Beyoncé

Oh, YES SHE DID

Oh.

My.

God.

::praise break::catching-the-holy-ghost-o

Y’all.

Oh.

Y’aaaaaaaaaaall.

::praise break::

::pass the offering basket::

I can’t. I can’t even. Like, first can we talk about how last night’s Scandal basically doused itself in kerosene and lit itself on fire while tap-dancing to “My Heart Belongs to Daddy” and I don’t have time to talk about it. It doesn’t even rank. Mama Pope is in the wind! Papa Pope read Fitz for toilet crust like the President was a contestant on America’s Next Top DILF! Jake is Command! Cyrus is the Devil! James is CJ Cregg! Harrison is still a cutout from an upscale men’s magazine called Black Men with Limited Plot Function and Nice Taste in Socks! AND I CAN’T EVEN TALK TO YOU ABOUT IT!

I don’t have time!

In the future, we will gather around computer generated simulations of campfires and tell each other when we found out the greatest news of the 20th century. What’s that? It’s the 21st century? Since when? Oh, okay Marty McFly. Anyway.

It was the mic drop heard round the world.Beyonce "The Mrs. Carter Show World Tour" - Los Angeles

I was convalescing at home, wrapped in a blanket and binge-watching Orphan Black. (I want to talk to you about that, too, and I JUST DON’T HAVE TIME!) My roommate came home and said, “Hey, my friend in the music industry said that he heard Beyoncé’s about to release a secret album on iTunes.”

I instantly started speaking in tongues. “King B! H-town! Oh, girl, the stans been waiting! How you gonna tour on no album? But didn’t she do it? Yes, indeedy! Ring the alarm! Can’t no one touch, Mrs. Carter! “Grown Woman” leaked months ago. Still my jam! ::praise break:: This is the place where her sweat hit me at the B-Day concert! Fuck Keri Hilson! Buzz buzz buzz.”

He was like, “Uh. Okay. Whatever. Um, anyway. Apparently, it’s out. Check iTunes.”

ACTUAL FOOTAGE OF MY REACTIONwoke up like dis

OH YES SHE DID!

surprise bitchNow, I love organizational systems. I’m a process whore. A color-coded spreadsheet is as attractive to me as a Details magazine with Channing Tatum on the cover. And my mind immediately started spinning at the sheer magnitude of this achievement. She managed to construct 14-track album, coordinate a multi-continent, 17-video shoot, with footage in very public places, and get it uploaded on to iTunes (this is the hardest part; I can’t even figure out how to get my 2012 tax return off of H&R Block’s website. Like, what button do I press? No, I don’t remember my password or PIN or if I actually used Turbo Tax. I made 7 and a half dollars last year; can you just print it out and send it to me?). And she did it all in secret! Not a rumor! Not a whiff! And trust me, these Beyoncé fans all think they’re Olivia Pope, marching around in bedazzled white trench coats, wild-eyed because they’ve been locked in the hole of musical deprivation for years, posting crazy messages on B’s Instagram using burner phones. How’d she sneak it by us?

Lemme say this to the haters. If she could pull this off–a project that involved hundreds, if not thousands, of people of varying levels of importance and pay scale, with nary a weave-tamer or wind-machine operator speaking to TMZ or getting a little loose on Goose at Chateau Marmont–don’t you think if she had faked her pregnancy, she would’ve been able to cover it up? The woman could’ve given birth to a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, 6-foot tall, 40-year-old Scandinavian man and made us believe it. This conversation is above your pay grade. So I need you to buy a one-way ticket to Australia, take the T2 Aiport Line to Museum Station, transfer to the L94, get off at the Sydney Opera House, go inside, look at the 5,738 seats therein and TAKE ANY ONE.hi haters

I’m feeling light-headed. Someone bring me my smelling scarves.

For weeks my family has been pestering me about sending them a Christmas list. After this I was like “Psssh, y’all couldn’t even if you tried. Oprah could hand-deliver all of her favorite things to my door and I’d be like ‘Gurl, just leave it in the vestibule. Armelia at the dentist’s office downstairs will sign for it.’ Look, I’m sorry. This Christmas is the Superdome during the second half of last year’s Super Bowl. Lights out.”

Here’s my list:

1) Oh. Yes. She. Did!

2) Socks

If you can’t handle that, then why did you give birth to all of this gay?!

Anyway, y’all, I’m nearing my word limit and my editor’s going to kill me (LOL word limit. LOL editor) so here’s some totally sane, composed thoughts on every track. Continue reading

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Happiness

15 Things You Need to Do THIS INSTANT

The Internet sure does have a lot of opinions. There’s a few list-icles being passed around of late that are variations on the theme “Things Every Gay Man Should Do Before Death”. Actually, only one is “Before Death”, the others are “Before 40”, which is probably the same thing to some members of the community.  (Oh no he di’n’t! Girl, did he go there? Oh, he went there, girl.) Personally, I think these lists, in general, are ridiculous. They’re built on stereotypes that are either hackneyed  (“Stop being afraid of lesbians.” Okay, thanks for the advice, Bruce Villanch) or weirdly specific (“Have sex on a beach, in an elevator, on a roof, in a car, in the desert, and your parent’s house.” Nope. Sand. Claustraphobia. Emotionally scarring.). Also, they don’t have enough GIFs (so much reading! What is this, grad school?). I decided I could do better. After all, I am an expert at having opinions.

NEVER FORGET

NEVER FORGET

One of the pitfalls of these lists is that they all seem to come from one point-of-view, one kind of gay man. Specifically, Brian Kinney from Queer as Folk. And although it’s a well-known fact that affluent, emotionally distant sex addicts give the best advice, I just can’t forgive him for letting Justin slip out of his arms. I. Just. Can’t. I talk about it in therapy at least once a month. And, every time, my therapist has to slyly flip through her notes to figure out who the hell Brian and Justin are. And, I have to admit, I am not here for the look of disappointment when she comes across the page, which I imagine reads “Jesus, whatever you do don’t let him start talking about the damned TV show. Bring up that time they sat him outside in the rain at Green Eggs Cafe. That story is always good for killing 15 minutes.” I AM ON TO YOU, DOCTOR!

WHY, GOD, WHY?! I mean, does it make any sense at all? They’re perfect for each other! They’ve been through so much! Honestly, in my mind, the last episode of Queer as Folk doesn’t exist and they never say goodbye and they’re still together forever now. And, by God, they’re happy. Finally. ::sobs quietly::

Anyway, I had an inkling that my list might either be similarly slanted to my particular point-of-view (or comprised solely of QAF fanfic scenarios and theories about Scandal) so I enlisted the help of a friend. Sean is whip-smart, hilarious, and, at 18, is hip to all the things the kids are into these days: Snapping their chats, twerking their Mollies, and such. We put our heads together and came up with a definitive list of things every gay man needs to do. But we realized it was such a good list, we shouldn’t limit it just to gays. We changed a couple of pronouns, took out a really excellent Lady Gaga reference, and now it’s for everyone! Except you, Brian Kinney. There’s only one piece of advice I have for you.

15 THINGS YOU NEED TO DO THIS INSTANT

by R. Eric Thomas & Sean Simon
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Uncategorized

What is the opposite of Anyong?

Or, Fade in on a Chirl eileen_goodbye copy

Or, How I Learned to Stop Nitpicking and Love the Bombshell

And now the story of an (apparently) wealthy band of theatermakers and the one audience who had no choice but to keep them all together. It’s New Musical Development.

Well, folks, our long, national nightmare has begun. The 11 o’clock number has been sung, the audience is hastening back to their Times Square hotel rooms to upload their bootleg videos to YouTube, the lithe dancers are at home soaking their feet in Epsom salts and watching the DVR’d episode of SVU that their roommate guested on, the ghostlight is all that remains on stage. Show’s over. Smash is done.

Oh, the emotional roller coaster I’ve ridden with this show. I’ve loved it, I’ve hated it, I’ve wrestled with it in a fountain, I’ve murdered it in Moldovia, I’ve acted out entire episodes in my living room. It is the greatest relationship of my life. (Don’t tell my boyfriend.)

It was an often preposterous, maddeningly under-realized, half-baked mess, true. But it was also one of the most strangely electrifying, uniquely galvanizing television shows I’ve ever watched. And that’s why I’ve gathered you all here today.

I think the story of Smash, like the story of Marilyn herself, is a tale of redemption that comes just a hare’s breath too late.  (Although wouldn’t hare’s have longer breaths, considering they’re always running races against tortoises and whatnot? Ugh, cardio. The worst.) Admittedly the first season was a strange mix of All About Eve, All That Jazz and transcripts of Theresa Rebeck’s therapy sessions. But Season 2 really showed some growth. I think, in the end, Smash realized what it was really about: three women–Eileen, Ivy and Julia–who had been counted out, walked over and constantly diminished by the grotesque men in their lives, fighting for their right to joy and finally being recognized for their talents. Smash is about strivers; theatre is about strivers. And more often than not the striving is in vain. But not this time.  At long last, all three women got what everyone really wants out of life: a boyfriend and a Tony. (And don’t tell me you have bigger goals than that because there’s no such thing.)

It was strangely indicative of Smash’s perplexing relationship with female empowerment that Eileen, upon winning a Tony, forgoes giving a speech and instead uses her time to summon Derek to the stage and squee. I mean, I know this woman’s primary forms of communication are thrown martinis and swiveled bobs, but really. Four lines of dialogue was too much to ask?

It was, however, a Broadway fanchirl dream to see Megan Hilty give the Tony speech that she (she meaning I) will eventually give.

Christine Ebersole still has no idea who you are.

 I felt bad for her for a bit—standing on that stage holding an award she’s not yet won–but I realized that she’s got TV money now, and a ton of recordings and while NBC may be less profitable than a banana stand right now, a paycheck is a paycheck, even moreso when its attached to a multiplatform distribution contract. So, good for you, Hilty! Good for you!

But, in general, the whole Tony plot was just more Smash tomfoolery.  The nominees for best actress are Ivy, Karen, Audra McDonald, Sutton Foster and someone I’m too lazy to remember. But it doesn’t matter because there’s no way that Karen or Ivy is going to beat Audra McDonald. I mean, I love Ivy Lynn, but come one. Audra McDonald is a 5-time Tony winner. She heaves an especially dramatic sigh and the Tony committee sits up a little straighter. She is the Meryl Streep of winning Tonys (WHY HAS SHE NOT BEEN CAST IN THE INTO THE WOODS MOVIE YET? Did you see her performance of “Any Moment” in concert?). I have no idea what House of Flowers, the fake musical she’s nominated for, could possibly be about, but I’ve been hounding my LincTix rep for pre-sale to it all day (because it’s being put up at the Mitzi E. Newhouse, obvi).

And Ivy beats Sutton Foster, too? The original Ronnie Moore? (Or is Ronnie supposed to be Audra? Because Karen is Sutton. Although Smash had the temerity to compare the scheming backup dancer-cum-Diva to Sutton’s rise in Thoroughly Modern Millie–a moment in which I had to excuse myself whilst I angrily drank a cup of Earl Grey in the sitting room. Sutton would never sleep with Derek Wills for a part. Although, fun fact, Sutton was married for a stretch to Christian Borle, whose sexuality remains in question. By me.) ANYWAY, Audra has only lost to to Heather Hedley (OH! Maybe Heather’s Ronnie Moore!) and Christine Ebersole (who is probably not Ronnie Moore), while Sutton has lost thrice (most recently for Shrek, so…) but the one-two punch knocks Ivy completely out of contention.

jhud_24601 copy

Guys! What am I going to do now? This compendium of Broadway trivia that I call my brain is useless on every other television show. You can only yell out lyrics from Camelot during Game of Thrones but so many times before bitches start disinviting you to their houses.

Smash is the greatest Broadway fan-fiction ever composed (outside of whatever it says on the back of my headshot.) It exists in a place where a busboy with no social security number can have a hit on Broadway in less than a year. Where you can just wear angels wings and body glitter in public (without people thinking you just stumbled home from Limelight in 1997). Where Bernadette Peters’ doppelgänger won a Tony for Annie Get Your Gun but plays Mama Rose in real life. Where Anika Noni Rose stars in a musical version of Imitation of Life that is already my favorite thing ever. Where Purlie and The Wiz can enjoy successful revivals. Where Lin-Manuel Miranda is a deliciously gossipy bitch and Christine Ebersole has problems reading a list of 5 names.

It’s a place where theater matters so much that its absurd. Where the medium is thriving and original and bursting with new life. Where corporate money and jukebox musicals aren’t de riguer. Where the Tony producers will let you change your number at the last minute if you have a good reason, like Justice. Where talented singers and dancers can afford lofts that would make Felicity jealous. This place is real. It has a name. This place is called my heart.

I know it’s not realistic. I work in theatre. I work for a multi-billion dollar theatre company. I know what it’s like. But Smash is theatre how I always imagined it. How I dreamt it would be when I was a young, fresh faced thoroughly modern nellie and not the dried up harridan I am now. It’s how I will always see my life in theatre: ridiculous and wild and far more convenient than anything else and drama-filled, girl, and lovingly orchestrated and lazily plotted under the guiding hand of Grace Adler.

Speaking of Grace Adler, though… We have to have one last conversation about the homosexuals on this show. How a show about BROADWAY isn’t literally overrun with grand-jete-ing queens like the sidewalk outside of Marie’s Crisis after last call is beyond me.  And what few gays there were were a sad bunch indeed.  Every gay character on this show was a cipher, a sycophant, a simp or a psychopath. This is not a criticism. In fact, I wish every show on television was about crazy, scheming gays. I wish The Good Wife was an adaptation of The Birdcage where Nathan Lane had to convince a bigoted politician that he was actually a charming hausfrau every week. This is, incidentally, also the plot of the children’s television show that Mrs. Doubtfire ended up hosting at the end of the movie. And one wonders why the CW went out of business.

But, for real for real, the treatment of gay characters on this show was abhorrent. Maybe I’m oversensitive (of course I’m oversensitive. I’m an artist. I’m just a pile of feelings with eyes. I have a masters degree in Generalized Overblown Emotion).

NOPE.

I don’t buy for a second, however, that everyone loved the saintly dearly departed Kyle or that he managed to posthumuously pry that Tony from Harvey Fierstein’s cold, limp hands. Kyle was a writer who had an abundance of index cards but no discernible writing. Kyle was supposed to be a fan, a receptacle not a creator, a blank slate reflecting the glow of the klieg lights. And I’m not talking some Isherwood “I am a camera”-type vessel; I’m talking undeveloped photo paper: shiny and white and empty.

Which is why it’s even more preposterous to me that Tom (TOM!) claimed to have really liked him. Tom didn’t even know Kyle’s last name. Tom came sauntering into the last place on Earth looking for some impressionable twink to make him feel like he wasn’t an aging queen who’s career was stalling and whose hag was moving on and he found Kyle. They were fuck buddies. And that’s totally cool. But don’t try to tell me they found love in a hopeless place. Tom is a flat, directionless character and probably a selfish lover.

I don’t hate Kyle or Tom. I just wish the show hadn’t tried to pretend that they mattered, that Tom’s ambitions mattered, that Tom wasn’t just a leech sucking the lifeblood out of his partnership with Julia, that Kyle wasn’t just a barnacle that hitched a ride on Jimmy’s cruise ship of fabulous Joe Iconis songs and ambiguous drugs. But whatever, now that the show is over Kyle and Tom are free to pursue their true destiny: forming a boyband with Mitchell from Modern Family called One Dimension

Conversely, I did like that Smash realized, a bit too late, that Karen Cartwright, at least as portrayed by Katherine McPhee, is a tertiary character at best.  Karen never really mattered as more than a foil or a function of the ever-convoluted plot. And Katherine McPhee didn’t do the material any favors.  Still, while Smash revealed that Katherine McPhee as an actress has all the depth of a dusty glint of light in an artfully distressed Brooklyn apartment, it was also a welcome showcase for her truly lovely voice and serviceable dancing skills. She was blown off the screen by Hurricane Hilty so much that FEMA got its own trailer on set, but alone or in a duet with Jeremy Jordan, she more than held her own. It’s a welcome reminder of a time when the voices didn’t need autotune to be bearable and American Idol’s primary export was singers, and not the discarded snatched weaves of money-hungry pop stars.

In another world, Karen is played by Anna Kendrick with a voraciousness and duplicity that rivals Eve Harrington and Hilty’s Ivy is only asked to be put-upon and noble and human. That is the story worthy of the talents behind this series. For as it stands now, Smash is an ensemble with no center and no villain, just a rotating set of allegiances and a couple of spoken word recitations of “Your Fault”. They’re so nice. They’re not good, they’re not bad, they’re just nice. I’m not good, I’m not nice, I’m just right: Smash was weakened by its refusal to turn against anyone.

Guys, I know what I’m talking about. I make coffee in a Chemex and have multicolored flash cards: I’m a dramaturg.

And don’t tell me Ellis was the villain because I’ll shout you down. Ellis had no agency whatsoever. And don’t tell me Jerry is the villain; Jerry is a collection of dry cleaning bills and a Dabney Coleman impression. All these flawed characters needed something, someone to bounce off, to be exploited by, to fall in love with for all the wrong reasons, to be pushed down an elevator shaft by. If we’ve learned anything from Showgirls (and we’ve learned everything from Showgirls) it’s that somebody has got to toss the marbles across the floor.

Ah, but none of that matters now.  Well-drawn or not, that’s the end of these characters, at least until Ivy and Derek’s lovechild grows up, forms a ukulele band with her sister, Baby June, and invites us all to contribute to their vanity music video on Kickstarter, or whatever celebrity anustarts are using to fleece the public that week.

But for now, we’re left alone. Separate and alone. You can have the garden, it’s yours. For this is the end. But only as much as Into the Woods ends at Intermission. It always seems like the most magical, improbable and spectacular shows come to an end too quickly and with far too quiet a fanfare. Smash, Pushing Daisies, Arrested Development (maeby). I’m sure I’ll find something else to write about, but nothing on TV excites me as much as this show does. True, I watch Scandal with the same breathless devotion that an end-of-days cult watches the skies, but it’s not the same. It’s not as ridiculous, as heartfelt, as much the stuff of dreams.

So this is the end. But the beautiful thing about Smash is that it reminds me that the same truth that makes theater the most magical art form can apply to television. Every moment–extraordinary, breath-taking, boring, confounding–exists for just a flash and then evanesces. But it lives on in us forever.

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This publicity image released by NBC shows actress Jennifer Hudson as Veronica Moore in a scene from the second season of "Smash." "Smash," set in the world of New York theater, stars Debra Messing, Christian Borle and Angelica Huston. Guest stars this season include Jennifer Hudson. (AP Photo/NBC, Will Hart)
Smash

The Miseducation of Anita Hill

Okay, Smash we have to talk!

You’ve legit become an engrossing ensemble show; I actually care about what happens to most of the characters. I want more of them to succeed than I want to perish in hang-gliding accidents now. This is progress. I even am, sometimes, sort of, a little compelled by Karen. (#StillAnIvy) but we have to nip this Jimmy relationship in the bud before it gets going. I can’t.  I can’t. I CAN NOT with this. Jeremy Jordan is great; he sings like a lark and has the face of a young Jeremy Jordan ::swoon::. But this plotline is going nowhere.creep copy

Actually, I’ll tell you exactly where it’s going. If Smash wasn’t getting cancelled at the end of this year (which is it because somebody in Hollywood hates me–I’m looking at you, Girl Who Played Six on Blossom!) the season would end with a cliffhanger where Hit List inexplicably makes it to opening night on Broadway (despite the fact that it is written by amateurs, Off- and off-Off-Broadway are totally viable options, and the book doesn’t exist in this spectral plane). Then Jimmy, being that lovable loser that he is, would OD on X or whatever the kids are taking these days and disappear, leaving only a sad spotlight at curtain call, as Kyle, his floppy-haired footman, and Karen, his corpse bride, take to the streets to search for him, singing a song called “Codependency! (Fuck Yeah!)”

AND

I

CAN’T!

I can’t with Kyle being a lowly manservant, thrown hither and yon to the whims of his chemically dependent, moody friend (who probably has a borderline personality disorder).

Kyle and Bobby. Swoon.

Functional relationships? Matching swoop bangs? Absence of ironing? Ain’t nobody got time for that.

I can’t with Karen lap-dogging after any man who is mean to her, just like Uncle Gerald from Iowa. I can’t with Julia castigating herself for all that is wrong with modern theater. I can’t with sad Ivy. And I can’t with Sexy Purlie.

Yes, you heard me. I can’t with this Derek storyline that somehow ends up being resolved not with him being chemical castrated and stuffed into a gimp suit, but rather proven right and competent by doing the one thing that you are NEVER TO DO: he makes JHud dance.

And you know that JHud comes from the Mariah Carey School of Standing Still and Singing. And you know that “I Got Love” was already roused from the moth balls and given glorious new life earlier in the episode when JHud stands still and saaaangs the hell out of it like God and Ossie Davis intended. And yet, for some reason, Derek and Josh Safran put their heads together and decided to Fosse-fy it. They turned every belt into a whisper (Don’t you know Jesus can’t hear you if you use your head voice?) They put JHud in character shoes like she’s a seven-year-old version of Lea Michelle on her first day of tap school. And they choreograph it like the Shady Pines production of Chicago.

And I can’t.

The only thing that would have made me more uncomfortable is if this was a scene from Clarence! The Clarence Thomas Musical and JHud was playing a Anita Hill. Act I closes with a showstopper called “What’s On My Coke (Ain’t No Joke)” ::abandons blog to go feverishly work on the book of said musical. Uses only scraps of paper and glints of light to write on because I am a poor gay striver and I exist primarily as a function of the whims of my straight counterparts (and sometimes in the novel The Hours).::

This publicity image released by NBC shows actress Jennifer Hudson as Veronica Moore in a scene from the second season of "Smash." "Smash," set in the world of New York theater, stars Debra Messing, Christian Borle and Angelica Huston. Guest stars this season include Jennifer Hudson.  (AP Photo/NBC, Will Hart)

100% not here for these Gwen Verdon shenanigans.

This is unacceptable.

Seriously, ladies and gays of Smash, can we please work on your self-actualization? There are like 2.25 straight men on this show and you’re all cow-towing to them. Porquoi?
This is professional theater, ladies and gays–your kingdom. Has any of those straight men every hit a high E on a belt or run into Michael Musto at a bathhouse? No, they have not. But you have. Who run the world? Gurls.

The only place ladies and gay have more power than professional theater is the dressing room at H&M, where one’s actual perception of reality is bent to the iron will of the surly staff. H&M is like Oz (both the magical land and the prison). I love how H&M even has a special “Real life” lighting, like “You may think you can see what things look like out there, in the ‘world’, but bitch you have no idea. Now buy these red skinny jeans before I shank the fuck out of you.”

I need y’all to rise up, ladies and gay! I need Ivy to own her fierceness. PLEASE. For instance, she rushes in to fill in at JHud’s concert and, upon seeing Karen, apologizes for her pressence.

Exsqueeze?!

Why is Ivy apologizing to Karen for taking a J-O-B? The market ain’t what it used to be, people are cutting back, you gotta catch as catch can.  If she hadn’t gotten this job on “Ronnie Moore Serves You Fosse’s Corpse” she would’ve had to make money selling her hair to French prostitutes or baking kitties into pies. What I’m saying is times is hard, times is haaaaaaard.

::applause break::

Seriously though, Ivy is a Broadway veteran! Stand up for yourself, girl! Karen was a last minute choice to star in an out-of-town tryout of a failed musical. Even I’ve done that. Ivy needs to go on Iyanla Vanzant‘s show and work out these inferiority issues. I am over meek Ivy. Own your life, woman! It’s like she’s playing Celie in an all-white version of The Color Purple (working title:  Beige.) Derek is playing Mister; Justin Beiber is Harpo; Adele is Miss Sophia; and I’m in the front row getting my life!

::praise break::

My one saving grace is the regal presence of Miss Deena Jones herself, the mother of an entire generation of on-screen singers from Moesha to Lauryn Hill’s surly Catholic school girl in Sister Act: Miss Sheryl Lee Ralph! Hallelujah!sheryl

I love that she comes striding in all shoulder pads and clear understanding of the hierarchy of needs. I love that she is essentially playing an alternate universe version of her character in Sister Act 2: Gangstas Paradise, complete with pursed lips, crushed dreams of a singing career that she takes out on her daughter and a revelatory moment of shiny-eyed pride during a concert at the end.

After a season of compulsive poor decision making from every character, Ms. Sheryl Lee takes these ladies and gays to school, Sister Mary Clarence-style. Derek’s sexual hangups? Not here for that. Drugged out white boy angst? Not here for that. Just write the damn song, thanks. Karen v. Ivy? Here for that, I am not. If you wanna be somebody, if you wanna go somewhere, you better sit on that stool and sing backup for my daughter!

Class dismissed! See you next week.

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Smash

Smating Ritual

Gotta say, I am not smoved by the various love connections, awkward rehearsal-room trysts and tech-related proposals on Season 1 of Smash. Now I love a televised love story; every Thursday I curl up with a bucket of Chai tea and 6 to 10 orders of General Tso’s Chicken and gently encourage my girl Olivia Pope to try to make it work with her boyfriend, The President of the United States (who was in a coma but then woke up suddenly because plot-development and is now fine even though he got shot in the head–it happens–but maybe has a different personality and wants to divorce his pregnant Lady Macbeth wife, which, I don’t know, I’m no Shakespeare scholar, but something tells me it’s not going to go well.)  Oh, Scandal!  Why you so good?!

Olivia Pope (Kerry Washington) Oliva Pope (center) struggles valiantly to restrain her pimp-slapping hand.

Oliva Pope (center) struggles valiantly to restrain her pimp-slapping hand.

Anyway! Smash is many things, but it is no Scandal and so I am ambivalent about whether Derek and Ivy end up together (will it make her stop her doing drugs and free her up to cause havoc? If the answer is anything but yes, I don’t care). I didn’t hate Season 1‘s resident doormat Dev, who was in love with Karen but then resented her for her sudden “theater career” (I use that word with the same level of cigarette smoke-tinged irony  that I use when referring to my own “theater career“) and the slept with her rival (“Of all the bars in all the world, you had to walk into… this creepy Southie dive?  Okay. Sure.”) and then proposed.  I may be getting the order wrong but that’s because it doesn’t matter.

None of the relationships on Smash matter. It’s like they’re all just “theater changing” in front of each other—yeah, your private parts are out, but it’s of little consequence because you’re artists.  And you’re drunk in the back of a cab on your way home from Don’t Tell Mama or whatever.  And you’re all probably gay anyway.

Which brings me to my point!  The homosexuals!  I love a good gay subplot.  I wish it was the main plot, but we live in America not Brokeback Mountain and it gets better, but don’t get carried away.  Love love love!  When the 8th episode of the new Kevin Spacey Netflix series House of Cards took a sudden detour into the Forest of Repressed Same-Sex Attraction I was immediately Clap-Your-Hands-Happy, even though it didn’t make a bit of sense.

Kevin Spacey and Kevin Federline

I have no idea what this photo is from (real life? a movie? A Claymation special called “Kevin Federline resorts to desperate measures to make ends meet”? Who knows?)

 

Who cares about making sense? If God wanted gay relays (can we just call relationships “relays”? I can’t doing all this typing.  I have a day job, dammit)… What? Oh, if God wanted gay relays to make sense… oh, whatever, I lost interest in the joke.

I really want to be invested in Tom’s love life but I also really want to be invested in Exxon stock. It’s just so boring (Tom’s love life, not Exxon. If Dallas has taught us anything it’s that the oil business is scintillating. And that shower stalls sometimes contain holes in the space-time continuum.).

I’m just going to say it: Tom is the most boring gay I know. And I know two gay architects and a gay vetrenarian. Veteranarian. Vetrerenarian. A doctor for animals. When Tom shows up on screen I immediately develop Snarkolepsy, a serious condition which makes me fall asleep and dream of a time when Will & Grace was still on the air and I didn’t have to deal with these nouveau gay hoes. Apparently the latest development in social justice for the homosexual community is the privilege of being portrayed with all the blandness of a sitcom dad. That’s the issue with ham-fisted political correctness (whether well-intentioned or not): it robs you of the ability to create compelling characters for fear of offending.

Anyway! You didn’t ask to read my SMasters thesis (10s across the board).  The point is Tom is a blander than Instant Grits (I’ve been reading The Pioneer Woman!).

Like when he was dating the politician (side note: I don’t like when shows that are not The West Wing have characters that are in politics, because I always feel like they’re not walking and talking fast enough. If you’re not competing in an Olympic sport called “Express Expositing” you’re not really in government.)

Anyway! Tom and the politician were so bored by each that they couldn’t even figure out how to have sex. Which… Okay, can we have a smoment?  There’s  scene where they’re lying side-by-side staring at the ceiling (which is network television code for “we’ve just finished making the beast with two backs”) except… no, that is clearly not what has happened!  Perhaps they’ve just finished reading passages from Tenth of December to each other or discussing paint swatches or running lines from The Country Wife, but they were definitely not smating.

It's not going to suck itself.

It’s not going to suck itself.

What kind of gay sex are they having where upon completion one just rolls off the other and everyone stares soulfully into the air having thoughts? Tom is so boring he doesn’t even know that the point of having a upholstered headboard is so that you can slam various body parts against it for hours on end without injury. But what do I know? Oh, that’s right: EVERYTHING.

Is Tom a neuter? I’m asking a serious question!  Is he a Ken doll?  How is he not spontaneously combusting with arousal over being in flagrante delicto with that total dreamsicle Neal Bledsoe, who is—No Shade—Too Hot For Tom.

Ugh, now I’m just being bitchy. Sorry. I’m a stickler for sex accuracy.  This whole thing has me plum tuckered out.  I was going to go on about Tom’s new boyfriend “Black Man Who Dances and Likes Football” (actual name irrelevant) but I need to go rest my eyes for a spell.

Lord. These hoes.

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