Fork on the Left, Knife in the Back

INTRODUCTION

THERE ARE THOSE who love to gossip and there are complete liars. I’ve always been quite open about being the former type. I can’t drive, swim, or rearrange the furniture, but throw me a celebrity name and I can flap my gums for hours about their love lives and weird surgery. And what’s the harm? Gossip, I long ago rationalized, is a communal form of expression, bringing us together to revel in those who do everything—including screw up—in an excitingly larger way. We dish these celebs to give us the illusion that we know them, rejoice in their stumbles because they’ve comfortingly enough sunk to our level, then cheer their inevitable rising out of the ashes, knowing nothing’s more thrilling than a comeback, staged with all the radiant wisdom that can only come from hard knocks.

I’ll always be grateful to gossip for helping get me through a deeply lonely childhood and adolescence in the bottom part of Brooklyn. The only Italian-American only child in history, I didn’t even have imaginary friends, but sitting on the front stoop, I’d come alive as I’d blab with the next-door neighbors about all the other neighbors and their various marital and sartorial triumphs and faux pas. Bingo—I’d found my calling.

Kitsch culture was my other pal, especially at the local one-dollar theater that showed misbegotten epics starring lusty Liz and Dick, with an occasional drop-in by bug-eyed waif Mia Farrow. These movies seemed like pure heaven, with faraway settings, jazzy costumes, and enjoyably hammy acting. What did I know? I’d never been suffocated with good taste. I’d never been suffocated with ANY taste. At home, everything was covered in plastic, including my father, and my mother was a wiz at keeping it all overcrowded yet spotless. So, for lack of a subscription to The Atlantic Monthly, bad movies became my escape, filling two hours with cathartic tales of adultery, mayhem, and drop earrings.

When my aunt took me to see a GOOD movie, The Sound of Music (oh hush, it’s superb), my head reeled from the melodic gorgeousness of it all. I hadn’t realized a film didn’t have to be rewarding despite itself. I instantly fell for its sweeping romance and chirpy Nazi baiting. Best of all, the cashier had cleverly noticed that auntie was a nun and promptly ushered us in for free! We were VIPs, swept in to see the best movie of the year! I’ve always looked back on that incident as the one that cemented my addiction to the comp lifestyle (if not to Christianity).

I vowed that once I had control, my life would be filled with such moments and I’d be lavished with nonstop entertainment and glittery names. I swore I’d never have to face extended boredom or lost opportunities ever again—not when I could be escorted into Julie Andrews movies. I vowed, with swelling pride, to be a big, old motormouthed gossip columnist!

Jump ahead past my frantic days at Columbia College, where I studied Homer with one hand and Cher with the other, in between keeping index cards on everyone on campus, and we breathlessly arrive at my adult life, which was destined to become a relentless parade of guest-list action with no down time whatsoever. The folks were pushing me to go into accounting or pharmacy, but as wildly glamorous as those professions surely are, I dove into entertainment journalism, craving the mad whirl of event hopping and the chance to write whatever I pleased about it all. Fortuitously, in 1984, after some penitent years spent freelancing, I landed the ultimate Michael Musto job—writing a weekly trashtastic gossip and nightlife column in the Village Voice. As the author of La Dolce Musto, I could have my finger in every imaginable scene, racing from Broadway opening nights to movie premieres to after-hours clubs, while sticking my face—and point of view—into every single syllable. If I was running away from something while chasing this dream, at least I was always running towards something amazing. And I never had to be alone with the lingering dark thoughts from my desperate early years. I had turned my yapping on the stoop into a livelihood—and best of all, I was never bored.

It helped that I could get away with absolute murder. Not only could I be openly gay, but I could graciously escort others out too (as long as they were famous and I had evidence—like the gay answer to Monica’s Gap dress)! I could party for a living (see the chapters Starry, Starry Nights and After Dark, My Sweet) while celebrating oddball types with a creative edge (see Weirdos Are My Heroes). I could chastise mainstream luminaries on those wonderful occasions when they disappointed us (check out Celebs in Need of Crisis Counseling), serve pesky items without names to drive the readers extra crazy (see Legally Blind), and even occasionally make myself the story, from my erratic sex life to my own botched career ops (Cheap Thrill-Seeking and Other Personal Adventures).

Most enjoyably, I could ask zany, irreverent questions and clear up an urban legend or two in the process. I got to ask Carrie Fisher if it’s true that she once walked in on mama Debbie Reynolds doing it with Agnes Moorehead. (More head! Debbie must have screamed, poetically.) Wickedly witty Carrie deadpanned, I hardly even walked in on her with men! I also got to grill Psycho star Janet Leigh on the rumors about her daughter Jamie Lee Curtis, and the result was both my Watergate and my Waterloo. After flinching, Janet politely answered that she’d named Jamie Lee in advance and made sure to give her a name that would work with either gender, and maybe that’s why the talk started. I was half thrilled to have gone somewhere taboo with this queer query, yet half shaken to have ruffled a legend after having gained her trust with so much ass kissing. But hell, I’m a gossip columnist living my childhood dream, right?

Anyway, the following columns and reviews cover my highs, lows, and dizzying bouts of Oh no, he didn’t. My first collection, La Dolce Musto (January 2007; Carroll & Graf), spanned my entire tenure at the Voice, but this assortment puts a bit more emphasis on the ’90s and ’00s, as my minxy mix of celebration and cynicism hits red carpets in search of validation from the most luminescent people on the planet. As you take it all in, picture me reciting it, with arm gestures, on the front stoop. If that’s not vivid enough, just go there and I’ll do it for you.

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CELEBS IN NEED OF CRISIS COUNSELING

Everyone Shut Up About Ellen Degeneres

D-DAY IS ALMOST upon us—you know, Dyke Day—when Ellen Morgan will join her better half, Ellen DeGeneres, in that well-furnished expanse outside the closet. But before that April 30 landmark comes Drama Queen Day—today—when I get to address all the naysayers who’ve contented that this is a crass or inadvisable move. Let’s pray it’s the last blast of hot air on the subject. See, it’s my humble estimation that the most crass, inadvisable move of all has been the masturbatory should-she-or-shouldn’t-she speculation that’s cropped up in the supposedly liberal press. While it’s true that ABC and Ellen teased us with a few hundred too many Lebanese jokes, the real downside of that was it allowed critics free reign to second-guess this nervy venture, virtually canvassing the entire country about it in negativity-laden polls and articles.

These people are even more cynical than the network. Why did everyone have to agree that Ellen should be gay before it could be etched in stone (or pillow)? Do they ring doorbells and ask if Jane Seymour should make out with that long-haired guy, or, for that matter, if there should be a Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman? And why have even the opinion makers who’ve given the revelation a thumbs-up made sure to add, But lots of people aren’t going to like this? Who cares? Let them watch something else—if they can find something that won’t violate their refined sensibilities. While they’re doing so, why don’t the ink-stained wretches just help the future arrive faster instead of voicing the same namby-pamby reservations we heard when blacks first got sitcoms? Maybe they can go back to worrying about whether Diahann Carroll should be Julia.

The truth is, I’m not really mad at ABC anymore—except for their having hypocritically turned down gay advertising on the episode. I’ve almost forgiven their dicking us around (some feel this has actually provided a much needed desensitization process) and have even given in to all the glitz and guest stars, because at least they’ll ensure that the coming out is put over in the biggest way possible. What I’m really mad about are all the counterproductive responses you still hear, like, Let’s hope Ellen doesn’t feel trapped by the limitations of the gay label (no, dears, it’s the closet that has limitations); The Ellen twist doesn’t make sense because the character started out straight (no, kids, just confused—even DeGeneres had a boyfriend once); and This is nothing but a show-saving gimmick—as if closet busting is such a simple, effortless way to nab ratings. If it is, let’s have the gay lead actors and characters on all those other faltering shows announce their homosexuality right this second to their waning audiences. I’m waiting!

Even if Ellen were using her lesbianism to grab an audience, shouldn’t she be commended for turning honesty into a selling point? Wouldn’t it be a wonderful new world if you could make your open gayness pay off for some kind of instant appeal? If the most predictable thing for a showbiz queer to say was, Hey, guys, it’s sweeps week. Let’s come out!?

Insanely enough, it’s the very writers who think the coming out is a career-saving device who also say it’s a problematic move that lots of people won’t like. How can it be both? I wish everyone except me would just shut the fuck up on the matter. In twenty—no, two—years, historians will look back at all this hilarity and say, "Can you believe they had to have months of discussion about whether a fictional character should be gay? And then when the actress came out in her own tormented manner, people accused her of being cheap and calculating!" It is to laugh.

Can Singing Siamese Twins Outshine George Michael’s Bathroom Stunt?

THINGS THAT MAKE me mad, part whatever: First off, I’m horrified that the Tony Awards committee decided that the two actresses who played the Siamese twins in Side Show can be nominated together, as a rule-breaking doppelganger duo. This is a slap in the faces of the other potential nominees, who will now have the disadvantage of competing as single human beings. And didn’t any of the people involved in the decision (including the show’s producers, who lobbied for the joint, as it were, nomination) see Side Show? The whole point was that, even if they shared embarrassing body parts, the twinsies were completely separate entities with vastly different dreams and personalities. They sang and danced about this theme for over two hours! Hello?

What’s more, I saw another Tony aspirant, the revival of The Chairs, and was furious that the two star characters—practically twins—are basically waiting for a mime; that, while the play didn’t live up to my greatest fears of Ionesco (you know, What time is it? Pineapple), it’s still pretty fucked up; and that the whole thing leads up to a written phrase which, from where I was sitting, was so obscured it looked like, God Says Oy. And that I loved it!

What else? Oh yeah, I was all set to have my own absurdist evening at Jimmy’s Bronx Café, the gigantic dance club up on West Fordham Road, until socialite Sandy Hill—celebrating her birthday there, on her first big slumming adventure since her controversial trip to a bigger hill (Everest)—wisely decreed that this time she didn’t want press. And in other mounting news, I was livid that Disney dropped ex-MTV VJ Simon Rex from the cast of a sitcom pilot because of his adult-film past—as if porno is any more shameful than some of those awful series! Besides, as the columnist who originally ran the movie still of Simon with a raging hard-on, I actually saw the guy’s body of work and know that all he did on film was jerk off. Do the jerk-offs at Disney not jerk off?

And does that same harmless gesture constitute the lewd act George Michael was supposedly performing in that bathroom a few weeks ago (no one’s officially told us yet, though Howard Stern listeners seem to know the loo-down)? Or was George making provocative shapes out of paper towels? And was there ever any doubt about the guy’s sexuality anyway, not because he’s Greek, but because he was once reported to be dating Brooke Shields? And hasn’t Boy George (who was also sexually ambiguous when he was famous) been screaming for years that a girl Michael was supposedly enamored of used to be Boy’s own platonic fag hag? God says oy!

And who the hell is Jonathan Harris (Dr. Smith from the TV version of Lost in Space) trying to fool by saying his persnickety character was by no means gay? Dr. Smith not gay? Please—I’m sure he hung out in that very same bathroom. And is it true that a certain TV teen was set to make a big coming-out splash in a queer magazine until the powers-that-be made sure he crawled right back into that closet, where he can fend off attitude from Dr. Smith?

And by the way, how can the Teletubbies people not rush to confirm that the purple one, Tinky Winky, is gay, when not only does he carry a smartly chosen handbag, but the last time I turned in, he was twirling around in a festive tutu? And isn’t it weird that muscle queens are now saying I lash out at them because I’m jealous that they don’t pay me enough attention? If so, wouldn’t that underline my very point—that body fascists only have time for one another, leaving non-muscled queens oppressed by both straights and gays? But I’ll stop adding to the problem by demonizing them—or at least try to, between pumps. Wearing them, that is.

And back to Lost In Space, isn’t that Party of Five ingénue who plays Penny the most annoying creature on the planet since Dharma, Ally McBeal, the dancing baby, and everyone at the pizza place combined? Doesn’t she look about thirty-five and sound as if she’s just inhaled helium? Shouldn’t she be covered in a honey glaze and mailed to Godzilla (though the lesbian undertones of her scene with the space monkey were kind of sweet)? And did anyone catch that Barbara Walters interview with Chumbawamba on The View? Could you believe Babs was interviewing Chumbawamba, saying Chumbawamba, and asking questions like, So, what is an anarchy band? And wasn’t the question answered in its purest form when actress Karen Black turned up last week as a bizarre cartoonist on Profiler and the resemblance between her and my other cult fave, the voluptuous horror of Jocelyn Wildenstein, seemed stronger—and stranger—than ever? Should I start watching TV less?

And how can I when Love Boat: The Next Wave actually borrowed RuPaul’s expression Everybody say love for its tantalizingly bizarre commercials? The debut episode—roundly trounced by critics—was actually buoyant enough in its own expectedly ludicrous way. From the gay guy pretending to be a straight guy pretending to be gay to the couple turned on by Belgian waffles, these boat people provided enough idiotic fun to float my vessel. But let’s have slightly better celebrity guest stars from now on, please. (How about Chumbawamba, Tinky Winky, and Boy George’s old fag hag?)

And, cruising on, how marvelously topical was it that practically all the above issues came up in Gotham Comedy Club’s Stand Up and Queer night last week, a frolicsome evening of laughs and music, all veritably ripped out of that day’s headlines? One comic labeled Dr. Smith an old cocktail queen at the wrong party, and, after George Michael became the subject of an onanistic dance routine performed by kinetic drag host Hedda Lettuce, Hedda also skewered Madonna, saying, When did she become British? What the fuck is she talking about? She’s white trash!

For the final stop—God say ahoy!—my love boat docked at Swing 46, a jazz lodge on Restaurant Row, where a signing trio called Triple Goddess aimed to convey three facets of ’90s womanhood as I sampled food from five nations. Their act, Coming to America!, lacks coherence or spontaneity, abruptly veering from songs about pharaohs to patter about the Berlin Wall. But what often saves it is that the women—Nancy Buell, Louisa Bradshaw, and Sylvia Moss—are talented singers who harmonize to a T, and with choreography yet. If they’re nominated for something, it should be as one person.

Another Bad Actor Tries to Carry California

TURNING ON LATE-NIGHT talk TV these days has become an explosive experiment in fright. Flicking the channels, I’m terrified I’ll catch Ashton Kutcher announcing his candidacy for president on Jimmy Kimmel Live, or maybe the Olsen twins using the Teen Choice Awards as a platform to declare they want to be joint Secretaries of Defense. Naturally, this terror state was prompted by Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Tonight Show announcement that he’s running for California governor—a thrilling moment for pop-culture vultures who get off on any kind of high-profile career move, but one that sent some serious political observers into apoplectic fits of sunglassed cynicism.

Even as an actor, the guy has no experience! What’s more, he seems to be exploitatively stepping into a volatile, Wild West situation where any crackpot with a handful of votes can take the booby prize. And besides, he still has a really thick accent. (Yes, some desperate commentators were actually bringing that up last week, though they should probably focus more on the content than the delivery—and remember, our president says nucular.)

Maybe scariest of all, Arnold doesn’t seem nearly as undistinguished as some of the other choices—a veritable Who’s Who of Who cares? In fact, he running against too many Hollywood Squares types (alongside the occasional earnest candidate, like Lieutenant Governor Cruz M. Bustamente) that it seems like the main prerequisite for getting your name on this ballot is having been the subject of an E! True Hollywood Story. With omnipresent author Arianna Huffington (if not her gay ex-husband), First Amendment-sleaze hero Larry Flynt, wacky comedian Gallagher, a porn star with even bigger boobs than Arnold’s, and whatever-happened to Gary Coleman all clogging the bill, the running man is starting to seem more credible by the minute. (Consider that a divorce trumps Whatchoo talkin’ ’bout, Willis? in trash-culture resonance any time.)

Even perennial victim Ann Coulter had to admit on the Fox News Channel that since she was ready to cede Gray Davis’s California back to Mexico anyway, maybe Arnie isn’t so rotten an option despite the fact that he’s such a moderate Republican he could almost pass for a conservative Democrat. But whoa nelly, let’s not get carried away by all the glitz and pecs that easily. How can a man who can’t even put out a movie I’d watch on a circling plane hope to rule our fourth most important state? (I’m partial to Vermont and Hawaii these days.) I guess because it happens to be the state with the most swimming pools, dark glasses and tit implants. Besides, when they’re confronted with fiscal disaster and managerial chaos, people—the same ones who are wildly cheering at Kobe Bryant’s public appearances—are so blinded by fame, wealth, and charisma that they’re willing to write off potential shortcomings and coo, Show us the way, Mr. Celebrity.

And the glamour factor exerts a pull for Arnold too. The hint of political glory must feel especially seductive to the man whose gubernatorial chances have caused way more of a stir than his recent film choices. "It was awkward when he did the press junket for Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines in June, Boston Herald film critic Stephen Schaefer tells me, because he had to sit there and tell reporters, ‘I’m here for Terminator, Terminator, Terminator!’ Nobody wanted to discuss the movie. After a couple of hours, he really got pissed off because of the total emphasis on his political prospects." In spite of lackluster press interest, T3 ended up doing semi-respectably here, raking in upward of $144 million so far, but it’s rocked much more effectively overseas where no one’s ready to say Hasta la biceps just yet. The movie could have been hotter in America, says Schaefer, but it shows that in the right project, Arnold still has an audience. He’s not Van Damme or Stallone.

Alas, the right project tends to mean sequels in which he sticks to his I’ll be back guns and reprises achingly familiar roles, though Arnold’s willing to take an adventuresome leap to remakes, too. Pre politics, he told the press he was committed to doing a retread of the sci-fi cult flick Westworld, which was expected to start filming next January. (He’d play the Richard Benjamin role, not the Yul Brynner robot—been there.)

But I bet Westworld never gets mechanized. It’s as a candidate, not an actor, that Arnold raises both excitement levels and eyebrows these days. Running for office actually isn’t that much of a stretch for the real-life action hero who always personified unadulterated upward mobility, conquering show biz with an unpronounceable name, barely detectable talent (until he hit upon the right blend of bravado and self-deprecation), and almost radioactive ambition. Like a better behaved Terminator, he methodically self-improved his way to the American dream and neatly accomplished his early goals of becoming an actor and marrying a Kennedy (Maria Shriver, who initially resisted being dragged into the political arena that’s defined so much of her family, though she’s apparently thought about it under pressure and now sees things hubby’s way).

Just like brainy’50s bombshell Jayne Mansfield (whose husband he played in a brainless TV movie), Arnold has always loved being underestimated based on his physique because it allowed him to surprise people with his sinewy mind. Some paint pre-stardom Arnold as a charming naif, but one source who knows the guy from the early days tell me, Everything he says is designed to construct an image or further a purpose. You can never be certain as to the veracity of anything he says. (Sounds perfect for politics.)

An ultraslick pro, he’s made some canny moves in recent years, from selling his way out of the faltering Planet Hollywood chain (but not so quickly that it looked ungrateful) to agreeing with Warner Brothers that Collateral Damage’s release should be postponed because of the untimely terrorist-bomb plotline. (Alas, it did come out eventually. Talk about a bomb plot!) And in the last week, he’s savvily used movieland references to cash in on his iconic stature, presenting himself as a Capraesque man of the people and paraphrasing Network to squeal We’re mad as hell and we’re not gonna take it anymore! He’s even parroted his own movie sayings, scaring those of us who live in dread of a campaign fully waged in catchphrases.

Thankfully, gay makes his day. Arnold’s been progressive on queer issues and has even promoted gay adoption, so the second he threw his barbell into the ring Andrew Sullivan blogged, Yay! A pro-gay, pro-choice, hard-ass Republican! An eagle has landed. Now let him soar. (He’s certainly Sullivan’s physical type.) Still, cinephiles remember Arnold making some gay-panic-style remarks about bodybuilding in the ’77 documentary Pumping Iron, and in ’92, he was targeted by the activist group Queer Nation for saying at a Bush the Elder campaign rally, I watched the debate and [the Democrats] all looked like a bunch of girlie men. (In response, Queer Nation called Arnold a bigot who was fueling the anti-gay agenda of the Bush/Quayle campaign.)

Adding to the complicated sexual slew, Spy magazine had reported that Arnold had once posed for gay nude photos, just for starters,