• KittyWigs.com - featuring "Pink Passion":

Labels: baby chutney, funny

• Thank you, Jocko, for totally calling out the Mika CD as one of the worst music releases of 2007. As I commented there, I have a theory the only people who truly enjoy this preening, screeching, over-hyped mess are straight women who consider themselves "fag hags" and constantly try to foist this steaming, oaty pile on their gay "friends". Quick rule of thumb: If Perez Hilton raves about it, it's cloying shit. See also, The Gossip.

• Spotted this morning at my local $tarbuck$ - Homeless Man With Crutches On a Laptop!



That sure doesn't look like Monster.com to me, mister! Also, you can't see it too well from the pic, but resting on his little grocery cart is the original HP box it came in when he stole it from the Wal*Mart across the street.

• I love Ringo. See Lost In The '80s later today now for proof.

• Shopping for Christmas gifts at Sears is entirely acceptable in this mortgage meltdown economic environment, despite what your own personal Baby Chutney may tell you. Wal*Mart, however, no.

Labels: baby chutney, blog rage du jour, gay

That was my initial reaction when I was told by Baby Chutney that we were going to see the Spice Girls Live! In Concert! Truthfully, I had my misgivings about losing the absolute last vestige of musical credibility - it's kind of hard to bust out with Camera Obscura and Editors references when the ghostly after-image of a dancing Baby Spice trails in your brain - but then I came to my fogged senses and realized grown men knocking on 40 really shouldn't have much cred left to begin with, so what the hell. Plus, I'd have bragging rights over Jimbo and Xo, so off to the Staples Center we went, surrounded by a predictable mix of young tween girls, older, not so tween women who were girls the first time Spice-mania hit, and gay men. Lots and lots of really gay men.

Not concerned the least in even pretending to present a shred of artistic probity or profundity, The Return of the Spice Girls (as it was billed) wasted no time in addressing its true mission statement - a celebration of all things truly Spice, consisting of clothes, rudimentary but entertaining dance sequences, clothes, "friendship", clothes, big, fluttery butterflies on large projection screens, "togetherness", and more clothes. There may also have been some music, but honestly, did that really matter with all this spectacle? "Girl Power" was mentioned only once and even then as an afterthought: hazy, half-envisioned empowerment slogans were left to the '90s, in their place a sharply honed sense of camp and excess, choreographed with extreme precision. Even the knowing winks seemed rehearsed.


Dazed and amused.

Nothing was spared, no white space left uncluttered, no empty spots unfilled. Sick of watching Ginger vamp thru "The Lady is a Vamp" (I told you there was zero subtlety!)? No problem, just watch one of the eight(!) dancers onstage with her. Bored with the dancers? No problem, just watch the continually changing projection screen animation. Tired of the projection screen? No worries, just watch the band roll along the back of the stage on a constantly moving and shifting platform. Slow portions or lulls are simply not permitted during a Spice Girls show. The sold out crowd ate up every single Sonny & Cher inspired moment.

Oh, the music, you say? Again purely beside the point, but the Girls ran down a laundry list of hits and near-hits, disappointing anyone hoping for deep album cuts or b-sides (I mean, really?). Each Girl got a solo spotlight where they performed a hit from their years exiled from Spice World, with the notable exception of Posh, who in lieu of performing a song from her surprisingly adequate yet shelved solo album simply took her alone time to walk down the stage catwalk in a fabulous gown while talking on her cell phone. It was the most honest assessment of a performer's true talent I've ever had the fortune to witness, and the crowd absolutely ate it up. Maybe it's because of her constant media exposure or the fact that Los Angeles is her new adopted hometown, but human clothes-hanger Victoria got the loudest and most consistent crowd reactions during the entire show. Add it to the list of mankind's mysteries, right next to what killed the dinosaurs.


Stop right now, thank you very much.

The show was structured as an almost chronological history of the Spice Girls as we barreled thru hit after hit until "Viva Forever", the final single the group released as a quintet before Geri jumped ship. At that point in the show, Geri sank beneath the stage (quite literally via a slowly descending platform - I said zero subtlety!) and the remaining four warbled thru some songs from the ill-fated Forever album before heading into the aforementioned solo portion of the show. Then, lo, the heavens did part and Geri returned, proving that in fact friendship and a legally binding contract truly never ends. It was only after the final song did we get any stage banter, but the muddy mix made it difficult to understand, save for Geri yelling at Scary, "I told you to NEVER FUCKING SWEAR!". Oh, you naughty scamps. Cue "Wannabe", then out.

Having said all that, I must say I have more respect for the Spice Girls now than before. There were no pretexts of musical artifice, no grand statements, no clumsy grasps for critical reappraisal, just an old-fashioned Vegas-style pop show. It reminded me of another bloated arena show I once saw back in 1987 - David Bowie's Glass Spider Tour, a legendary flop in excess. The Spice Girls succeeded in every area that Bowie tour failed. Bowie had many of the same elements - backup dancers plucked from the Kids From Fame, rotating stage elements, projection screens constantly blaring visual drudge - but Bowie made the mistake of drowning it all in pretentious Art, trying vainly to infuse deep meaning into, say, the onstage image of a girl dancing on a pair of skis, instead of just letting us laugh at the dumb-looking ski dancing girl. The Spice Girls invite, accept and on some level, appreciate our derision and that's why we love them. They may sing "Who Do You Think You Are?", but when faced with that question themselves, they know the answer inside and out.

Labels: baby chutney, reviews, spice girls

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BABY CHUTNEY!!!!!!!

Labels: baby chutney

Katrina Dambrose, the drag queen.

She got old - and died.



Bourbon Street Trash



Why You Visit New Orleans



I followed my jumbalaya with some Baby Chutney



Someone's been drinkin'!



A lot of someones's have been drinkin'!



Later, I caughted a kitty.



Britney was there - WITH the babies, thank goodness.



Met up with the other explorers to discuss...drinkin'.



Met up with Kitty to discuss...the '70s. And drinkin'.

Labels: baby chutney

• Lead singer of post-grunge alt-rockers Harvey Danger has blog, tells honest stories about his band's tortured history ("Sad Sweetheart of the Rodeo" remains one of the best songs of the '90s, btw), loves Scritti Politti as much as I do.

• Dennis Perrin and I have a few things in common, among them an abiding love for the work of Michael O'Donoghue and a sick appreciation for the overlooked (in one case, justifiably) sketch comedy of ABC's Fridays and SNL's dark '80-81 period. Here, Dennis presents two sketches from that bizarre, truncated SNL season, one that's just plain dire and another that's so absolutely senseless and awful, you can't turn away. Dennis' book on O'Donogue, Mr. Mike, is essential reading for any SNL or National Lampoon fan.

• Bagatelle Records - shh, don't tell anyone.

• Baby Chutney and I are going to New Orleans for Halloween next week! If you see me, say "hi".

• Buy this for me. Even my gay ass thought Pat Prescott sounded hot.

• Although posting here is sparse, I'm actually writing more than I ever have in my life. Two big projects are almost ready for announcement, so watch this rarely-updated space.

• "Recently I heard that women are not welcomed at Blowoff. I find that really off-putting," declares Defender Of All Fag Hags JASON BAKER, presumably vagina-free. Bob, sometimes you're too nice.

• Britney, Britney, Britney blah blah woof peep peep meow ah root toot. I've cared more about loaves I've pinched.

Labels: baby chutney, bloggers, stupid twats

So, if you've been following my little Twitter to the left of this here blog thingee, you know Baby Chutney and I spent a four-day weekend in San Francisco last week.

Oooo, and how was your trip, Johnny?

:::gritted teeth/forced smile::: Ummm....fiiiiiiine...

The purpose of this trip was to visit Baby Chutney's new Baby Nephew (aDORable, btw), and since we were up there, the rest of the Chutney clan as well. The drive up was nice, thanks to Sirius Radio with Howard and Robin Ophelia Quivers, and the occasional breaks to the New Wave station everytime Sal & Richard came on or Ralph called in. After checking into our hotel and taking a nice nap (MARRIOT BEDS RULE), we headed to the Castro Theater for an evening of Fashion in Film with special guests Santino and Jeffrey from Project Runway and a big-screen presentation of the Joan Crawford classic The Women.

Yes, we are faggots.

You'd think being said faggots, we'd like San Francisco. Wellllll, the city's okay, but the people - ye gods. Here's an example - during the lighthearted Q&A with Santino and Jeffrey, there's plenty of laughter and funny stories about Heidi Klum being a cunt until some skinny queen stands up and asks:

"This is all well and good, but what are you two doing for charity, specifically those living with HIV and AIDS?"

Seriously, do y'all have to politicize EVERYTHING, including my frivilous reality shows? Take me back to good 'ol vapid L.A. (By the way, the answer was nothing. I got the impression Santino is living off his lecture circuit cash.)

Saturday, we enjoyed a nice brunch with some Chutney friends, then some Castro time where we walked about and did some light shopping. I grabbed a double-DVD compilation of all of Divine's videos and TV appearances from a neat little record shop called Medium Rare. Number of times we were asked for money on Saturday - four. Oh, that reminds me - you SF bums really have to stop adopting the same new story all at once. It ruins the effect. The tale of woe du jour is as follows (change the state and arty occupation for variety as needed):

"Excuse me, sir, but I'm from Oregon and I'm a musician and my car broke down and I really need some cash to get it fixed and get home."

We heard this from three different people in two days. To the musician I said, "I was a musician, too! I quit when I realized it didn't pay and got a JOB so I'd never have to beg on the street."

He was not impressed. Later, when the girl "from New Orleans" who was a "painter" used the same story on us, I wondered why she spent the money to come to SF in the first place if her car was in such disrepair. I did not get an adequate answer and my money remained in my wallet.

That is, until Sunday when we went to Rasputin's downtown. Rasputin's is sort of a baby Amoeba records in a funky old office building with five floors. The first two floors are accessible by stair, but you have to take an elevator to the third thru fifth floors, sharing it with a guy whose job it is to press the appropriate floor button for you. There's a nice gig someone stuck in SF could score to get their car repaired! It was at Rasputin's that I found the ever-elusive Volume One of the Mystery Science Theater 3000 collection used for a cheap $34.95. Not bad, since it grabs $90 on Amazon. Score. Now I got 'em all. Love ya, Crow.

From there it was to the Levi's superstore where Baby Chut tried on 743 different pairs of jeans. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating, but I could have Twittered War & Peace while waiting. I don't mind at all, though, since this is the same guy who waits patiently and reads Peanuts hardbacks while I geek out at the comic shop weekly. It's love, I tells ya, love.

We made our way to Berkeley for another dinner with family, but since we had time, we stopped at the world-famous Comic Relief (see?) and Amoeba Berkeley, where I grabbed another sweet score - Vanity's hard to find second solo album, Skin on Skin. Gee, wonder what blog that's gonna end up on soon? Number of people who asked us for money in Berkeley - three. And boy, God love ya if you live there, but Berkeley is fucking filthy. Poor Green Day.

So, why was our trip so teeth gritty? Not to speak out of school, but it had a lot to do with Chut Chut's family. He's the youngest of three boys, and the eldest two are at least a good 13 years older than him, straight, married with kids, baseball nuts, etc. As a result, they have absolutely no clue how to talk/relate to their gay little brother with the scary bald white boyfriend. At the dinner we went to that was obstensibly in Chut's honor, they sat on the complete opposite side of the room with ten people between us and only spoke to us at the end of the meal when we got up and walked over to them. Chut's also a bit worried about his niece who's on the cusp of 30, yet still lives at home with her mother, seems to have no real career goals and doesn't see any reason to change this status.

The best I could do is assure Chut that my brother is the same way (hey, at least yours speak to you!) and we all have aimless relatives we worry about. I think gay people just hunger for more - the desire to succeed, leave home and the city you're from, etc. We're just driven.

And come Monday morning, we were driven the hell out of San Francisco. I know a lot of y'all live there, but...well, the Marriot beds sure are nice.

Labels: baby chutney, comics, mst3k, san francisco

Saturday afternoon, 3:15 p.m., Johnny's living room

Baby Chutney and I are watching episodes of the brilliant, yet low-rated WB sitcom from 2000, Grosse Pointe. While a huge fan when it was originally aired, I'm not recognizing some of the storylines/episodes as we watch them again. I make the comment, "I wonder if the network aired these in a different order than when they were shot...I'll jump on TV.com and see the original network running order.

I feel a certain Chut Chut staring at the back of my bald, white head as I lunge for the PowerBook.

After a beat, he laughs, "YOU. ARE. SUCH. A. GEEK!"

HORRIBLE MOMENT OF CLARITY!!!!

Labels: baby chutney, grosse pointe, tv

Celebs I've seen working out at Baby Chutney's gym in the Valley:

• Producer and comedian/actor Keenan Ivory Wayans.
• Legal clerk, famous sue-er and possible tranny Erin Brockovich.
• Former SNL featured player and Jim Rome caller Jay Mohr (I loved "Action!").
• Superstar gay blog-lebrities Jeff and Heath.

All this and cardio, too! Plus, a full-fledged tranny that works the front counter (not Erin)!

Labels: baby chutney, bloggers, starfucker

The plucky, campy little soap that refuses to die has dodged the cancellation bullet once more. NBC announced today that "Passions" will continue for a 9th season, albeit with a move to DirecTV's original channel line-up. A few of the conditions attached to the move are budgetary - the show will be cut down to four hours per week (a good move, trust me) and the budget will be slashed yet again.

I suppose this means some characters will be cut and Tabitha will be reduced to casting one spell per sweeps period.

While the Variety article has some "if" and "still to be confirmed" language, I have some insider info that says this is a done deal, signed, sealed & delivered. Will this convince some (like me) to convert to DirecTV or will the show still be streamed online? We'll find out, I suppose.

As far as this dusty old blog goes, I have to apologize for the lack of posts lately. I've been a little swamped, plus very happy with Baby Chutney - combine those with a bit of writer's block and you end up with little dribs and drabs. I believe I'm back now, so let's see if we can't get something up here at least every other day, 'mmkay?

Labels: baby chutney, gay, Passions