use the force, coop

Yikes! I feel bad for Anderson Cooper. Is it just me, or do the shots of him at Mardi Gras (courtesy of Just Jared) make CNN's golden guy suddenly look a lot older?
I guess the drama of the last couple of years, what with Iraq, Katrina and all that pesky gossip about his private life (cough, GAY, cough) have started to take a toll.

Either that, or our boy has secretly been lured by the insidious powers of the Dark Side. Exhibit A:



Let's hope it was just a bad night on Bourbon Street.

sing out, sister

I think I'm still hungover from Thursday night.

After hitting a photography opening in Chelsea with JP and a (boring) networking event, I was somehow convinced by Goddamn Darren to venture up to 35th Street and rent a room.

That's right, after months of his urging, I finally agreed to a karaoke outing. And so we arrived at 35 Duet, which felt a little like a Happy Ending Spa, though clean and ominously quiet. We were led to our room, big enough to seat 10, and after some creative lighting design (it's great to be gay), we were ready to start the night. GD's two other friends, Michael and Michael, arrived, which I thought would be awkward, considering none of us knew each other. Just add Olivia Newton John — and several vodka tonics, smuggled in by one of the Michaels — and the fun began.
My previous karaoke experiences had been limited to loud bars and one singular inebriated afternoon during D.C. Pride (don't ask), three years in the Men's Glee Club not standing. GD did a great job of breaking the ice, getting us warmed up with a parade of '80s hits, followed by Michael's genius rendition of Kanye West's "Golddigger."

A few lessons learned from the sloppy mess that followed:

1. Slow songs bore people. We all four were guilty of resurrecting a few weepy ballads, which just kills everyone's buzz. Don't be a Debbie Downer; leave the Roberta Flack alone.
2. Don't do Missy Elliott. A few shots later, I thought I could conquer "Work It." Foolish, foolish white boy.
3. Bring your own liquor. Just don't let them see you bring it.
4. Duets. It's not just the name of the club, it's the best part of the night.
5. Watching the videos can be just as fun as suffering through your off-key friends' singing. I've seen public access porn with better production values.
6. Do Madonna sparingly. I tried to play the nostalgia card with "Keep it Together." Which no one remembered in the first place.
7. Know your strengths. For me, it's male singers. Which is hell for gay boys in general.
8. Choose wisely. Because there's a huge difference between the Kris Kristofferson version of "Me and Bobby McGee" and the Janis Joplin.
9. Showtunes bore people. Unless it's the end of the night and you're singing "Seasons of Love," which might call for everyone in the room to join in.
10. Drink lots of water. Jesus god, if only. My head, seriously, still hurts.

Dear Darren: When can we go again?

make it new

I've resisted having the same characters show up repeatedly in my drawings, trying not to get into any sort of predictable rut. But the mohawked cashier in this week's Blot has been seen once or twice before. The goateed shoplifter, however, is a new face.

Blotter: At a hipster store in Little Five Points ...

one enchanted tranny

It's been an odd weekend.
The BF wasn't feeling so hot Friday night, so we stayed in and surrendered ourselves to the vast Cable Wastelands. Flipping through the flotsam of the upper pay channels, I landed on the opening credits for Ella Enchanted, the 2004 Anne Hathaway fantasy. Now, a normal person would have fled immediately to the safe waters of Bravo or DVR, but not me.
I've written before about how Anne captivated me in Brokeback Mountain, and I was curious to see how she handled her so-called "tiara flicks." Plus, the BF and I recently saw Anne speak at the HRC Gala, and she came off as a spaz. So I stayed up and watched the whole darn picture. Which was, to be blunt, astoundingly bad.

Saturday we took in a very different slice of cinema, Transamerica, also the subject of a previous post here about tranny road pictures. I went in with low expectations, having been disappointed by Breakfast on Pluto and, oh, almost every other gay movie ever made. But this film moved me in many unexpected ways. Felicity Huffman simply rocks. Her performance as Bree Osbourne, an uptight, neurotic transgendered woman on the verge of her final surgery, just about drips with verisimilitude — no small feat, considering she's not a man. The Oscar nod was certainly deserved.

Later on, while digesting these wildly different films, I realized that Ella Enchanted and Transamerica are almost the same movie.
Granted, Trans is a film filled with grace and dignity — qualities lacking in Ella, which gleefully aims for the lowest common denominator. But there are some archetypical underpinnings that should be discussed. In point:

THE PLIGHT:
Ella is a girl with the misfortune of having received a troublesome gift at birth, a magical curse of obedience.

Bree is a girl with the misfortune of having received a troublesome gift at birth, a penis.

THE PLOT:
Eager to shed her curse, Ella sets off on a cross-kingdom quest to find the fairy who can remove the spell.

Eager to shed her penis, Bree sets off on a cross-country quest with a fairy who may be her son.

THE FAMILY:
Ella's household includes an evil stepmother and kindly but bumbling father, along with an impotent house fairy (Minnie Driver! WTF?) who acts as a pseudo sister.

Bree's household, when finally shown, includes an (almost) evil mother and kindly but bumbling father, along with a mostly worthless sister.


THE EYE CANDY:
Hottie Hugh Dancy, who teaches Ella to follow her heart, yet still manages to lose his shirt in the process.

Cutey Kevin Zeggers, who teaches Bree not to be such a prude, yet still manages to get naked three times in the process.

THE MORAL:
For both: Only you can rise above your own unfortunate circumstances, and then only by showing a selfless concern for the safety of others.

CAREER IMPACT:
Felicity Huffman shows she's got more chops than your average Desperate Houswife, and deserves to win an Oscar for doing so.

Anne Hathaway, meanwhile, eventually graduates from playing only princesses — though I'm guessing she'll be a bitter queen when that bitch Michelle Williams takes home the Best Supporting Actress gold.

nutty

For this week's Blotter, I did something unusual: I created the entire background in Illustrator, instead of my usual scanned line drawings. Though my illustration teacher at SVA sneered at all-digital works, I sorta liked how this one turned out.

At the same time, I feel like my artwork is starting to fall into a new rut. I really need a new challenge on that front, or some new inspiration.

The Blot: An officer saw a man making a suspected drug transaction ...

the sound of white

middle of jane st.

The great Blizzard of '06 came and went with no major incident — though it was certainly more snowfall than ever I've seen in my life. Brad's been bugging me for photos, so here are a few.

But I'll have to say, snowfall is such a non-event here. Sure, the storm broke some record for accumulation (the most in one day since 1869, or something like that), but the city hardly seemed to notice. The BF and I camped out with our DVR ("American Idol" is so mean this season — discuss.) and admired the unusal moment of quietude from the noise of the metropolis. Come Monday, it was biz as usual.

i ♥ v-day

Actually, that's a lie. I vehemently don't love Valentine's Day — it's nearly always a disaster — but I did love the assignment to come up with a menu of romance-themed playlists. (Bravo to Heather, my fabulous editrix, for coming up with the perfect headline: "A cure for VD")

Here are a few favorites:

Love thyself: Songs for the single
"I Touch Myself" - the Divinyls: Perhaps the quintessential anthem of self-service in that it makes the solo act sound like a viable alternative to human contact - a way of life, even. There's a sassy dancefloor cover out by Kristy Kay & Lenny B if you're a gay cliché or go-go dancer.

"Dancing with Myself" - Billy Idol: If we had the chance, we'd ask the world to dance - then beg for a Billy Idol comeback. Snarls are so ripe for revival.

Flavor of the week: Tracks for a new romance
"All Is Full of Love" - Bjork: I'm so happy with this love affair, I want to wear a swan dress and punch out some reporters.

"My Love Is Like ... Wo" - Mya: An age-old ploy recast for a new generation: Forget them other bitches, because I rock.

Got the hook-up: Aggressive sex songs
"What's Your Fantasy?" - Ludacris featuring Shawnna: Hometown boy serves up some pretty, um, ludicrous scenarios - The Georgia Dome? What? - but the breathless chorus makes up for spotty lyrics. Make it hurt!

"Fuck the Pain Away" - Peaches: A strip club classic that works just as well during tender moments with the one you lust. We're still trying to figure out exactly what is a "Chrissy behind"?

"You Shook Me All Night Long" - AC/DC: Especially appropriate if you happen to be making out in the backseat of 1980 Camaro. Which is hot.

Commitment classics: You'll do for now
"The Look of Love" - Dusty Springfield: God bless Burt Bacharach, who couldn't carry a note in a knapsack but wisely let the likes of Springfield channel his talents. Timeless.

"Whip Appeal" - Babyface: No one does it like Babyface, and no one else could get away with lines like, "Whip all your sweet, sad lovin' on me."

The kiss-off: Tracks for the breakup
"No More Drama" - Mary J. Blige: Remember when MJB made innovative music? Her sample from "The Young and the Restless" still makes me smile.

"I Thought You Were My Boyfriend" - Magnetic Fields: Gay angst that we can all relate to. The moral of the story: Men suck.

"We Belong Together" - Mariah Carey: Check the attitude and give Mimi a chance. This song is like wo.

Read the full story here.

high beams

So far as I can recall, this is the first drawing I've ever had published that featured any sort of nudity. I've drawn crazy streaker people before, but usually carefully mask the naughty bits a la Austin Powers. I was happy it ran uncensored.

A thin woman walked into a check-cashing business ...

and on the seventh day, he rested

I think it's taken me until today to catch my breath from last week, which is either a good problem to have (staying busy, and all) or a sad statement about my recovery time (I'm not 21 anymore, you know).
The "problem" was actually more of a pleasure: My dear friend Joseph, whom I've known for almost a dozen years (see earlier comment about aging) was in NYC for work and staying with us for most of the week. Being the good host that I am, we naturally had plans for every night, and not just lame "let's go see Central Park" plans.

Tuesday we started with a stop by Hiro, where Heather Headley was giving an intimate performance of songs from her new album. (I had the chance to chat with Heather one-on-one a couple of weeks back; you can read the story here.) The showcase simply rocked. She wowed the audience with a mixture of new songs and a few fab oldies (girlfriend whipped out "Back to Life" by Soul II Soul. Work!).
No time to linger, we grabbed a cab and headed to Times Square to catch Stephen Sondheim, on stage with the Sweeney Todd crew to sign the new show CD. Joseph, a huge Sondheim fan, loved every minute of it. I was more thrilled just to see Patti LuPone so close up. Quel diva! She looks great.


Wednesday night we again braved the legions of rabid tourists in the Theater District, this time to catch the heavenly Altar Boyz. I had no idea going into just how freaking GAY the show would be. Fey Mark spends the whole 90 minutes lusting after lead singer Matthew. And hottie James Royce Edwards (who is actually straight) boasts a body sent from God above. And when I say God, I mean lots and lots of creatine. If you visit his personal site, be sure to click on the "headshots" page. Jesus Christ Almighty.
Anyway, it's a fun show that's way more clever than I expected. All good Christians should flock to see it.

Thursday night we caught another cutie singer in action, Spencer Day at Joe's Pub. I had a chance to interview Spencer for HX recently, and I was intrigued by his modesty and self-effacing charm. His live show was even better. This kid is going places. Watch for it.

Joseph's trip (or his portion spent with me, at least) ended on Friday, but my weekend of religious-themed theater continued Sunday when JP and I caught Confessions of a Mormon Boy. Now, kudos to Steven Fales for having the balls to tell his story: Dude was excommunicated from the Mormon Church for being gay, losing his wife and kids in the process, and then went into a downspiral of drugs and sex as a high-dollar Manhattan escort. Sigh. We've all been there, sister. One week you're a church-going husband and dad, the next you're doing rails on the Upper East Side and not even sure what day it is. To be honest, I enjoyed the Downward Spiral portion of the show much better than the (rather cliche) first half. Maybe that's just me.

Anyway, the fun continues this week with a litany of events for Fashion Week, plus an HRC fund-raiser this weekend and early V-Day celebrations with the BF. Is it bad that I really just want to sit home and enjoy my new DVR for a while?

knee deep

There's a slow but strong tide of my old ATL friends and aquaintances seeping into NYC. This week I had coffee with Justin, an animator I knew down South who, turns out, moved here late last year. He's also jumpstarting an illustration career, and you can see from his site that he's an immensely talented artist.

I've been less thrilled with own work over the past couple of weeks. The better stuff seems to come in waves. Anyway, here's a look at the most recent doodle.

A man checked on a vacant house ...