Terry Richardson shot the above image of Liza Minnelli for Love Magazine, and you all know I love me my Liza, so basically what I’m saying right now is, “I’ll take all the copies of Love Magazine, please!” Seriously, she may be sans sequins (“Say it ain’t so!”–This guy.), but Liza’s dropping some serious I-don’t-give-a-f*ck FACE while wearing a coat that looks like it’s made from her hair. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to excuse me ’til my eyeballs stop bleeding from all this GLAMOUR.
Anyways, in case that wasn’t enough for you (and really, how could it ever be? Liza glamour back and forth FOREVAH!), here’s another picture of Liza bringing so much piping hot hotness that I have to type this with oven mitts:
From her 1963 television show, The Judy Garland Show, here’s Judy Garland singing “I Can’t Give You Anything But Love”:
I’d go on some pithy tangent about the strange, sublime joys of being a Judy Garland loving queen, but what’s the point in that? This is the woman–nay, Diva–who, according to the Gay & Lesbian Times, was once quoted as saying, “When I die I have visions of fags singing ‘Over the Rainbow’ and the flag at Fire Island being flown at half mast.” You can’t provide a fabulously succinct bit of commentary on what she means to some of us (myself included), nor can you give that quote anything but love.
I’m pretty sure this Snickers commercial isn’t quite what Kate Moss meant when she said her life motto was “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.” But I’m also pretty sure that if there’s any truth to this Snickers commercial, Kate Moss is some sort of all-knowing Magic 8 Ball made out of hungry orphans’ tears and the occasional carrot stick:
It should go without saying that I think this ad is brilliant, and I feel like having a Snickers to reward all that cleverness. That, and my inner-fat girl’s on her heavy-flow day. But it’s also worth mentioning that if the gist of this ad is that making like Ms. Moss and just saying no to solid food holds the power to magically transform you into Aretha Franklin and/or Liza Minnelli, isn’t this ad actually about the importance of NEVER EATING AGAIN?
Sure, I recognize that–what with my weaknesses for cookies, Bloomin’ Onions, McDonald’s, anything you can deep-fry or smother in gravy or preferably both, as well as most anything found the snack aisle at Duane Reade–I probably can’t even muster up enough hunger pangs to transform me into an excessively bitchy Judy Garland impersonator. Still, I’d like to believe that with enough will power (there’s is not enough will power in the world, but let’s pretend), I could become so hungry that I’d become the diva equivalent of sending Liza Minnelli and Aretha Franklin through a telepod. At the same time:
There’s obviously nothing funny about uterine cancer or the sad twilight of Joan Crawford’s career that reduced her to Trog and Mountain Dew commercials. As such, a part of me simply doesn’t know what to do with the fact that Joan Crawford was a spokesperson for vaginal health.
And the other part kinda wishes there was a Bette Davis PSA stressing the importance of mammograms. Baby Jane attire optional.
This sign was spotted at the recent National Equality March in Washington, DC. Now we all know there are plenty of ways to argue against the conservative rhetoric that opposes gay marriage, and each of these counterarguments has valid points to consider, but I’m pretty certain this particular rebuttal is iron-clad:
Oops, I LOL’d my pants. I’d really like to shake the hand of whoever made this sign because this poster is ingeniously camp. And totally spot on.
Yes, her birthright may make her royalty to us, and her storied career has affirmed her status as a true icon in her own right, but the gays cannot be blinded by love: LIZA MINNELLI IS NOT ABOVE THE LAW. Equality is for everybody, not just for the people that are better than the rest of us because they were totally out-of-control amazing in Cabaret. Get it right, Government!
Oh, and because no post that involves Liza Minnelli is complete without a clip of a her performing, here’s a lil’ something something for your viewing pleasure:
Yeesh. Certain people, who shall remain nameless but might have names that rhyme with Shmarker and Shmathan (just saying, and also, love you guys!), have been all up in my grill about Glee. It’s nothing but “Why don’t you blog about Glee?” this and “I hate your face ’til you blog about Glee!” that. So fine, here we go:
Seriously, was there ever any question? I think not. If anything, my only complaint is that we’re all forced to wait until this fall for more Glee. That’s ass and a half, y’all; fortunately, despite Fox clearly conducting an experiment in patience amongst the nation’s gays (and their fag hags), Glee is anything but ass and a half.
Maybe it’s hyperbole, but Glee‘s the most inspired television show in quite some time. The underdog-competitor-meets-Busby-Berkeley-musical vibe is infinitely charming blend of camp and heartfelt sincerity, and any show that can bring together both the eternally adorable Jayma Mays and eternally fierce Jessalyn Gilsig clearly knows a thing or two about casting. And let’s not forget that Glee gave us the single greatest rendition of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” ever made EVER:
To wash the bile-tastic taste of last night’s Gossip Girl, my friend Brynn and I decided to turn to someone we knew we can always trust to entertain and delight, even in our darkest of ours. That special someone is Joan Crawford, and last night, she was our Dancing Lady.
We watched the ending because I’d completely passed out the previous time we attempted to watch it late one night (a belly full of pot roast and a few Joan Crawfords will do that to you, so don’t judge me!).
Dancing Lady is a 1933 musical starring Joan Crawford and Clark Gable (who, by the by, is ridicu-handsome in his youth). I’d bother and try to explain the plot, but the plot is paper-thin, and Dancing Lady is really just an excuse to let the sparks fly between Crawford and Gable (their scene at the gym is a hysterical and sexy in the same breath) while uber-producer of the era, David O. Selznick, tries his best to recreate the magic of the Busby Berkeley musicals. Oh, and the Three Stooges are in it. And Fred Astaire makes his screen debut in it. Here’s just a taste of the singing, dancing madness:
They dance on a magic carpet before landing in Bavaria to sing the joys of German beer? It’s both obvious and logical to ask, “What in the hell?”, but I prefer to simply ask, “Why the hell not?” Trust me, it’ll ease you into the total explosion of insanity that is the finale:
Liza Minnelli turned 63 today, y’all. Banks should have closed, the mail shouldn’t have been delivered, and we should’ve all been at home watching Cabaret; alas, this did not happen. Still, now’s as good a time as any to celebrate one of the few living legends we have it today. Take it away, Liza:
So last night I ran into my friend Brynn at Film Forum on my way to see Lola Montès–the crazy-brilliant cinematic extravaganza by Max Ophüls (more on that later)–and, while I was standing in line, she asked me, “So you know what comes out on Friday, right?”
My instantaneous reaction, given the inescapable barrage subway ads, movie trailers, and blue-johnson internet chatter, was obvious: Watchmen.
Oh, silly me! She was speaking in particular to Film Forum’s release schedule, and trust me when I say that the movie she had in mind doesn’t need any blue genitals to be twice the cinematic doozy that Watchmen will be.
Oh, snap, y’all! Having seen Leave Her to Heaven on a mere television, I can absolutely testify to how incredible it is as a movie, and I can guarantee that, on the big screen, it will positively MELT. YOUR. FACE. (Academically speaking.)
