ILIKE BIG BUTTS, and I cannot liealthough this brother can ...
Instead, my anaconda is far fonda of the next night's fundraiser by NOLOSE, that being the National Organization for Lesbians of SizE-the capital "E" added so that the acronym won't represent the average male's feeling about this organization. Fewer average males gladly head out to Galapagos to lay down $10 for the Jiggle-O celebration of International No Diet Day.
Let's concede that a crowd of fat, naked lesbians sounds like a dark day for Al Bundy. The night certainly kicks off with enough bad poetry to make anyone pine for some lame NYC burlesque. Sadly, the closest the evening gets to classic showbiz is host Murray Hill, who's become the city's hottest drag king despite barely being able to pass as the Mayor of Munchkinland.
The distinction between hourglasses and pears is only further blurred by writers like an "angry lesbian" whose diatribe against PETA at least blurs the distinction between Ingrid Newkirk and Rick Santorum. There's also a typical appearance by that ubiquitous scary poet whose violent imagery is always accompanied by an announcement that she has a knife in her pocket.
But any disappointed-or terrified-heterosexuals in the audience are ultimately rewarded by the shapely lesbian lip-syncers Zoe & Bevan, imported from Philadelphia to finally add some serious sexiness to the general excess. On Our Backs is still no substitute for the late, great Mode, though.
In contrast, the slim and shapely frontwoman for Daddy keeps her clothes on during her performance at Don Hill's, at yet another event bringing us one step closer to a Ramones moratorium-in this case, honoring the New York premier of the End of the Century documentary at the Tribeca Film Festival. Naturally, this special night includes a headlining performance by the ersatz Bullys, featuring Marky Ramone (Mickey Leigh was missing in action). At this point, Marky's shows are getting similar to seeing the Coasters playing Utah with the last surviving member of the group's line-up from 1971.
But my real reason for leaving the club early is either allergies or a bad reaction to informed rumors of Keanu Reeves' wanting to play Dee Dee in the film version of Please Kill Me-a rumor only looking stronger after the next day's Daily News interview in which Reeves raves about the book while sounding like he's read two whole pages. (Unlike Reeves in the legendary band Dogstar, though, Dee Dee could play more than two whole bass strings.)
As the actual documentary debuts, however, I'm at Serena attending the awards ceremony for the New York International Independent Film & Video Festival-this meaning that the glow of everyone's cellphones comes from the antiquated Nokia 2100 instead of the fabulous new Nokia 6800. It's the typical indie awards festival where fabulous young things ignore the winners while chatting away about, for example, how they've heard Williamsburg is really getting gentrified.
There is, however, one moment where the constant chatter actually addresses the festival, with everyone trying to guess the identity of the batty old woman who's taken the mic and is claiming to have been nominated for two Academy Awards. This made me nostalgic for the days when everyone would have rightly assumed it was Sylvia Miles, proud winner of Best Supporting Actress for High Times' Potluck-"one of," she informs us, "the great movies of all time"-which sweeps the night's awards for what mainly seems to be selling out their screenings.
The ridicule of Miles, incidentally, includes several people goofing on her weight, with no one there who might remember that she used to maintain measurements of 38-24-35. They'd still love her in Williamsburg, though.