Cheap Simpsons's Movie Tie-in

This is the latest marketing gimmick, and I love it! Go upload a picture of yourself and see what you'd look like as a Simpson's character.

With thanks to Nunna Yerbeezwax for sharing the link. Go do it now!



And I love it!

Heroes: The Super-Gay White Tigers Really Are Gay!

Okay, I'm believing Perez on this one because I can't read German, but it sounds like Siegfried and Roy officially came out of the closet to a German newspaper. Did you even realize they were in? Yes, like certain other public figures (who maybe have the initials JF) who everyone "knows" about, they simply ignored the question. But now they answered it!



Good for them. All of America loves the white tigers. I bet there were a ton of folks in the conservative Midwest who saw the show in Vegas and prayed for Roy's recovery after the tiger attack, even though he and Siegfried are so...colorful.



Maybe now some closed-minded people will have to say, hey, I liked those gay dudes before I knew they were gay, so maybe it's okay to be gay. Or maybe not. It didn't exactly work like that for the beloved Liberace. But it's a start.



I hope the boys are chosen to be the grand marshals for SF Gay Pride this year. We could use a little Vegas on Market Street.

We Watch: In TV Shocker, Bachelor Couple Will Not Marry After All

I, for one, did not see this coming. From People, the sad news that Lame Head Andy and Too Good For This Tessa are taking some time to evaluate their relationship, aka Step 1 in the Squeezing Out Two More Minutes of Fame Through a Gradual Public Break Up dance.

Best line in the People story: they've broken their engagement, but not their bond

That is so gag-me. How gag-me? Every proana site in the world now has this at the top of their thinspirations puking tips.

Also, nice angle on that photo of Tessa's ass, ABC. I'm sure she offers thanks to you daily for making that the show's final publicity shot while she surfs House of Thin and Starving for Perfection.

The Imaginary Gun Show

I was so excited to write about the gun show. Even more excited to take pictures, until I found out that Cow Palace doesn't let you bring in cameras. No matter, I would take copious notes, inconspicuously, and share the mystery with you, the curious world.

Except I didn't get to go. For a variety of reasons that are best left unexplored (Chief's fender bender = no car for WEEKS while it's in the body shop, cough cough) we stayed home on Sunday.

But I can't let go of the gun show dream. So here is my imagined gun show experience in the form of the semi-rhetorical questions I would have whispered to Chief during the day:

• Did you see her-no, wait, him?
  
• Oh my god, are those real?
• Whoa, are they a couple?
  
• I thought Nazi stuff wasn't allowed?
• Where do you think that tattoo ends?
• Should you really eat that?
• What crazyhead issued him a permit?
• Is it wrong to buy this if I only have it ironically? No, are you sure? Please?
• Did he really tell you he killed a goat?

Next time I'll rent a car if necessary. Shoot, I'll rent a bike. But I won't take Muni. Buses are for chumps.

Forget Rehab, What About Jail?

I'm no legal expert, but if I know the contents of Amy Winehouse's drug OD regurgitation, then it stands to reason that the authorities know, too. So why isn't she under arrest?

I mean, it's still illegal to do ecstasy, coke or heroin, never mind all three, right? She admitted to this, and more, all over the interwebs. Not to get all technical, but that sounds like a confession to me.

What, doesn't Commissioner Gordon have DSL down at the Hall of Justice? Should we print out a copy of the Perez post and mail it to him?

And we should totally add a note telling them to rush that squad car over for her. If this before and after shot is any indication, Amy's five minutes from Keith Richards Heroin-Induced Living Death. Iggy Pop pulls it off, but on her it seems less "tribute" and more "lack of imagination."

Phone People, or, Are We Mildly Autistic?

Some people are phone people. I’ve never been. I can talk to cab drivers about Kazakh history, tamale purveyors about regional South American cuisine, and crazy ladies about disemboweling chickens, but I can not talk to my closest friends on the phone.

Mostly it’s that I can’t pick up on conversational rhythms without seeing faces. Actually, they barely blip my radar when I don’t have an interview script. Throw a party and you’ll find me in the kitchen tossing back two drinks until I determine it’s okay to leave, abruptly.

Fortunately, Cat is the same way. We use text messages to arrange plans.

Cat: In cab. In 5 mins pls order cucumber mtini x2.
Colleen: Already did. Also made rez for table in 10 mins. Virgo.

Simple, efficient, direct. And that farmerbrown cucumber martini looked amazing.

Last week I called her at work. Probably she picked up because she didn’t recognize my cell phone number.

“Hi, this is Cat?”
“It’s Colleen. (beat) I’m looking for mascara. What type do you use?”
(very long pause)
“Pink and green tube.”
“Oh. (beat) Okay. (beat). Well, bye.”
(click)

BYE.

Blueprint vs Domino

Names of children featured in the August issues:

Blueprint
Stella Lou
Sasha
Edie
Sammy
Daisy

Domino
Oliver
Trinity

Much like the magazine itself, Blueprint's names are safely bridge-and-tunnel: from the pull-out handbook on surefire grilling to the tennis racket purchasing guide, this is a magazine for blonde-highlighted, Hoboken-dwelling 23-year-olds who spend their summer shares in the Hamptons squinting at bond traders named Judson. I came, I saw, I decamped for New Jersey, had two kids, and named them “Daisy” and “Sammy.”

The names arise from some pastoral fantasy, evoking that much-heard-of and n’er experienced simpler time. Imagine a picnic: mom in a sundress, the kids pressed and polite, dad doling out potato salad and sliced meats. But dad’s fantazing about finger-banging that new analyst, the kids know they only got into the second-best school in Cherry Hill, and mom is thinking “I told you no MAYONNAISE in these sandwiches!”

Domino, however, seems purposefully to scrub the existence of children from its pages. An article on redecorating maternity-wear guru Liz Lange’s Manhattan rental features none of her children; you can sense their presence off the edge of the page, the photo director chanting "To the left...to the left...to the left" until they're safely out of the frame.

Oliver and Trinity are the two teenage sons of some designer. They seem like nice enough kids; they have a purpose-built room to play their guitars. Probably they'll experiment a bit with drugs, make some student films at Wesleyan. They'll buy houses near the beach in Southern California, with expensive light fixtures and bespoke stationery. One of them will be gay, the other will at least wonder.

All in all, Cat, it seems like we're Domino girls. What are your thoughts?

Period Shopping at Walgreens

Walgreens is a magical place. There is always something you need at Walgreens. When you crave a quick pick-me-up, whether it's lipstick, double sided tape, Dr. Scholl's inner soles or a refill of Ativan, a trip to Walgreens always delivers.

This is true every day of the week. And then there are certain weeks of the month when it's especially true. I speak of Period Shopping.

You know. When you go in ostensibly to pick up a simple box of tampons and whatever ancillary equipment you prefer (panty liners, Monistat, or god-forbid-but-someone-buys-it "feminine" spray.) But before you put such openly vaginal items in your basket, you need cover purchases. Like a magazine. And shampoo. Shell pink nailpolish to have at your desk for emergencies. Gum.

Once you establish a basket base, you add in the box of pussy pops and go on your merry way. En route to the register you walk down the candy aisle. That's where the psychosis sets in. Your mind squeals, "CANDY!" Full size candy admits defeat in the fight against bigger jeans, so you pick up a bag of mini Twix bars. For the office candy jar. Plus a tub of Red Vines, for variety.

You notice tension flooding out of your body. Shopping feels good! So you turn right, up the random electronics aisle, instead of left to the cashier. You stock up on photo frames, blank DVDs and Excedrin PM, which it pays to buy before you need it. You select light bulbs, leisurely.

Anywhere between $50 to $100 later, you stagger out under the weight of three bulging white plastic bags, a discreet brown paper wrapped box of tampons forgotten at the bottom of one of them.

Walgreens knows this. Why do you think they organize the aisles the way they do? And we love them for it. I feel better just knowing they are around every corner, that flushed feeling only a credit card swipe away.

Note that this same phenomena occurs at Costco, with a tally closer to $500. You'll also walk out with a box of tampons big enough to supply Beaver Academy for a year, which is a good thing for certain ladies who have particularly heavy days.

Shop happy.

Meat as Strategy

So the Times is reporting on a culture shift in women's first-date eating habits.

Former vegetarian/Smiths-album-owning Martha Wilkie (nee Flach) wanted to appear "unpretentious and down to earth and unneurotic" on her match.com profile, so she mentioned meat twice and later chowed on steak frites on a first date with her future husband.

Uh, I don't know. On my first date with a crazy scientist, way back in 1998 (ahead of the curve!), I had steak and he had a salad. He also had a roll of $50's, no job, visible track marks, and the same address as his parents, so probably I should have spent a bit of time discerning if he would be a good mate instead of neurotically planning how to appear like an beer-drinking, steak-eating, fun-luvin' Kate Hudson.

But the fun times we had!

Halloween Spooooooooooks

Helena Bonham-Carter and (husband? life partner? dark lord?) Tim Burton are expecting a second child, who will undoubtedly grow up to be brilliant, slightly evil, and possessed of both crazy hair and excellent cheek bones.

I can not WAIT for the theatrical release of Sweeney Todd, by the way.

I Married a Mick

Tonight was Irish Heritage night at the Giants. I went with Chief. We wore native costumes. It was fun.


My beanie was the gift with purchase. True to my Irish heritage, I got too drunk to remember the game. No, not really. That was a cheap racist joke at the expense of a silenced and oppressed people. Sorry. Thank God they're all too drunk to read this. Especially because a drunk Irishman has a wicked temper!

Woohoo! I must still be a little high from all the whiskey fumes around me in the bleachers. Those half naked dudes with the Irish flags painted on their chests and heads were just sweating out the hard stuff!

Comestibles we ingested:

• garlic fries
• cheese steak
• turkey burger
• bud lites
• margaritas
• irish coffees

Resisted:

• Churros
• Ice cream on a stick
• Hot dogs
  
• More margaritas
• The inexplicable draw of orange tank tops with "SF Giants" emblazoned across the tits

Also, the pussy pitcher from Washington walked Barry all night. We were there to see history, not to watch you chicken out. Thanks for trying to ruin everyone's night. Pussy. You're just lucky we still have the best park.

"I've never wanted anything I couldn't have."

For the first official wishbone clover interview, we speak with Matthew, who used to be a buyer for our favorite San Francisco emporium of weird, Paxton Gate. When I first interviewed for a job with Knickerbocker, I was unconvinced that corporate life was for me. When I walked into Cat's dimly-lit office, spied her green nailpolish, and chatted about stationery and monkey skulls, I thought I'd fit right in.

Matthew: Is this the interview now?

Me: Yes.

Matthew: Would you like water or cheap beer that isn't refrigerated?

Me: Beer. How did you get a job with Paxton Gate?

Matthew: I was living down in Humboldt, a friend came back from visiting San Francisco and said, "I found this place in San Francisco that looks just like your bedroom. It's called Something Gate." I was working for a place in Humboldt called Something Gate, so I didn't think much of it. Then I was traveling through Uruguay and decided to move to San Francisco. On Tribe, I found a job at Paxton Gate listed under the "bizarre" category. I had to jump through a lot of hoops to get it, but they were intelligent hoops.

Me: How long did you work there?

Matthew: 10 months. Hey! I found my fortune! (He pulls out a Mason jar filled with slips of paper from fortune cookies.) In the end, I wanted a life outside of work.

Me: What's the weirdest thing you were ever offered?

Matthew: A film reel of a monkey being tortured. I purchased a still, but I had to get rid of it. I couldn't stand to look at it.

Me: Do you shop there now?

Matthew: No, I've always had an affinity for finding odd things on my own. Which is probably why I worked there. We really got into taxidermy when a retired captain of industry offered us his collection. He had a warehouse of trophies from his safaris.

Me: What's the one thing you wouldn't sell, no matter how much someone offered you?

Matthew: My art. Any of it. That's a heart in a vial. Vertebrae. A preserved duck heart. Some wings.

Le Big-Mac

Cracked ran an article on the 9 most typecast actors of all time, including the imitable Willie Shatner and the "gravel-voice intimidating asshole" Alec Baldwin.

Who would you add to that list? Joan Fontaine, Doris Day...

The Best Part-time Job Ever: DWTS

Some idiot "stars" (yeah, they're all sorta idiots, but this is even more dumb than usual so bear with me) complained about the pay scale for Dancing With The Stars. That's crazy! This gig has corporate life - not to mention McDonald's - beat in pretty much every dimension. Starting with the salary: For the first two weeks of season 3, the (otherwise unemployed) B/C/D-listers received $125k.

Yes, $125-zero-zero-zero. Just for hanging out with cute, very fit, long limbed people who teach them to dance. Not to edit excel spreadsheets or smelt iron or flip burgers. To dance. In cute costumes designed specifically to flatter their bodies. Plus these exhibitionist attention freaks get to do it all on TV for millions of viewers.

Each subsequent week they get "about another $20k" with the potential for a $50k bonus if there is a recap show, which is always. I'm no math genius, so it's fortunate that reality blurred added it up for us: $245k for eight weeks of work.

As an employee of the Knickerbocker Bank, I can tell you with complete confidence that there are MUCH worse ways to earn a buck. Someone needs to shut up and be grateful.

DWTS is still totally my favorite show. Mel B./Scary Spice is going to kick everyone's ass this season, especially if she dances with Dream Date Maks. Who I love. Plus, she might have her lawyer, the magnificently coiffed Gloria Allred in the audience. Now that's entertainment.

Hey State Dept: No Charge For This One

Bin Laden wants Whitney Houston
We don't want Whitney
Bin Laden is willing to kill Bobby Brown to get Whitney
We don't want Bobby Brown
We want Bin Laden

Why are we waiting to use Whitney and Bobby as bait? Whichever way it goes, I see a clear win-win scenario.

Wha??

Holy Crap! Did you know Ed Koch was possibly maybe gay? And that some gay activists attribute the lack of aggressive response to the AIDS crisis in 1980's New York to his fear of being outed? Because I didn't.

Sure, I remember he played himself on an episode of My Two Dads, but still.

Image courtesy of Gotham Gazette

Hold this superglue. Now cough.

Last Friday we attended the kick-off of the "Fabulous Fashion in Film Festival" at the Castro Theatre, with special guest hosts Santino (aka Satan-o) and Jeffrey from Project Runway.

Santino did his Tim Gunn/Andrae/Red Lobster impression. Tattoo-necked, baby mama-dumping Jeffrey was ungracious, sneering, and not particularly smart.

He claimed his bad-boy schtick was a part he played for the camera, but his horns and pitchfork were still in evidence, despite the lack of key grips and best boys. Jeffrey mocked the talentless Daniel Vosovic and Chloe Dao, saying he only auditioned for PR because his friend Santino had been featured in a previous season. Uh uh. Uh uh! Do not even start in on my little Daniel, he of the floppy hair and crushed Muppet nose.

The film was fabulous, naturally. But when the host announced that a local actor would portray PR icon Tim Gunn, Cat's scribbled note was exactly what I was thinking: "Provincial." San Francisco: please. An actor playing a reality show host is Dubuque-worthy.

I can not wait for season 4.

Who Cast Germaine Greer on Celebrity Big Brother?

Add it to the list of things I must have missed while living in a cave. Back in 2005 Germaine Greer, seminal feminist, Ph.D. and author of The Female Eunuch was on that nadir of reality shows, Celebrity Big Brother UK.

I'm speechless.

Granted, she walked out after six days. And indicted the show for being bullying and psychologically damaging. But then she appeared on a couple of spinoffs. Even guest starring as herself on Extras isn't enough to make up for that kind of behavior.

Where are the feminist role models? This is how we wind up with Britney and Linsday and Bratz dolls. Thank God for Danica McKellar (yes, Winnie) and Math Doesn't Suck. Even though, actually, it does suck.