106 posts categorized "AUTOGRAPHS"
Season 2 of Looking is almost here!
HRC co-founder Terry Bean “absolutely did not have sex with a minor.”
End AIDS? Kill all the gays.
Benedict Cumberbatch will star in Doctor Strange.
Flamboyant-and-proud Brendan models for American Apparel.
David Sedaris's inscription to The Bloggess is priceless:
In the wake of the Eric Garner verdict, how NY grand juries work.
They don't fly planes into buildings...yet.
Gay marriages begin January 5, 2015, in Florida.
Miley's disco pasties.
I was a very fat kid. Like, I was a kid and a half. By first grade, I was the fattest kid in my class, a 75-pounder.
Sometime during grade school, I became fixated on Richard Simmons. I liked that he was such a screaming homo (for your reference, Richard Simmons to this DAY is not officially out) and I embraced his 1980s silliness. Plus, I thought if I danced around to my little black-and-white TV while he bounced around inside of it, I might get skinny.
At some point, I wrote him of my progress, and would you believe he wrote back? I didn't believe it myself, which is why I licked my finger and smeared his autograph, just to make sure it was real.
Rob Gronkowski gets naked.
Why LGBT people have always had to “rediscover” our heroes.
Dr. Nancy Snyderman defiantly sorry for breaking Ebola quarantine.
McCartney more popular than Jesus, Madonna richer than McCartney.
Olivia Newton-John sold her house to Madonna & Sean Penn.
Whoa, check out Barbie's box!
Does Michael Sam think he's not in the NFL because he's gay?
Olympic legend John Carlos criticizes Charles Barkley's “scumbags” comments.
Elton John defends his ongoing friendship with Rush Limbaugh.
Jeremy Parisi is gonna make you sweat till you bleed.
Working for a literary agent who had once repped Vincente Minnelli, I had easy access to his widow's address. With absolutely no concept of the bad blood between her and her step-daughter Liza, I wrote Liza Minnelli a Valentine's Day card around the time of Results, which to this day is among my Top 10 favorite albums.
She replied, returning to me several pages from a fashion magazine and the above B&W hand-out shot dutifully signed.
I'm going to go with the story that she was my Valentine that year.
Burt Reynolds is broke. To satisfy over a million dollars in mortgage payments, he's auctioning off what appears to be his life's collection of memorabilia, which includes priceless stuff like his Golden Globe and People's Choice Awards, as well as cringeworthy fan art.
The oddest thing I saw was this painting of Madonna. Why he has it, I can't begin to guess, but she sure would've been a fun addition to Cannonball Run (1981).
When I was working for a literary agent, my boss was the coolest chick ever, a female power bottom who was channeling all of her sexual energy into making me organize the files.
But she had a wicked sense of humor, too, and we made a dangerous amount of mischief, sometimes in the mail. When Oprah Winfrey lost every ounce of fat from her body (remember how stick-think she was?), Sandra thought it would be hilarious to write her and ask for her fat clothes.
The above letter is the actual response we received...we were not the only panhandling fatties!
I was obsessed with Debbie Harry because my older cousin had been into Blondie, so I felt this was one easy way to be cool. Of course, solo Debbie was very uncool; she couldn't even buy a Top 40 hit. But it was too late, I'd bought all of Blondie's albums and was drinking up Debbie's first two solo record, so was dying to hear her follow-up.
I wrote a fan letter to...somewhere. I don't know. I probably found an address in a British teen mag, the only place you'd find a 40-year-old popstar's address pre-Internet. Months later, a gorgeous postcard arrived with a fab autograph on it, urging me (on the back) to listen for a new album in 1989, which turned out to be Def, Dumb & Blonde.
I was livid that the USPS had stamped all over the autograph and picture, but I was also dying that the Greta Garbo of pop was re-emerging soon. I couldn't have even imagined then that Blondie would reunite and embark on tours so often I could afford to skip some of them, and that I would eventually meet her a few times. If the postcard had said that, I might have dropped out of college.