To my dearest WeHo-ians—Welcome back for another installment of the latest and greatest in not-so-celebrity gossip. Gay Pride season is upon us, so let's dish about what's going on in the not-so-proud gay underbelly of L.A. Here goes nothin'!
A Low Blow at Trader Joe's
Breaking up is hard to do. Yes, we've all been dumped by some didn't-know-how-good-he-had-it-and-is-so-damn-stupid-because-apparently-he-couldn't-see-how-freaking-awesome-we-are idiot—and conversely, we've all dumped some you're-not-good-enough-for-me-and-I'm-too-smart-to-stay-with-you-because-you're-not-freaking-awesome ex. However, there's a time and a place to do it, like through a drunk text message or while peeing into the urine trough at MotherLode—not in the frozen food section of the WeHo Trader Joe's.
So to the couple who ended their two-year relationship in the pre-packaged 31-degree aisle, we apologize for laughing at you while loading up our basket with frozen French onion soup. But come on?! Listening to a muscle queen whimper while saying things like: "What?! Can he bench press more than me?" and "Fine! I'll stop wearing thongs!" is just ... gay giggle-worthy.
A Queersaid that Makes No Cents
Sometimes we overhear a trashy back-and-forth conversation in WeHo and it's just so darn creepy that we've just got to judgmentally relay to y'all—and this one, manicured hands down, is our favorite of the week!
The setting: The big ol' group table at the gay Santa Monica Boulevard Starbucks. The time: Approximately 2 p.m. on a glorious Sunday. (Yes, while you trash pieces are out getting even more trashed at the Abbey, we are slaving away on our iMac attempting to scribe the next great American novel!) The characters: Bizarre Boy and Creepy Daddy.
Allow us to describe Bizarre Boy to you: Bottle bleach blonde, a severe case of ABS (awkward body syndrome) sausage-stuffed into a pair of rocker skinny jeans and more imitation-steel jangly Claire's jewelry wrapped around his hickey-laden neck than a December-in-Denver snow tire. Think a drag queen trying to front as Billy Idol after a bad nose job and three month Pizza Hut binge. (Got a mental picture?) And then there's Creepy Daddy—basically your standard...creepy daddy.
The two are sitting across from each other, occasionally making eye contact and exchanging sheepish smiles. Creepy Daddy is flipping through a Frontiers (sacreligiously not reading our column!) and Bizarre Boy is gluing pennies to a diet coke can. (An utter WTF, if you ask us!)
Finally, an iPhone alarm clock goes off and the conversation that ensues goes something like this.
Bizarre Boy: Time's up.
Creepy Daddy: Are you serious? We didn't even go back to my place.
Bizarre Boy: Well, you should have asked me to.
Creepy Daddy: I did, but you said you had to penny-glue first.
Bizarre Boy: Well, next time, be a little bit more forceful. You pay for an hour, you get an hour. Not my fault if you can't get it up.
(A long pregnant pause ensues, then...)
Creepy Daddy: Well, what are you doing later?
Bizarre Boy: I have another client.
Creepy Daddy: How much is he paying you?
Bizarre Boy: Standard.
Creepy Daddy: I'll throw in an extra 100 and dinner if you go with me instead.
Bizarre Boy: I can't just ditch him.
Creepy Daddy: And I'll give you a bag of pennies and you can fish cans out of my trash.
Bizarre Boy: Fine. Let me call him and cancel.
We have so many questions—and yet we are at a loss for words with which to ask them. We've heard of downward doggie-style, the reverse mortgage 69, even the sideways shakra. But penny-gluing? Either Gossip Gay has gone super vanilla or WeHo's rent-boys are getting super creative. (Seriously?! "Penny-gluing?!" WTF?!)
But one thing is for certain. While this gossip columnist was putting his Subway salad meal deal on his near maxed-out AMEX, some back-fatted Billy Idol was making "standard" + $100 + a bag of pennies + unlimited diet coke cans to penny-glue his elderly employer. Does that make any "cents" to you?!
Anthony Espies Alec
Last week at the L.A. Gay & Lesbian Center, we took in Alec Mapa's one-man show Baby Daddy. We LOL'd, then ROFL'd and then won a two-hour DVD of fisting porn. Hands down (quite literally), it was a great night.
And we were doubly delighted when we espied American Idol finalist Anthony Federov in the bathroom. Talented, beautiful and—maybe even a blonde bottom boy-toy to boot? We watched him as he washed his hands, made eye contact and then gave him one of those pre-insert Zeb Atlas porn head nods as if to say (not verbally but telepathically): "Wanna go into the stall and do a little Republican Larry Craig toe-tapping?"
Well, Anthony's pupils quickly disengaged our hungry eyes and he exited the bathroom at a quick clip. Later, we saw him hand-holding some hot Asian chick who apparently played Miss Saigon on Broadway and was nominated for a Tony or some other equally prestigious award for her supposed triple-threat talents.
Fail on this totally straight non-queer crooner! Now I know how the dust-of-life Bui Doi feel. [That was a high-brow Miss Saigon, Act Two, Scene Two joke for all y'all non-musical 'mos out there!]
Gossip Gay is honored. Apparently, there is a rumor going around that we are Dustin Lance Black, writing this column to "blow off a little low-brow steam in between all his important activism work."
Now, while we are flattered and would love to ride on his Cavalli coattails, we can sadly assure you, we are not DLB. We are, at self-proclaiming best, a D-List gay—one who you may have seen post-mojito-stumbling down the Boulevard, dancing in dastardly despicable drag at Celebration Theatre or stuffing his face full of double steak nachos at Marix.
We have yet to come into our Oscar—unless you count that time at spring break '02.