My ears aren't just weeping, they're bleeding!
My ears aren't just weeping, they're bleeding!
I wanna be trapped with them!
What makes a gay heart weep Dallas-sized tears of misery, anger and vexation? [Remember: everything's bigger in Texas ... including tantrums.] Why, it's finding out that one of your fast-favorite shows is cancelled. Case-in-point: GCB
GCB (which stands for Good Christian B [rhymes with witches]) is one wrong-but-oh-so-right laugh after another each episode.
From Kristin Chenoweth's skyscraper Louboutins and impressive cleavage [remember, cleavage helps your cross hang straight, y'all] to Annie Potts' one-liners ["God often speaks to me through Christian Dior - I believe He'd like me to have a new fur coat"] the show delivers big hair, big ... accessories and big laughs.
What more could a gay heart ask for?
In an era of hyped-up controversy [I'm looking at you, Bill O'Reilly and Rush Limbaugh] where religion seems to be at war with a sense of humor and sex [let alone sexuality] GCB and its cast/crew took the chance to marry laughter and savior.
I was hooked the minute my friend showed me the pilot [almost a full week before it aired - take that people who didn't know they were competing with me] and I knew that, despite it's airing-delay (filmed back in early/mid 2011) audiences would connect with the Sex and the City/Desperate Housewives-esque clicque. Here came a show which had strong, funny, intelligent [we'll forgive Sharon Peachum's lapses due to naivte and earnestness - at least, that's what we'll call it] and well-written women.
The fact that there's a gorgeous hunk'a gay man front and center? Why, that's a slice of heaven right there. Thank you, Darren Star, you do know your audience. [Blake, marry me - I'm up for some GCB'n!]
Granted, the show isn't for everyone - some of it's one-off jokes dance on the line between corny and cut-up - but, what is? [Tho' I dare you not to laugh at "Basketeria; that's Mexican for Basket Factory" when said by a cluelessly cute white guy - or "At least my husband knows how to keep both hands on the wheel during orgasm".]
Not all tv is for everyone. That's why we have different channels and different shows to watch on them.
GCB quickly grew a Twitter following - hashtags and tweeting accounts sprouted up with nomers like "Gigi's Hair" and its stars (Cheno, Leslie Bibb, Potts) corresponded with fans there and on facebook ... in short, the show had achieved Sensation Status.
Of course, what Sensational thing doesn't have its detractors? Time and again, small-minded bigots and Holier-Than-Thous [translation: stick-up-their-butts] tried to say the show maligned Christians and Conservatives. True, the show (and by extension the novel Good Christian Bitches by Kim Gatlin) called out the hypocrites who tote the Bible in one hand and vodka with prostitutes in the other.
Television has always done an interesting job of holding up the mirror to society - flaws and all; good and ill. That is part of its job ... that? And entertainment. And this gay heart was sure entertained by the gals of GCB.
With ABC announcing that the show would not be picked up for a 2nd season [assclaps] the collective gay gasp could be heard across the country. Luckily for us, some strong-willed and very enthusiastic folks won't take this lying down. [Or is that layin' down? Despite being from Virginia - pronounced Vah-gin-yah - my Southern to English vocabulary is decidedly lacking.]
Even if ABC doesn't help another network pick up the pieces - *cough* Lifetime, you REAAALLy should be looking into this *cough* - the act of letting our voices be heard will hopefully help balance this silencing of laughter.
Follow GCB on Twitter
Save GCB on Facebook
Save GCB on Youtube
Save GCB official site
What makes a gay heart weep 5th sense levels of Amanda Seyfried tears [how LAME it is to make Mean Girls jokes?] or Heather Duke-esque crocodile tears [how OLD a Heathers joke makes me?] is realizing that social media is totally High School: Part Deaux.
Think about it.
I mean it, really.
Think about it.
When Myspace was trendy [you know, cro magnon days] if you weren't in someone's Top 8, 12 or 64 [they offered so many options to snub] you may as well not even have a page. Of course, the more socially mature folks wouldn't bat an eyelash at this. I? Am so not mature.
I'm a bit neurotic.
Example: While standing in line for her 2008 Such a Pretty Fat Tour I caused Jen Lancaster to snort in laughter because the 2 perky girls ahead of me squealed when they realized I was "that BEN" in her Top 8.
I wish I'd had the adult sensibility to just let it pass unremarked.
I was not.
Jen of course signed the book "For Ben, who is totally in my top 8" (with grins plastered on both our faces).
I was in the Cool Kids Club. I was a Heather. I was totally top 8 material.
Then myspace became the next-big-thing-to-be-passe. [Damn]
Enter the era of Facebook supremacy [member since 2004 when it was just for college kids. YO.] and all of the ridiculous keys and styles "inspired" by Myspace over the last 5 years. It's a tad ... well, ridiculous.
From their popularity games [I have not/am not/nor will not be interested in Farmvile. Okay? Thanks] to the feeding-into-neuroses "Like" button, "Connections" and "Facebook Recommends" links, Facebook is one giant high school. Complete with populars, geeks and bullies.
And bless your heart if you aren't in the right clicque - or the right "click".
Top this off with Tumblr [aside from finding some great dirty photos, what's the point?], Google+ [plus what? I wish I could knock it, but I don't know squat about it] and - my major addiction - Twitter, you have a recipe for a truly Mean Gurls Click.
I hate to say it, but, the number of followers (and ratio of followers to following) seems to carry a lot of weight. Again, wish I could say that I have the self-awareness and maturity to declare that this doesn't bother me. I really do.
But, apparently - say it with me - I don't.
The old I-wasn't-popular-until-Junior-Year-and-was-picked-on-a-LOT-as-a-kid insecurities reared their head recently and I asked my followers to promote me in that atrocious of atrocities: Follow Friday.
Tho' the times I've been a Follow Friday recommendation without hounding someone into it? Well, I may've done a victory dance [complete with Madonna-backing-vocals]. Maybe.
Twitter is like that verbal diarrhea you get in school; when every thought comes pouring out of your mouth because the cool kids are paying attention to you. You extoll the virtues of the VERY boring meal you just ate [yawn] or you rant about the merest minutiae of your daily life [guilty].
My friend (the beautiful and talented novelist and screenwriter) Caprice Crane pointed out, in a recent conversation we had, that she really only uses Twitter to post observational humor or to make jokes about whatever pop culture headline is ripe for the picking.
Translation: she doesn't stoop to the Mean Gurl Click mentality. Caprice has class.
Alas, I don't have her self-control or confidence [or looks, wit, breding or ... well, the list can go on for days]. Self-censoring has never been my forte. More than once my best friend has said I need an editor for daily conversations.
[Apparently TMI isn't always a great place to take conversations in public. Who knew?]
In fact, more than a few of my tweets have been just-shy of assclap-level Mean Gurl.
[Think more Winona Ryder in Heathers, less Shannen Doherty]
Like high school clicques, it's a game you play (or don't).
Play it on your own terms. Be aware that our lives are fodder for pages in a digital Burn Book the Heathers compile.
Watch out you don't become one.
Body By Jake ... Ass By Betty Crocker ... Body Image Issues by Our Culture.
What makes a gay heart weep like Rick Santorum in a Chocolate Factory [hell, even a Cheesecake Factory, ‘cos you know that closet-queen has some food issues]? Why, it’s realizing that you're sprouting chins like a teenager grows zits.
A true cringe-worthy moment.
Definitely diet time. And I swear, this has nothing [read: everything] to do with my impending 29th birthday this July and my first trip to the beach since 1996.
Well, I soft-guarantee?
The other day I had to buy my first pair of "fat jeans" [size 33] since I successfully took off the weight in 2007. When I couldn't get the size 32s past my thighs [which canNOT stay seperated these days, fyi] I knew it was time.
The icing on the cake? Getting a LOVELY post-card from Just For Men with a FREE OFFER to help me get the grey away ... this may have sent me running.
Okay, fast walking.
For the first time in almost 2 years, I turned back to exercise. To say that it was a cake walk would be a misnomer [mmmm, cake - can I make it double-fudge with chocolate icing?] but, I strapped on my mp3 player and blasted Madonna's new album, MDNA, and took myself out into the night.
Seriously, I had quite forgotten how difficult it was to stick to a comprehensive and effective regimen of diet and exercise. The exercise part's not that hard, but the diet? Oh diets, how I want to quit thee.
It's easy to tell yourself “Benjamin, today you are going to eat three sensible medium meals and 2 small snacks; when you get up and go to bed you are going to do your exercises.”, but actually doing that?Bugger.
1. Getting out of bed and setting foot outside of my nice warm blankets [one of which is faux beaver fur] is NOT pleasant nor something that I particularly relish. And this? This makes it difficult to do my morning exercises
2. Doing morning exercises (usually stretches and mild cardio in my room to Madonna or Cher [remember this is Stuff That Makes a GAY Heart Weep]) is tough when I am curled up underneath the covers wondering how quickly I can throw on house shoes and run into the kitchen for some hot coffee and back into bed where I can nurse it while watching the Today Show [What can I say, that 4th hour? When I get to catch it ... Kathie Lee does love her bottles of 'coffee'] and Lifetime's reruns of The New Adventures of Old Christine.
“Y’know, that’s a very good look on you: it’s ‘come hither,
I’m wearing something under-sized and machine washable in-case I get so plastered I vomit on myself’.”
"Thanks, I got it out of your closet."
3. The whole eating right thing: eating 3 smaller meals a day and 2 small/sane portion snacks? Let’s just say, that I’m not known for my tendency to eat and nibble throughout the day.
I have a tendency to skip [unless chugging a large cup or three of dark, plain black coffee counts as eating] breakfast and then head into work where I will grab a lunch of a Subway “lite” for good measure. By now, the lovely Arabic girl who works there knows my order by rote; Tuna on flatbread with spinach, green peppers and cucumbers.
By the time work is over, and I get home … cooking a lite dinner isn’t exactly what springs to mind, and I just buy some chicken nuggets at McD's.
Okay, I admit it! There is a reason it's called convenience food. Me not standing over a stove making it makes it automatically fantastic to me.
4. After letting dinner digest by sitting on my arse working on the computer [answering e-mails, talking on facebook, tweeting and writing], I'm pretty beat. By the time that I'm ready to call it quits, I just wanna crawl back into bed – not get over onto the mat I keep on the floor in the middle of my room for exercising. But, unless I lose out to my laziness, I drag myself over, put some Madonna on and do my evening toning exercises.
Then, drag myself back under my covers and drift off to sleep … only to be awakened by the alarm way too damn early in the morning *le sigh*.
BU-UT, all that whining aside … I do seriously intend on continuing to try to eat healthier, trim down my waistline and lose just a FEW pounds.
Because if I lose just a few and tone up, then I will be healthier and have a happier body and body image – though, time, affirmation and self-esteem will be what change the image I really see in the mirror.
Of course, if I slim down my waistline AND keep the booty? Well, everybody wins!
What makes a gay heart weep kosher tears quite like a hilariously bad Seder story? Well, if you're a Gentile, I guess not much of anything [whoops] but, let's not go there.
I'm sure we can all laugh together at the sheer absurdity of my first Seder in college. At the time, I was a student, worked as a caterer and had a budding social life [versus my treasured nights at home with my cats these days].
Outfitted in low-rise jeans, punk boots, mascara, “Dropkick Murphys” tee and a seriously fierce feaux-hawk I sauntered into the second-floor of our catering offices looking for my sunglasses (left-behind the day before after another mother-of-the-bride-batshit-crazy wedding downtown).
The plan was to get together with friends and hit the gay club downtown. On Thursdays it was 80s Retro Night there, hence the pseudo-punk and I was ready to get my drink on and dance to “Like a Prayer” [obligatory song for 80s Retro Night].
I didn’t even top the stairs before I heard an overly-enthusiastic … “BENJI!”
Now, when you hear an all-too cheerful exultation of your name [even an annoying nickname] you KNOW something fishy is up.
It was my boss, Pescha, approaching me …
“Bubbula, you’re free right now, aren’t you?”
“Uhm … I mean, yes, I'm not running anywhere at the moment; but I really only stopped in to pick up my sunglasses … I, uh, have plans tonight.”
[No, it is NOT apparent that I have an issue saying no to authority figures, is it?]
“But, you don’t have plans now?”
“No, not at this exact moment – why?”
“Good, because I need help downstairs; the Jewish Student Organization is coming by soon for the Passover Seder. We’re hosting it for the students who can't get home.”
“But-t, I – uh … uh, well – I guess if I don’t stay later than 7?”
Promising that the event would run no later than 6:30 that worked, it left me enough time to get all re-dolled up and to grab my friend Hana and run.
Changing into a cobalt dress shirt and black tie, eschewing the black slacks in favor of my jeans (two reasons:
1. none of the black slacks really fit me well, either too-small girls’ pants or the guys’ which were too big
2. the jeans were so tight I'd all-but crisco’d myself to get into them I didn't wanna think of the ordeal to get myself in and out of them in my little cubbyhole of an office).
I grabbed a black vest just-in-case.
The Heads of the Jewish Student Organization, a young semi-cute boy and a very attractive young lady – very shiksa in her blonde hair and pale dress – arrived and helped us lay out the Seder plates and such.
By the time sunset neared, the guests had arrived and gathered around 5 properly attired tables.
I walked the kosher wine and grape-juice to the various settings and matzo crackers as appetizers and caught at least 3 of the cute boys’ eyes darting both to crotch and ass level [hmm, Jewish AND gay?] as well as catching this REALLY sweet young guy’s eye as I proffered him the water, my crotch apparently just-below shoulder level – he blushed almost as crimson as the wine in front of him.
I should’ve really wondered why I was getting this attention, but I didn’t.
By the time I had meandered around each table, making sure all of our guests were comfortable and good, and making it back into the ante-room, I was well-aware of more than a few girls and guys outright staring at me.
As soon as the door behind me had closed Pescha was at my side, an embarrassed grin on her suntanned Bubbe face. Hana was doubled over in a giggle-fit.
“Benjamin, you CANNOT go back out there like that … you are giving those poor girls [and gay boys] whiplash!”
It seems, the tight jeans I'd chosen to attract attention for dancing were doing their job; causing these poor Seder-goers to get whiplash from trying to stare at both my crotch and ass – which were both pronounced in them.
My bad. [Or a great date-catching plan - you decide.]
Not being able to wear a pair of the black slacks upstairs, I opted the simple-fix; grabbing a black apron and making sure it covered up my crotch and at least minimized my booty’s appearance.
After that? The Seder went by quietly and in proper reverence [my bulge/booty causing no more stir … but, at least, I’d like to think that my overt-sexuality had made for some good stories to be told around the next Seder table].
Hana and I made our excuses and re-primped and headed out. Of course, after walking the 10 blocks to get to the club from campus, we found that it was one of the arbitrary nights when the bouncer was checking IDs and I was the only 21 yr old in our group.
So, we did what anyone thwarted would do: we ditched the dance-plans and did TGI Friday’s instead. Lame? A little. Fun? Definitely. A very interesting first Passover for me.
Moishe led the Jews on Exodus and I? Led my friends to dinner. Not quite the same, but, there you are.