Sunday, February 24, 2008

Liveblogging An Hour of the Oscars

Oscar night! Hazzah! Do you have Oscar fever?!!! Yeah, me neither. Despite this, I have decided to liveblog this most illustrious night of the talkies. Well, I was gonna, but I'm like wicked busy and stuff and frankly I have a short attention span. So instead you get one full hour of magic celebrating the moving image. Well, let's get started, this shit's already been on for (45) minutes, and culture buddy, Nurse Julie and I are already hammered.

9:17 - What have we here? Jennifer Hudson done tied her boobies up in a dress. Oh, stretch marks...

9:18 - Philip Seymour Hoffman, shafted again. Must clap. One night it will be your turn, I promise you this.

9:19 - Havier’s mother wears too much tacky jewelry. She looks like a Navajo turquoise saleslady.

9:22 - Havier makes out w/ shriveled mommy.

9:24 - Keri Russell. One time, I went on a date and saw August Rush. After seeing this movie, I added Keri to my list of crappy actresses right alongside that queen of crappy, Andie MacDowell. Keri, you owes me $20.

9:26 - August Rush ditty hand-ography inspires; I want to be seated in the pews, please.

9:28 - Owen Wilson is not dead.

9:29 - Foreign flick features kid-in-a-bag – I want one.

9:30 - Kid-in-bag movie wins. No ENGLISH!? USA! USA!

9:31 - Not another CGI cartoon worked into the awards [groan].

9:32 - Creepy British dude brings puppet onstage; I smell crazy.

9:33 - “This is for everyone.” Does that include me? 'Cause I, like, totally deserve it.

9:35 - No more montages.

9:36 - Alan Arkin has looked the same for the past 20 years.

9:38 - Tilda s’WIN's-ton! If you are gonna be all pastey-like, you better wear some make-up.

9:39 - Giving her agent her Oscar?!! Silly limey.

9:44 - “This year I took one for the team and gave awards to nerds so they wouldn't uglify the joint. Here's a (15) second clip to prove we did it. Feel free to go to the bathroom now." –Jessica Alba

9:47 - LA makes me throw up. Repeatedly.

9:48 - Joel & Ethan Coen: we are smug and we read books and we have Oscars and we thank you very much.

9:49 - "Why do we give out Oscars?" Because shameless back patting and massaging of over-inflated egos are key to the success of our industry.

9:50 - Ad for PriceWaterhouseCoopers cleverly disguised as 'how do we pick these here winners' sizzle reel.

9:53 - Miley Cyrus really a bobble head? You be the judge.

9:54 - I want to spoon with Kristen Chenoweth – get in my crook!

9:55 - ConEd: On it. Maybe not in that come to your aid during Blackout ’03 kind of way, but in a can do aerials and assorted acrobatic tricks in flashy production numbers kind of way.

9:56 - Kristen gives good side boob as she waves goodbye. I loooovvvvee yoooooou. Call me.

10:03 - Bourne Ultimatum wins for sound editing, I immediately begin fighting Nurse Julie.

10:07 - Bourne Ultimatum wins for sound mixing, I mortally wound Nurse Julie.

10:10 - Kate Blanchett looks like a man. A very pregnant man.

10:12 - It is at this time I reveal Laura Linney and I are engaged. Sorry ladies. We’re very happy, and are purchasing a bungalo.

10:13 - French lady wins Oscar, French music plays. Clever, clever.

10:14 - Jules, all bloody-like, asks would I do the French lady or girl from Juno. I pick French lady, she has that certain je ne sais quas. …and bigger tittays.

10:17 - Audi has a new sexytime car that I like but will never be able to afford. Hooray!

59... 60. And that's an hour. Yup, another unremarkable evening of self-congratulations complete. Anyway, I suppose I better find a nurse to tend to Nurse Julie's wounds, she's getting blood on my IKEA sofa. "I'm the king of the world!"

Sunday, February 17, 2008

Exhibit D: "Straight Guy" in A Gay Show

Ladies & gentlemen, the People vs. the Heterosexuality of Patrick Garrigan present Exhibit D in it's ongoing indictment of the fact that Mr. Garrigan is in fact "not straight." Beginning Monday, February 18th, Mr. Garrigan will be appearing in this "cabaret" which has been described as follows:

What's The Point?! is a loving throwback to the irreverent West Village revues of the late 1950's and 1960's, which took pointed shots at the conditions of society and commented on popular trends. Like its predecessor, What's Your Problem?!, this revue was crafted from a slightly-gay perspective, but the truths are all universal. Featuring songs like "Dirty Sanchez", "How Can I Miss You (If You Wont Go Away)", "A Baby Like That", "A Real Straight Guy" and "That's Why We Love the Zoo", the show pokes fun at cell phone junkies, Upper West Side parenting, prescription pharmaceuticals, Disney's "The Little Mermaid", on-line dating, Speaker of the House, Nancy Pelosi among a myriad of other topics.
The West Village; isn't that where the gays are? Yes, I believe it is.

As if that wasn't enough, my sources have informed me that during the course of the evening's events Mr. Garrigan commits the following offenses against the straight community:

  • Engages in a dance move called "tipping" where the performer struts across the stage like a showgirl. (I am unsure at this time if tassels are involved)
  • Carries another man on his back while singing about how he loves gay animals.
  • Proclaims his appreciation for Nancy Pelosi becoming the Speaker of the House. (Now that's gay, or maybe it's just nerdy. Let me get back to you on that one.)
  • He even performs a song called "Straight Guy in A Gay Show." ([cough, gay, cough] I think the lady doth protesteth too much)
In closing, let me say that I strongly encourage everyone to attend What's the Point so we can all see how "not hetero" Patrick really is. How does one go about doing this? One can peruse the following information and plan accordingly.

February 18 – March 31
7 Performances Only!
at The Reprise Room, 245 West 54 Street (between 8th Ave and Broadway)

Tickets $15 + $15 food/drink minimum (full dinner menu available!)
Purchase tickets online at or cash only at the door

Members of AEA* $10 tickets (online code AEA)
Members of MAC* $10 tickets (online code MAC)
Members of Cabaret Hotline* $10 tickets (online code CAB)
*Valid membership card required upon entry

With that, the complaintif rests. I am the complaintif, right?

Monday, February 11, 2008

Stop Bicycle Violence, Walk It Out

Back in the late 90's, early aughts I went to school where I purchased books. I didn't really read any of them but but carried them around under one arm so the ladies would think I was a smarty. One of the books that fit really well in the crook of my armpit was about Aristotle who evidently advised that if you're trying to deliver a message, know your audience. I know my audience.

My audience is primarily composed of theatre trash, YouTube enthusiasts, and hardcore hip-hop fans. Aristotle proposed that if you are looking to persuade your audience, speak to them in terms they can relate to. Which is why I utilize a video of a beehived Gwen Verdon gyrating her jibbly no-no bits to the delightful sounds of Unk's Walk it Out to convince you not to order for delivery. Instead, Walk It Out.

My beef is not with delivery food not being healthy. The only thing I love more than a Law & Order marathon is eating an order of General Tso's off of my exposed belly. My beef is with the delivery apparatus itself:


As I develop into adulthoodiness, I become markedly more worldly and begin to consider whether the ends justify the means -especially as it pertains to important issues like dumbasses on bikes.

Growing up in Ohio, oh how I loved to go on long bike rides out to the the chicken farm where the stale, ripe stench of death and poultry feces would cause me to throw up and then I would head home for a popsicle. Those were good bike rides. You know why they were good bike rides? Because during the course my bike ride I didn't encounter a single pedestrian. That, and the poultry-induced vomiting helped pave the way for the full blown bulimia that keeps me thin and attractive today.

I tell this story to illustrate a point. No one will love you if you're not skinny. Wait, wait, no. The point is I don't hate all bicyclists. Just ones who ride on the sidewalk in crowded areas while talking on cell phones, showing a blatant disregard for all traffic laws and almost hit me, like, everyday. In short, delivery bicyclists. Yeah, I hate them.

It ain't just me being a pissy bastard. City Council member, Jessica S. Lappin, who is much hotter than Christine Quinn, is also up in arms against these terrifying two-wheelers. According to Ms. Lappin via City Room, these reckless delivery bicyclists are now targeting children and the elderly!

"Ms. Lappin, a Democrat who represents the Upper East Side, said she has regularly received complaints from constituents about unsafe conditions. A nine-year-old constituent, Annabel Azziz, wrote to her, saying, “We can’t talk a walk without being nervous of bicycles zooming next to us.” Another constituent, an elderly woman, was hit by a bike last Thursday and needs hip replacement surgery as a result, she said. ...I hear in community meetings, night after night, that people are afraid to walk down the street,” Ms. Lappin said in a phone interview."

Oh, the Zumanity! Zooming! Hips replaced! Fear of walking down the street! When will it end? I'll tell you when it will end. It will end when your lazy ass stops ordering delivery and starts walking over to the place that is (2) blocks away from your apartment and pick up your own damn food -that's when. You don't need to boycott delivery food. Rather, boycott the delivery of food. Ya dig?

Listen folks, this will totally work. One time, I waged a grassroots campaign to get a beer garden removed from the center of the town square (where children were being exposed to public lewdness & drunkeness) and lobbied to have it placed in my driveway. You know what happened? It worked. The beer garden got relocated to my driveway and after getting shitfaced, I only had to walk (10) feet, where I could pass out comfortably on my porch. That is the power, people!

So I strongly encourage you to join Walk It Out. By simply moving your atrophied limbs to pick up orders of lard-based takeout food, you can strike a blow to the to the deadly, multi-billion dollar bicycle delivery industry, and make the streets safer for your osteoporosis-stricken neighbors. It's what Gwen would want.

And if this campaign doesn't work, please check out:

Monday, February 04, 2008

I Am Better Than Ben Brantley: A Retelling of Jerry Springer: The Opera Peppered With Personal Anecdotes About My Experience For Good Measure

As the most astute, articulate and bumptious contributor on the topics of arts & culture writing today, when something interesting crosses my desk, I feel it is my duty to share it with you, my readers. Such was the case this past Tuesday.

It was a day like any other. I had revolutionized the field of guerrilla marketing, once again, by coming up with the idea of tattooing company logos on baby foreheads in exchange for college tuition when the baby grows up. Win / Win. Pretty brilliant, I know.

After that, I figured I would just work out my enormous pecs, grill up some turkey sausages and enjoy a matured pinot noir. Instead, I was invited by the producers to view Jerry Springer: The Opera at Carnegie Hall. "Please come. You have (3) fingers in the -er uhh, on pulse of the 18-49 demographic. Also, no one knows dick and fart jokes like you know dick and fart jokes," they said. Both good points; I agreed to go.

As is always the case, I gathered fellow culture aficionado, Nurse Julie, and we headed post haste to Carnegie Hall.

When we arrived outside the theatre, we discovered that the show was being protested by various religious and moral decency organizations. Ever seeking to meld religion and culture, I approached the protesters to get more information as to why they were protesting. At this point one closeted Mary well-groomed, articulate dandy outlined his case, remarking that they were protesting profanity, blasphemy and filth contained in the evening's program. I was swayed, and as a result I immediately joined the picket with a fire in my belly:

About (2) minutes into my participation, I was strongly encouraged by the group to leave. They said that I "wasn't helping," "needed to stop throwing hot candle wax on the theatregoers" and I "shouldn't say 'fuckhead' in front of a 5 year old."

"Whatever, you assholes!!!" I calmly replied.

"I have box seats anyway!!! Ingrates!!!"

And with that, Nurse Julie (who had been hiding under a nearby homeless man's pee soaked blanket so as not to be associated with me) and I grandly swept into the famed music hall.

When we arrived in our box, we did what every high society person does when attending an event such as this. We immediately began searching for people who were more famous than I. Upon an initial sweep of the house, we had spotted Robert DeNiro, Carson Kressley, and a girl who I think was Melissa Joan Hart -Nurse Julie did not agree. I'd always wanted to meet MJH. I've felt that if we ever met, we would, you know, hit it off and maybe start dating or something. At the very least we could go grab a Jamba Juice.

After the scan concluded I informed the ushers that I was ready to begin watching the show. The usher graciously smiled and replied, "fuck off you little pissant." And with that, the show began! Yay!

At this point an exceptionally talented cast of (33) took the stage dressed in street clothes with the poise of a church chorale. As directed by the dapper maestro, Stephen Oremus, the cast opened their binders and their mouths to pair beautiful operatic melodies with the following lyrics:








It was at this moment that I knew the future of musical theatre was alive and well and flourishing before my dick-and-fart-joke-lovin' eyes. What happened next, you ask? Well, I'll just tell you the plot, 'cause if you haven't seen it you aren't gonna because it was only on for (2) nights.

Jerry Springer is a talk show host. He was played in this skit by Harvey Keitel. Jerry Springer used to be mayor of Cincinnati until he paid a prostitute with a check. That was stupid. (I pay mine in Jujyfruits, which explains my numerous pimp beatings.) In light of these events, he creates a show which features mostly lower class guests revealing their deepest secrets to unsuspecting spouses and assorted love ones.

Throughout the course of the first act we are introduced to a delightful smattering of guests who make friends with the on stage audience via such charming musical theatre chestnuts as, Mama Give Me Smack on the Asshole and Poledancer. As the First Act comes to a close, Springer's disgruntled former warm-up man has him shot amidst a backdrop of tap-dancing Ku Klux Klan members, natch.

During intermission, I pulled out a piece of Orbit gum, the Official Gum of Patrick Garrigan, and began chewing.

The Second Act finds Jerry Springer in Hell and Me in Heaven. You see it was Melissa Joan Hart! Evidently, Nurse Julie, like, totally slipped her a note during intermission saying that I liked her and she said that she'd had a crush on me for, like, eeeeeevvvverrr. So at this point in the show MJH was massaging my back, making a point not to overlook my lats & lower lumbar.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. He's in Hell and Satan (who is double cast as the dude that had him shot in the First Act) wants to have him conduct his show in Hell with Jesus and himself as the guests. However, at this show Jerry must illicit from Jesus an apology to Satan. The costs for Springer's refusal to participate? "Fucked up the ass with barbed wire." As someone who experienced this first hand in Amsterdam, it's not as appealing as it initially sounds.

Deterred by his potential punishment, Jerry has Jesus on the show in the hopes that Jesus will apologize to Satan. Umm, then blasphemy, blasphemy, blasphemy.

Finally, God comes down and sings a touching ballad called It Ain't Easy Being Me. Where God laments that he gets blamed when everything goes wrong and is relentlessly badgered by every little wish of everyone, everywhere. Which, seriously, is something that I feel I would be annoyed by if I were God.

Some how Jerry lives, but realizes he likes Hell and decides to stay. Singing, singing, singing. The End.

So that was the show, a delightful program. I thoroughly enjoyed myself. It reinforced a belief I have held for some time. Everything is funnier sung. For example:

Cunt. -just abrasive and vulgar.

Cuuuuuuuuuuunt. -Sung with a variety of vocal flourishes and assorted melodic acrobatics. Well, that's just funny.

Everyone in the show was exceptionally talented, and did a whizbang job. There were some plot things that I thought were weird, like this random Brunhilde character who I thought was supposed to be Jerry's conscience, but it never really went anywhere. So producers, who I'm sure are reading this, cut that bit. I didn't like it.

Bottom line, I would strongly recommend that you see the skit. If it weren't all done 'n stuff. Alas, much like my Hugh Jackman fan fiction, you'll just have to imagine it through my writings...



Don't forget kids, this Tuesday is Super Tuesday! But who should you vote for?
GWGG Endorses:

REPUBLICAN: John McCain. He sings Beach Boys songs with fresh, new lyrics and has got those cute cheeks.

DEMOCRAT: Um, the Female African American one. What? There isn't a Female African American one? I'll have to get back to you next week....


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