C. U. NEXT TUESDAY


Dear Ann:

The interview with you in Salon was a coup for you, huh? Not only did you get to blather on about nothing again but you had some married straight guy drooling over you on the phone. You may not know this, but when men casually work any mention of their sex life into a conversation, it means they want you. Maybe not You you but You Not Talking. I heard the Money Shot from here when you told him “boys with long hair are cute.” No wonder you own a portrait of George Washington, he was the Justin Timberlake of the Revolution. “We should worry”, the interviewer frets, “that she is dooming herself to spinsterhood, rather than assume Coulter practices free love or is still in the closet. Such speculations would be cruel.” Yeah, cruel to free-lovers and closeted dykes. Me, not so worried about your spinsterhood. In fact, you bring new meaning to the word “spinster” so I’m not too shocked.

I’m not even talking about your lack of personality or your robotic ignorance. After all, two words: Melanie Griffith. No, the truth everyone in the media seems to overlook and that I, as a gay man, find particularly perplexing is you aren’t that pretty. Trust me, if Bravo ever does Queer Tips for the Right Wing Bitch I’m available. The hype would have us believe you’re Christy Turlington in a string of pearls and that’s your big selling point - Conservative Babe. It’s why the Right takes to you, they see you as living proof Broads Say Stupid Things. They will dote over every “politically incorrect” thing you utter while to the rest of us, you’re one bikini wax away from Michael Savage. I look at the picture of you accompanying the “interview” and with your split ends and padded blazer you’re primped and primed for a Ricki Lake makeover.

Maybe it’s your whole 80’s vibe (which in your twisted world might be a compliment). I can easily see you in the subway wearing sneakers, your sturdy work pumps tucked into your Land’s End bag. Working Girl, harboring Dynasty-inspired visions of leading board meetings and being accepted as One of the Boys. It’s a quaint notion you’ve preserved like a scorpion in lucite for the world to remember.

A few obvious points from the Salon chat. The show (as I’m sure you know by now) is Everybody Loves Raymond not “Something About Raymond”. You’re thinking of the movie Something About Mary (something, everyone... whatever!), a film about a blond woman being stalked by several men while she remains blissfully ignorant. Ouch! That’s gotta hurt. That the interviewer chose to overlook your slip seemed, well, cruel.

He did however inform you that your ideal of glamour (“what’s her name” in Breakfast At Tiffany’s as you astutely recalled) was Audrey Hepburn. Glamourous, you may be shocked to know, because of a gay fashion designer in a movie written and directed by gay men. Later in the article you explain that when it comes to anything gay, you obviously don’t care. Surely that explains the hair.

Years from now, we’ll all look back and laugh. If you’re lucky you may end up a Jeopardy question, So Last Millennium for $200, Alex.

Village idiot who was an important part of media events.

Who is Ann Coulter?

I ‘m sorry, we were looking for “important”. You’re close but the correct answer is Forrest Gump.

Kiss, kiss. Give me a jingle,

SRO

8:51:20 PM    sro home /

POLITICS

I’ve made a friend at the dog park. Well, I don’t know about “friend” but I’m happy to see her when she shows up. She has three dogs: a small shaggy brown one and two of the tiniest, oddest looking Chihuahuas you’ve ever seen. One of them weighs only one pound and looks kinda “premie” to me with oversized eyes and minute pink paws. Her dogs names are Lola, Zelda and Brigitte named, she told me, after French hookers.

We both sit away from The Bench on the grass because we both smoke. We can also make faces and comments out of range of the other Dog Parkers. My “friend” is very funny and indeed, has worked in comedy onstage and off for years. We are J.D. girls in our half of the girl’s room... smoking, being sassy, emulating Parisian whores.

Today, anyone who entered the small dog park was immediately commanded by an Alpha Dog Parker to announce their dog. “WHAT IS THIS DOG’S NAME?” she demands from her throne on The Bench while my friend and I snicker without moving our faces. She also berates dog owners whose dogs aren’t neutered. “IT’S THE PRINCIPAL CAUSE OF TESTICULAR CANCER!” she bellows at the trembling peasant dog owner. My friend and I dare each other to light one up, just to see if the Queen Bee will chastise us. We puff away, throwing our heads back and laughing defiantly.

The Alpha Dog Parker bent over to presumably pick something up/ see if she could touch her toes/I don’t know and put her hand right in a big pile of dog shit. I was sitting closest to her and she spun around to me, “THERE’S DOG POOP HERE.”

Apparently. It wasn’t Polly and I hadn’t seen it.

“SOMEONE NEEDS TO CLEAN THIS UP!”

Someone being? I donned my best “I have no idea what you’re talking about” smile which I use for loud, rude people. One of her minions scurried over and scooped away the offensive matter while she held her soiled hand away from her body as if it were a piece of Road Kill.

My friend and I lit another fag. Queen Dog Park’s cell rang and I heard her snap something into the phone about “spiking up Act One” and “Vegas”. I pictured her Personal Assistant sitting in her car and bursting into tears, great heaving sobs of derision and failure from being scolded. I rested back on the grass and watched Polly cheerfully amble up when I called her name.

2:51:02 PM    sro home /