As The City Fights Fires, An Actor Retires

French film star Gerard Depardieu shocked the entire movie industry and fans alike on Monday by revealing he is, in fact, still alive.

According to the BBC News, Depardieu then announced in an interview with a local Parisian paper that he will be taking steps to prepare for the end of his acting career, claiming he wants out of the business before anyone can accuse him of hanging on to the past, and looking "like an idiot."

Shortly thereafter, when presented with a copy of Green Card and asked for an explanation, the 56 year old actor had no comment. "I have made 170 films. I have nothing left to prove," he said to anyone still listening. It should be noted, however, the IMDB website only credits him with a mere 152.

Depardieu began his career in the early 1970's originally as an alternative to the German-manufactured David Hasselhoff, who unlike his French counterpart doesn't mind looking "like an idiot" and will "hang on" to his lustrous acting career like it's no one's business.

And if you ask me, it really isn't.

The New AOL: America's Orphaned Lesbian?

First came Dick. Then Dick came. And nine months later, out popped Mary Cheney, the openly-lesbian secretly-silenced daughter of our country's beloved Vice-President.

Now, in an effort to control literally EVERYTHING IN THE WORLD, the Bush Administration's first political non-gay-gay will be taking a seat behind another big Vice, America Online's Vice Chairman Ted Leonsis, in what has been detailed as a "newly created position."

The exact description of said AOL position has been, for some time, very hush-hush, citing a need for privacy and, yes, Executive Privilege. All that's known at this point is Miss Cheney will be managing advertising, e-commerce and assisting with maintenance of the search engines for the company.

Something tells me if you run a search for Weapons of Mass Destruction now you can expect a whole different output of results.

With previous experience running a gay and lesbian outreach program for Coors Brewing Co. -- which, for the record, does not include getting girls drunk enough in bars they make out with each other -- the University of Denver business graduate will be starting her job just when over 700 AOL employees are losing theirs.

With a drop in 2.6 million members from the year before, America Online has suffered greatly in the competition with broadband internet services. Handpicked for the position, AOL spokesman Nicholas Graham said Cheney has "the skills and talent and experiences" the company and staff could use now more than ever.

Who knew there was such a burning need to build desks from scratch and put up plaster wall over there?

I send my best of lucks to both AOL and Miss Cheney, and hope that with all her new employment responsibilities she still finds time to finish up work on her yet to be published memoir of a Republican lesbian, "Mary Cheney: My Life As A Carpet...Bagger."

Wilma v. Wilmer: Let The Blowing Begin

As the devastation and destruction begins to envelop the helpless state of Florida, the train wreck that is Ashlee Simpson continues to plunge deeper into oblivion with the release of her latest album, I Am Me.

And I Am Not Impressed.

Perhaps the only gossip item associated with the Simpson Saga that has remote coolness left in it is the new lyrical feud between blonde-gone-black-gone-blonde again Ashlee and the equally talentless hack known to many as Lindsey Lohan.

Hey, I said REMOTELY COOL. I'm reaching here...

Apparently sharing the same boyfriend, Wilmer Valderrama -- aka Fez from That 70's Show -- makes you sing stupid sappy songs about him or your control freak father and how badly you just want to grow up and do coke and then yell at people for spreading gossip about you even though secretly you eat it all up but then forcefully spit it all out into your $3000 purse when you suddenly remember a girl has to watch her figure in case she gets a chance to lipsync on Ellen or SNL or best yet, the last episode of Tyra!

FIERCE!

The only hope we have left is that both bitchy bobble-heads catch wind of this Wilma everyone's talking about, mistaking it for the midget-monkey in the middle to whom they both lay claim, and head down south to win over his lame-ass affections. Once there, they can perpetually bitch slap one another senseless until they're both sucked off the face of the planet, or drown. Either way works for me.

I can't say this isn't a biased blog. I'm still seething I paid a whole $10 to sit through Herbie: Fully Loaded, and let me just tell you now, not a single flash of Lohan's fully loaded tits!

I know what you're thinking. But hey, I Am Me.

Deadly Bird Flu: The New Black

You won't find it in the latest edition of the Zagat guide, but the list of countries in which you shouldn't eat poultry has just tripled.

China, Russia, Romania and -- enjoy the irony here -- Turkey welcomed Croatia, Sweden and Britain to the quarantine table this weekend, citing confirmed cases of the deadly Avian flu strain which has already killed more than 60 people and thousands in livestock.

According to the latest Travel Notice posted on the CDC website, the World Health Organization has just reported its first laboratory-confirmed human case of avian influenza A since October 2004, resulting in the death of a 48 year-old male patient in Thailand.

Across the sea in Britain, the country's disease-free status was threatened when a common parrot traveling from South America was also found infected with the deadly strain. The bird died earlier this week in a biosecure quarantine in which it had remained since its arrival in the country earlier this September.

It is unclear if the parrot's passing is a direct result of the avian flu or just weeks of having to endure eating British food.

In a related story, the Kellogg company announced an open casting call for mascots to their new breakfast cereal brand, Flu Loops.

Same fruity taste, now with less sugar and more acute respiratory distress!

A Queer Lens For The Straight Kens

While the rest of the world continues to recover from the definitely-indefinite divorce of Nick and Jessica, another famous Hollywood couple has begun sparking rumors their off-again romance could soon be turning the lava love lamp back on -- this time brighter than ever.

That is, of course, if Ken Doll has something to say about it.

After their very public beak-up in February of 2004, Barbie and Ken have spent little time with one another, choosing instead to focus on the adjustment of living apart for the first time in years. After dividing their accumulated assets, Barbie -- who with an amazing legal counsel kept both the PT Cruiser and the Malibu Dreamhouse -- made it to the sunny beaches of California where she quickly fell head over tiny-pink heels for Australian hottie Blaine, a younger, buffer, boogie-boarding version of Ken.

Her original other half, however, avoided the spotlight, dodging the press and paparazzi and chose to hole himself up quietly in a one-bedroom apartment on New York's Upper East Side. But according to my sources at Mattel, reports have recently been surfacing of Ken hitting the streets of Los Angeles, meeting with celebrity make-over gurus and other Red-Carpet Repair-Men.

So is this part of Ken moving in on Barbie, or simply moving on?

Regardless of the outcome, rumors are swirling that the world will soon see a new kind of Ken, a healthier, better-dressed, tanner man capable of grooming himself, styling his own home and wardrobe, cooking and cleaning and becoming all around cultured in the arts, the game of romance, seduction and the fastest way to bring a woman to tears -- at least if the Fab Five get their way with him.

My advice to Mattel: if you want Ken to keep a woman like Barbie happy, you should forget about his collection of credit cards and flashy cars, and give the guy a crotch, something retractable and berry-flavored would be nice.

Oh, and don't worry about getting the proportions right this time. I don't think anyone will complain if you give Ken an unfair advantage in that department. Especially not Eduardo, his 23 year old Brazilian "roommate" back home in NYC.

Titanic Was Called The Ship Of Dreams, And It Was. It Really Was...Or Was It?

The world will finally know the truth on October 25th, when the 3-disc Special Collector's Edition DVD of Titanic is released, with more deleted scenes, additional cast commentaries and even a never-before-seen alternate ending.

Apparently in the original version of the script, Jack and Rose discover a bomb planted in the bowels of the ship, which will detonate if the cruiseliner's speed drops below 50 MPH!!!

Also revealed in the initial draft, it is Rose who drowns to the bottom of the sea, leaving an elderly Jack to spend his entire life caressing a sparkling blue diamond necklace around his wrinkled, lank body.

The final scene was rewritten and reshot when Celine Dion said the ending was "too gay," even for her.

Here I Go, Again, On My Own

The inherent gift in finding love must also be the ability to lose it. By its very nature, the fickle, fleeting resilience of the human heart, or rather, the entire human condition itself, presents a continuous compromise between what we want and how we actually plan to get it.

The fragile spirit embodied by romance and remembrance, lust and longing, movie stars and their movie star first kisses, drives us forward still, forces us deeper yet, drowning ourselves in obvious answers, soul stripped in that systematic search for soul mates, connections, moments in time, now lost somewhere between instant messages and belated, unrelated emails.

I've gotten better at reading the signs, reading between the lines, patterning the poignancy of his pauses, the frequency of his ellipses, what he says when he says nothing at all, what he means when he tells me not to worry about it, that it's a small world after all, that sometimes it's easier said than done but even when I'm done, I'm not yet finished.

You could have been lucky, but luckily I got out first. You could have been happy, but happily, I'll get there first. You could have been mine...but mindfully, wonderfully even, perhaps poetically as well as assertively, coincidentally, undeniably you belong with someone else, and perhaps always have.

Finding something real to hold onto in this city sometimes feels like an impossible task, a never ending journey of disappointment and disdain. But then again, I wouldn't want it any other way. Otherwise when the adventure comes to an end, the prizes we've won, the people we've met, the pressures under which we survived, through which we thrived, the love we've always longed for...none of it would mean anything now would it?

John Mayer Loves Me, Says So Himself

Love Song For No One
By John Mayer



Staying home alone on a Friday
Flat on the floor looking back
On old love
Or lack thereof
After all the crushes are faded
And all my wishful thinking was wrong
I'm jaded
I hate it

Searching all my days just to find you
I'm not sure who I'm looking for
I'll know it
When I see you
Until then, I'll hide in my bedroom
Staying up all night just to write
A love song for no one

I'm tired of being alone
So hurry up and get here
So tired of being alone
So hurry up and get here

I could have met you in a sandbox
I could have passed you on the sidewalk
Could I have missed my chance
And watched you walk away?

I'm tired of being alone
So hurry up and get here
So tired of being alone
So hurry up and get here
You'll be so good
You'll be so good for me

Religious Jews Break Fast For Forgiveness, God Floods City For Shits And Giggles

I always thought on the seventh day, He took a nap.

Alas, just 24 hours after atoning for their sins, Jewish as well as Goyish Gothamites have begun bracing for Heaven's latest Hex: the 192nd hour of a non-stop onslaught of drenching rainfall -- conditions, some say, of Biblical proportions.

As of 7:30 PM EST, federal and local authorities declared a State Of Emergency for all of New Jersey and certain neighboring areas of New York, as reports of dangerous flash flooding and electrical power outages continue to ravage the eastern sea coast, causing hundreds of local residents to evacuate for dry land.

According to the Weather Center of Long Island, we can expect another 7-8 inches overnight -- which, for anyone who has woken up next to someone from Long Island, means we'll be lucky if the dip stick reaches a mere five-and-three-quarters and isn't bent crooked like a broken coat hanger.

God Bless Us, Tiny Tino, Every One.

Give A Dog A Boner, Literally

You've heard it all before...
Boy meets Girl. Boy takes Girl out for romantic spaghetti and meatball dinner. Girl lets Boy nuzzle up to her by the fire and nine months later, seven hungry mouths chew Girl's tender nipples to pieces.

Okay, so it's not your typical Hollywood love story. But then again, if you ever got a chance to really corner Lady, I'd bet she'd offer up nothing but curses for the Tramp.

Today's bitches, thankfully, have more choices. And while Georgie, Johnny, Harriet and Oprah prepare to battle it out supremely over the future freedom for our female counterparts, one company has taken it upon themselves to provide an alternative in the highly heated pro-life/pro-choice campaign.

This time, however, the fight is for Fido.

Dog Condoms, Inc., a U.S. based manufacture of prophylactics for pooches -- no seriously -- has invented a revolutionary rubber to help prevent the millions of unwanted, unplanned dog pregnancies faced by pet owners each year alone. As an alternative to spaying or neutering your dog, an act the company calls "brutal forced castrations," these clever canine condoms are intended to provide safe and effective birth control, safe-guarding a dog's genitals and "honoring their instincts and sexuality."

Available as lubricated for both his and her pleasure, the thin latex wrapper is available in three different sizes -- a comfort fit for just about any breed, Danes to Doxies.

In a controlled clinical trial, the creative contraceptive initially showed a very high rate of effectiveness, significantly lowering the occurrence of unwanted pregnancy when used correctly by two consenting canines.

But wait, it isn't all Paradise in Prophylactic Poochville. In a recent report posted on the company's website, there has been a voluntary but Urgent Recall on the much anticipated Meat-Scented condoms which have presented a choking hazard, "especially for smaller dogs."

According to the post, an estimated 15 consumers reported accidental ingestion of the condoms, yet thankfully, no fatalities resulted from these incidents. Though it isn't specified explicitly in the recall, it is my sincere hope the rubbers were swallowed by Man's Best Friend and not Man himself.

For the time being, however, the company has suspended production and distribution of the product until further testing can be done to ensure its safety and reliability on the market. Owners are encouraged to allow dry humping of the legs and knees until the condoms have been cleared for canine use once again.




Gives a whole new meaning to doing it Doggy-Style, doesn't it?









Note: Dog Condoms are not intended for human use and may not protect against the spread of fleas. All dogs should talk to their doctors before becoming sexually active for the first time.

A Bottle Of White, A Bottle Of Red

...Or perhaps just a canister of Pledge instead?

Contrary to pop-cultured belief, it turns out the good don't always die young -- no matter how hard they may try sometimes.

In the splashy new tell-all memoir out this week entitled Billy Joel: The Life & Times of an Angry Young Man, it's revealed the Bronx born rock star's long time issues with drinking almost cost him his life. 'Cept this time, his poison was real: furniture polish.

In the early 1970's, guilt ridden from an adulterous affair he had with his own drummer's wife, the world's most popular Piano Man was found just in time, completely comatose in a cedar closet by the former drummer friend himself. A note left behind at the scene kept Joel on suicide watch at a Long Island psych ward, where he revealed furniture polish hadn't been his first choice, claiming though, "it looked tastier than bleach."

Cashing in on all the hoopla, some local bars have already added a new drink to their menus: the bubbly, blue CosMop&Glopolitan.

In all seriousness, I love you Billy, Just The Way You Are: alive, albeit still tortured. But alive, first and foremost.

It's Not You, It's Me...Me Not Liking You

Oops, I did it again. I played with your heart, and yes, got lost in the game. Oh baby, baby, Oops, you think I'm in love, like, that I'm sent from above or something. Well, I gotta tell ya, I'm just not that into you.

Bastardizing Britney Spears is the last thing I ever wanted to do in life, let me just tell you. But somehow the lyrics to that song ring more true to me now, more honest than ever before. You see, it's only been three weeks since the last time I had to break it off. I wish I could remember his name, or even screenname as the case may be. I should recall the speech I gave, the time and location, the reasons why it wasn't working, for me, for him, for us. For Christ's sake.

But I don't.

My life, suddenly, has become one long, unscripted episode of Sex In The City, minus the sex, and just outside of the city. I'm Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte all rolled up into a scruffy, short, underdeveloped package. (And for the record, I'm referring to my miniscule muscle mass; the PACKAGE itself, of course, is fully developed, and I have eye-witnesses to prove it -- again, if I could remember their names, or screennames as the case may be).

As Carrie, it is a constant battle between being "single and fabulous" and in love with an outdated flame. I have a Big, though my relationship to him is purely one-sided, sadly ill proportioned to the amount of time I actually see him, or rather, picture him in my mind's eye. He's more of a Medium, if you will. Not quite larger than life in mine, but certainly not absent yet in my heart. I compare everyone to him, his calming energy, his goof-ball smile. He's the excuse I use why I can no longer commit into week four. And like a whore, I find myself more and more waking up warmly next to someone so right, so good, and thinking rather, it could only be greater with my Medium. But I lost that battle, and the war, at least for me, was over before it began. I may or may not be single, depending on the time of day, but without Medium at my side, being fabulous just doesn't seem all that, well, fabulous.

Samantha is a different story altogether. For the sake of keeping this clean, I will only say I have opened my eyes wide, and well, other parts too -- my mind for instance -- and allowed myself the pleasure of sexual exploration. One night stands, serial dating, or mating, but waiting still...waiting for completion. And not just in bed. I may never kiss the Pakistani bus boy, no matter how attentive he is with the bread. But the art of seduction, so long as your heart remains guarded, and your body remains safe, may be perhaps the best part of still being young and single in the city. Chew 'em up and then spit 'em out, so long as you don't swallow any, no matter how tempting just a droplet may seem.

As Miranda, I'm a horse of a different color. She's a high-powered lawyer; I work for them. She's turned off by dating the unemployed actor/dancer/model; my last 12 dates read like a SAG pity-party guest-list. She figured she could do it all on her own, motherhood, love, career...and I wish I could do the same. But then she met her Steve, and I met mine. And I find myself becoming that bitchy, cold, quasi-evil redhead, shoving out those who just want to be with me, no pressure, simply because they don't meet the impossibly high standards I set for myself so many years earlier, when I was just a child, when I was still naive and romantic, when I just wanted to be alone and with someone. Independent and relied on. Loved but able to love back, despite the income, in spite of the standards...just love. Pure, respectful, reciprocated love.

And finally Charlotte...sweet, innocent Charlotte, the one who I always labeled most like me. With her romanticized ideals, wistful hopes for the perfect this, and the perfect that, Prince Charming didn't stand a chance. And neither have I. Because ironically I grew to hate Charlotte. I found her annoying, fake, obsessed with perfection. She was scared and scarred and lonely, settling far below par in hopes of salvaging a story-book romance. She was who I was trained to be. She was where my life was headed. She was how I failed at love, and why I continued to try. She was a hope and a curse, and the least likely to settle down, despite wanting THAT above all else.

And so, as I brunch by myself this morning, looking around at the Bradshaws and their boy-toys, I try to come up with the right words to use for my next dismissal.

It's not you it's me isn't quite accurate enough. 'Coz it's not just me. It's Carrie and Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte. It's Ross and it's Rachel, it's Dawson and it's Joey. It's every Harry and each of his many Sallys. It's my parents and my sister. It's my friends and my ex-friends, my boyfriends and my ex-boyfriends.

It's even Britney Spears. Fat, ugly, stupid Britney Spears.

Reminders that love is fleeting but fabulous, forbidden but free. That there's a difference between settling down and settling in love. That you can have your cake and eat it to, though you may have to bake and frost the damn thing yourself. That sometimes you never know who it will be, or with whom, or why. But when you know you just know, and sometimes you just know it isn't working. Sometimes you fool yourself. Sometimes you fool them. Sometimes you play with their hearts and get lost in the game.

You see, my problem is this: I'm dreaming away, wishing that heroes, holding out for heroes, Supermen, Batmen, Bad Men, Good Men, Greater Men...They truly exist. I cry, and try not to, but cry nonetheless watching the days. But my god, can't you see I'm just a fool, a fool in so many ways?

Oh baby, baby, I'm not that innocent.

I just broke up with you over a blog.

And all I can think of saying is Oops...I did it again.

I'm Sick, But I'm Pretty

Are they or aren't they?

Who cares.

She's drunk. He's gay.

And it's clear God - and Lorne Michaels - hates us all now that the sister spawn got a second chance on SNL.

Don't Ask, Don't Tell...We Already Know

It used to be easy to dodge the draft. In the past all you had to do was flee to our neighbors up north, register for classes, continuously lose your reading glasses, or a toe, or maybe two.

So by the early nineties, as a skinny and scared young boy, I had already planned my exit strategy. Certainly I could learn to like faux-French food, and re-pronounce my abouts "aboots." And surely I could handle an extra semester of homework, perhaps even two if the war dragged on longer than expected. And so what if not all my little piggies made it back from the market? I'd still have my most important appendage -- and boy does it enjoy wee-wee-weeing in the safety of my own home.

I was sixteen when I first heard the term "Don't Ask Don't Tell" being thrown around on television. Though established almost two years earlier, it wasn't a policy issue often discussed at the dinner table. I had read what I could on the topic, realizing at last that I no longer needed to flee the fight. I could finally just be me. I could tell the world what I liked, and stand the inevitable rejection from both my friends and my family, so long as the U.S. Military joined in on the fag-bashing festivities.

And so for the past ten years I have watched and waited, counting the rising number of soldiers discharged from service for being, or claiming to be gay. At last count, according to statistics provided by the ServiceMembers Legal Defense Network -- a non profit organization dedicated to ending discrimination faced by gay and lesbian military personnel -- as of 2003, over 9,672 men and women have been discharged simply based on the "discovery" of their sexual orientation.

The official rule on the issue dictated in The Pentagon's New Policy Guidelines on Homosexuals in the Military states, "The military will discharge members who engage in homosexual conduct, which is defined as a homosexual act, a statement that the member is homosexual or bisexual, or a marriage or attempted marriage to someone of the same gender."

But all that's about to change. You see, the Powers-At-Be have slowly caught on that the use of sexual orientation to avoid deployment is resulting in a sharp decline in available combat forces. In fact, with dwindling world-wide support for the current war in Iraq, and as more countries continuously pull out their troops from the front lines, the military here, it seems, has chosen to retain it's openly gay soldiers, at least until the war has been won.

The Center for the Study of Sexual Minorities in the Military, a CA-based research unit which tracks the history and inner workings of sexual minorities in the armed forces, began looking into suspicions that fewer gay men and women were being ousted from the line of fire, particularly over the past three years. Their findings resulted in the discovery of a loophole regulation currently in use by the military which claims an openly gay service member will be forced into active duty, despite the current Don't Ask policy, when his or her unit has received notification of alert status.

If you ask anyone involved with combat operations overseas these days, we are in constant receipt of these status alert notifications.

Perhaps it's the Pentagon's coy way of admitting gays and lesbians don't actually threaten the cohesion of a military unit, the excuse they often use to legitimize their discriminatory policy -- the same logic, you'll remember, once presented when women were first introduced into the picture. Then again, it may just be an act of deployment desperation.

Regardless of the intention, the military insists the Don't Ask Don't Tell ban remains in full effect. According to recent reports, if a soldier reveals his orientation while serving in active duty, the "issue" of his discharge will be postponed until his return from war, once the unit can be properly demobilized.

Apparently after they've served their purpose, after they've risked their very lives, put their frail faith for a future in the hands of a government too scared to send their own, gay men and women of today's U.S. Military can be guaranteed, upon arrival home, the same discrimination and disgraceful dejection thousands have faced before them. The Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave, so long as you're a straight white male, will make sure of just that.

Suddenly, being called a Canook is quite the compliment, eh?