mill, suburban names like John, Todd, Kelly or Bob? No. He named them Liverpool, Princess Stephanie of Shangri-la, and Liverpool The Revenge. I mean, come on. It was obvious from the very beginning that these kids would have a very unhappy childhood.
Now that the custody battle is raging (aka: the fight for the Jackson estate), the poor kids don’t know who or what is gonna screw them. Both literally and figuratively.
Joe Jackson? Please!! Nightmare city. This man would show more grief if his wallet were stolen.
Katherine Jackson? The woman can’t remember the way back home. How is she going to care for the kids?
Ms. Jackson if You’re Nasty? She’ll have a wardrobe malfunction and accidentally perforate the children.
Diana Ross? “Come on kids, hop in the car, Mommy needs to buy some more booze.”
Still, I’d rather go with Ms. Ross. The diamonds, the hair, the make-up, that glare I saw her give some poor fellow backstage when the audio feedback at the tribute concert she was giving in Lincoln Center threatened to sabotage her performance. Let me tell you one thing, drunk or not, Ms. Ross ain’t gonna take no shit from no one. And after years of non-stop spoiling, these kids need a disciplinarian.
Can’t sleep? Restless? Try waterboarding!
Stiff neck? Stressed at work? Turn on the faucet!
Bored? Plagued by random thoughts? Whip out the hand restraints and face cloth!
You just knew that once Christopher Hitchens tried out waterboarding for Vanity Fair, the whole thing would catch on like wild fire. Those pics were priceless by the way.
Pretty soon you’ll have the inevitable heart attack, death or partial paralysis that comes from recreational waterboarding. Crazy kids! The effected family will go on Oprah. Barbara Walters will halt an argument between Joy and Elisabitch to announce in her high-pitched, sing-song voice, “Did you hear about the little boy who is now clinging to his life in St. Louis after waterboarding with his friends?”
“Mmmm!” says Whoopi shaking her head.
I say we should just waterboard controversial people simultaneously and publicly during the evening news. That’ll get those ratings up in a jiffy. First, Nancy Pelosi and Rush Limbaugh! Who can last? Who’ll come out the better person? With more street cred?
On CBS, Katie Couric can challenge Sarah Palin to a waterboard face-off. I’d advise Katiekins to cheat given that Palin is already brain dead.
Next Miss California and Perez Hilton on ABC. Which bitch will gurgle first!? C’mon Senor Perez, show that skanky bimbo the way to her Sweet Lord!
Living in the heart of Hong Kong is like living in a big western city expect with fewer white or black people. Sure, the signs are in Chinese, but they’re also in English. The buildings might be taller and the city more densely populated, but Hong Kong reminds me of New York in many ways–a New York with British English, a busy harbor and people who shove you out of the way not to be confrontational, but because you are, in fact, in their way.
I welcome this change after prissy, preening Tokyo with its abundance of rules, regulations and suicides. Hell, I’d contemplate suicide too if I had to put up with all that pressure. Who wouldn’t?
Hong Kong is all about rules when it comes to one thing: communicable disease. After SARS, the city government doesn’t mess around when it comes to sickness. In the current environment, you so much as sneeze and you might have a cop hosing you down. Of course, we all thought we were fairly immune from Swine Flu. I mean, it’s all the way over there in Mexico, and China is pretty strict about most things, including visiting foreigners.
We were passing the Metropark Hotel on Saturday morning when we noticed the crowds and television cameras. My partner assumed they were just filming a movie so we crossed the street to avoid any unnecessary hassle. But as we passed the hotel from across the busy road, we noticed many policemen, a couple of ambulances and hordes of curious onlookers.
“Must be a murder suicide.” I said.
I love messing with my partner. He is so easily spooked.
“Oh, I’m wrong. It was a jumper. I just saw the clothe draped over the body.”
My partner pretended not to want to look, but I saw him nervously glancing towards the front of the hotel.
When we passed the 7-11 (yes, there are 7-11s in Hong Kong) to pick up the FT, we saw the headline of the local paper. The Swine Flu had not only managed to make it to Hong Kong, it managed to land a few blocks from our apartment building. Yikes!
Suddenly my year-round tan and passionate nature were a liability. What if the local authorities rounded up all Mexicans and Mexican-Americans, put us in some urine-drenched cell and threw away the key? It could happen.
Later, I saw the pictures and video of all the guests hanging out their windows, waving at the cameras. When I went by the hotel again today, I had my mobile camera ready in case some German woman with cabin fever started spitting at passersby. Unfortunately, the police had blocked the perimeter of the hotel from access and the only person I saw in the hotel was some white guy talking on his cell phone. On the line with Kristie Lu Stout, no doubt.
A humpback whale appeared in the waters around Hong Kong late last week. Apparently, it got separated from its pod and wandered into the unfamiliar and overly friendly waters of Victoria Harbor.
When the story first broke, everyone jumped in their boats and headed out to greet the whale. The next day, authorities urged citizens to please leave the whale alone, and even provided maps of where the whale was spotted so that we could avoid these areas. Well, the authorities should have just handed out itineraries, as everyone used these maps as guides when they hopped in their boats to go visit with the whale.
A few days later, the authorities pleaded with people not to disturb the lost whale. They told us that he needed time and space to get his barrings, so that he could swim back out into the open sea to continue his annual migration to getting laid. They said that any interference with the whale would cause it to get sick and die. Now, everyone headed out to see this horny bastard before he bought the farm.
Next the authorities warned that anyone caught trying to greet the whale would be fined. The fine was nominal so the sightseeing continued.
Now the fine has been raised substantially as an even greater deterrence. Let’s see if this works. I’m just guessing you’ll see more yachts than kayaks tracking our lost visitor.
At least the poor whale didn’t end up in Tokyo Bay. He would have been killed for “research” and turned up in the food stalls at the Tsukiji Fish Market. Oishides!
The Trailing Partner Post 
