twenty-something

It's a shame that we won't get to see this hilarious episode again because Cruise is "said not to like the episode and Paramount just didn't dare risk showing it again." Good thing I already have a copy on my iPod. Take that, Tom.

[Via Towleroad.]

Now I'm not the biggest theater fag at all so, really, I have no idea what I'm talking about. But I did like this show. A lot. It's the story of an up-and-coming Hollywood star who falls for a (straight) male hustler (with a girlfriend) while in New York to accept an award, a story as told by the star's hilarious agent and beard. I suppose the show says a lot about what it means to be a celebrity and/or a homosexual in the world today, but it really shines when it's about these two men -- the movie star and the hooker -- falling into something. For a play with such a superficial synopsis, there's a surprising amount of heart and humor.

The movie star is played by Neal Huff, whom I also saw (also naked) in Take Me Out a couple years back. I enjoy this guy -- he's got a good everyman sorta presence (even when playing a celebrity). Plus he's got a hot hairy chest and a cute butt. Speaking of naked -- the hustler is played by Johnny Galecki, best known for playing Darlene's boyfriend on Roseanne, and you get to see his (enormous) penis in this play. (Sadly, you don't get to see Neal's.) The nude scene comes after a lot of build up and it's titalating and well deserved. Even when these guys aren't naked, they're sparkling on stage, especially when together. They're both funny, (mostly) sweet, charming, sexy, and heart-breaking.

Aside from the love story here, the highlight of the play is Julie White (whom you may recall from Six Feet Under, or as Nadine from Grace Under Fire). She's the acid-tongued agent and would-be narrator. She's vicious and hilarious throughout the entire play, sometimes vulnerable, always spiteful, and often evil. She's amazing. Loved her! Forget the cock, I would see the play again just to see her.

The set is really well done and the music fits well (it's not a musical at all -- it's just like interludes between scenes). The play's only weak spots may be it's semi-quick finish, which would feel very contrived if we didn't live in a post-TomKat world. The end worked well, very well, but I would've liked another scene or two. And the actress who plays the hustler's girlfriend was cute and funny, but sort of paled compared to the rest of the cast (which probably isn't the actress' fault -- it could just be the character).

Second Stage is a cool theater, too. Very orange. And Randy Harrison, Justin on TV's Queer as Folk, was sitting a couple rows behind me.

What an exciting night at the theatre!

The Little Dog Laughed is at the Second Stage Theatre until January 29th. It's 20sum Approved -- so go see it if you can!

Gossip from the Green Mountains!

"Actress" and "celebrity" Sandra Bullock was visiting her sister this week in Vermont...

For a PR stunt.

Sandy was in Montpelier for the opening of her little sister's new bakery, Gesine's Confectionary. The newlywed worked the counter, selling chocolate chip cookies, macaroons, and other baked goods.

"Their quality speaks for itself," she said.

The 41-year-old actress said she would not depend on the shop for a job, but would work there occasionally. "Only when I need the money," she said.

It's the little things that please us here in Vermont. The little things.

So I was totally under the impression that being a Pope was kind of like being a Vampire Slayer. You are magically called out of the masses to fulfill your destiny. Maybe you had a special birthmark or something. It could be anybody. It could even be me.

Shows what kind of Catholic boy I am.

No, a Papal Successor is not chosen by God or other "mystical" means; rather he's elected by other old white guys.

Boring! And undramatic! I demand a recount.

If you're remotely interested, check out Time's article on the subject.

"...but I don't know how to show it."

Comedian Mitch Hedberg is dead at 37.

He was brillant.

Some random quotes:

My lucky number is four billion. That doesn't come in real handy when you're gambling. "Come on, four billion! Fuck. Seven. Not even close. I need more dice."

My friend said to me, "You know what I like? Mashed potatoes." I was like, "Dude, you have to give me time to guess. If you're going to quiz me you have to insert a pause."

Download Mitch on iTunes.

"You wanna know what's up, doc? My cock up your ass!"

Quote of the week:

"It was reported that Mary-Kate Olsen will be moving out of the New York apartment she shares with sister Ashley.

"Damn you, Angelina Jolie! Is nothing sacred?!"

- Amy Poehler on SNL's Weekend Update.

These guys are quite funny on stage -- even if Michael Ian Black is a bitch off stage (ya know, relative to his pseudo-celebrity I Love The 90s status).

This, of course, is based upon a two-minute "interaction" with the man. After the show, I approached him for an autograph. The three men of Stella we giving them out, along with the opening comic. No big deal, right? I came up to him after my friend had gotten his signature. MIB then promptly turned his body from me slighty, and then kept his head cocked away. He wasn't talking to anybody else, not really listening to his fellow comics chat with fans. He just sort of turned away, from me, and his body was telling me, just me, to take a hike.

It was almost as if we had slept together once, it had gone badly, and he now wished to pretend that I did not exist. Sadly, I know what it's like to be on both sides of that awkwardness, and it was a familiar feeling.

So I stood there for a good thirty seconds, maybe a minute, not sure exactly what to do. He had obviously done this to avoid me. I was within two feet of him, holding a poster, and he could see me out of the corner of his eye. And yet he was being a little bitch.

So the opener sees me and grabs my poster, signs it with a smile, and hands it off to Michael Showalter, who signs without missing a beat. David Wain takes it next, makes a joke, and is a nice guy. Then it's back to Michael Ian Black. And at this point, I say, "Fuck you, Michael Ian Black!" (in my head, of course), and I decide I need to be aggressive.

I turn around and face him. I walk right up close. I shove the poster at him and, with a smile, I ask:

"Can I snag an autograph?"

He rips the poster out of my hand.

"You can't 'snag it.' You can have it."

Throws his signature on it. Tosses the poster back at me.

I turn to leave and, from behind me, I hear him declare, to his buddies: "I'm done. We're out of here." And he forsakes the short line of autograph seekers behind me -- all students workers who made the show happen, leaving their hardwork without the reward of a simple signature.

I will never understand the lives of performers and "celebrities," and I suppose I'm happy about that.

Still, Stella is hilarious and I'm still a fan, even if I have a tiny little bit of a bad taste left in my mouth. Hm. Maybe Michael Ian Black and I did sleep together...

[Please see also: "20sum Retraction: I Love Michael Ian Black"]

VH1 rocks. I thought I Love The 80s was amazing, but the new rounds of programming this channel is pumping out... my god, sheer brillance.

Screw music videos. Their original programming is just nutso pure pop culture pleasure. Best Week Ever... Motormouth... John Mayer Has a TV Show... Most Awesome Bad Songs...

Today I caught the new Mayer show, and also an ep of their "I Loved My High School" talking-head-fest -- which happend to be "The Gay Episode." Hysterical, honest, sometimes stereotypical and often universal, My Coolest Years: In The Closet was just suberb. It featured various "celebrities" like Survivor's Richard Hatch, Jonny McGoven (aka Gay Pimp), and Jill Sobule (ya know, the 90s song "I Kissed a Girl"?) talking very frankly about porn, first times, gym class, and various other teenage experiences. I'm sitting there watching, just sort of mouth gaping, shocked my the imagery and dirty talk, by the honesty, but the lack of censorship.

This isn't Queer Eye gay. This isn't five guys running around, mugging it up, playing it up for the straights without really pushing any buttons. This isn't just Carson making harmless, "witty" little comments about fashion and body odor. This is actually brave and, as much as a single episode of some little basic cable show can be, ground-breaking.

This is the oddly sexy Gay Pimp talking about being "faggoty," "jerking off" (with no bleeps!), and his first time "knocking on the gay door."

This is uber-annoying Ant (from "Last Comic Standing") talking about feeling up stoned straight guys at the movies.

This is beautiful Tammy Lynn Michaels (aka Mrs. Melissa Etheridge) talking about her first time in a gay bar and saying "Muff Diver" (with, sadly, a bleep).

This is real and true. I think it was the most honest gay thing I've ever seen on TV. Bravo, VH1!

I am staying home from work today. It's almost 3PM on a Monday as I begin writing, and I am still in bed, in my undies, listening to Sarah McLachlan, and loving every stinky moment of it. (How's that for a mental image?)

I am just returning from a four-day venture to a Marlboro, MA for a Campus Activities conference, and I am taking a day of rest. It was four days of loud music, bad comedy, matching t-shirts, and "Ride That Pony." Waking at 7AM and passing out at 3AM, only to do the same thing the next day. Overall, it was mostly fun but most certainly always exhausting.

Sadly, little of any interest to those who weren't at the conference happened, or at least nothing I'm willing to put the effort into making into something particularly dramatic, enticing, or funny.

Two items I'll share:

(1) Mr. Belding (or at least the actor that once played him on Saved By The Bell) was there, like always, and he looked sadder and drunker than ever. On the last night, at the hotel bar, where I sad on an uncomfy stool, Mr. Belding drunkenly pressed up against me as he closed out his tab, awkward and inebriated, hopefully unaware that he was touching me, hopefully not coming onto me in any way, shape, or form. I could've given him the satisfaction of turning around to greet and recognize him, but I couldn't muster up any enthusiasm. So he paid his hefty bill, removed his hefty gut from me, and went on his unmerry way.

(2) There was also a mystery man there at the conference, not a celebrity, but a fellow professional. I knew him and he apparently knew me -- or so he told one of my students. He looked and seemed familiar, but I swear I have never met him. He was balding and slightly chubby, but he was cute and, inexplicably, sexy. Especially when he wore his Sox hat. I could have gone up to him to introduce myself, but then again, this "Chad" person could've done the same. We made crazy eye contact at times, but always kept our distance. Maybe we could've had crazy conference booty calls. But that's all past.

So I guess I still do have a serious boyfriend waiting for me at home, and maybe that's why I didn't answer any real or imagined conference booty calls. In fact, I came home to him yesterday and we spent some quality time with fast-food Chinese and The Simpsons. How deliciously domestic.