In Touch (April 28, 2008) reports that mediatakeout.com claims Vanessa Williams is dating...Tyler Perry. She's a former Miss America and he's quite a queen himself. I don't think so!
Even Vanessa is incredulous, exclaiming, "Are you kidding me?"
I took three books with me to read on my holiday trips to Dallas and Chicago, but I only finished one—and that was thanks to an extra-long delay going. I’m a slow reader. I tease my partner for breezing through books in days when I am known to spend weeks or even a month on one 300-page volume. I find myself forcing myself to read every word because skipping to the good parts while still comprehending the big picture is easy, and the point could be that some of the skippable parts contain an even bigger picture.
That’s how I felt reading the 2007 memoir Mississippi Sissy by Kevin Sessums, whose name I recognized from various Vanity Fair profiles. Interestingly, magazine stories about celebrities—even those which are beautifully written—can sometimes be an act of making something resonate where nothing exists. The need for the story is driven by the fact that the magazine’s got to come out every month, stars’ movies are released every month and money is on the line. But in the case of a memoir—except for those written to cash in on fame, kind of like the lesser of those magazine articles I was referring to—the story is driven by the desire to explain one’s self, to fit one’s self into the world.
Did it bother me to know in advance that the author became a celebrity scribe, perhaps not on the surface the deepest-seeming fate for the deep-thinking kid who narrates Mississippi Sissy? I don't know. Does it bother me that I did???
Not having re-read Sessums’s VF pieces, I can only assume they were distinguished, but I know his memoir achieves that distinction. Sessums lays out his early-life story in artful but never pretentious prose, and what a story it is—his life could almost be considered an autobiography of the gay community.
Born in the South as a sissy who could not pass, to loving but tempestuous parents destined to die young, the “Kevinator” (as his star-athlete dad called him) took refuge in stars. He didn’t discriminate, elevating Arlene Francis to pole position and even demanding to be called by her name in petulant moments. That he wasn’t beat senseless is surprising, but he certainly didn’t make it out unscathed, enduring teasing and, as we’ll eventually hear, abuses of a more tangible nature. But what makes this little person Kevin describes (himself!) so iconic is his indomitable spirit. Even facing being orphaned, he has a drive to move forward, to move up. He never seems to ruminate on his situation, or to doubt whether he deserves to thrive and succeed in life.
Detail from the sissified cover of Twilight Men (1948), André Tellier's gay novel.
The most universal aspect of this memoir has to be the examination of what it is to be, or to be considered, a sissy. It's something lobbed at gay men by non-gay and gay people alike, and it's a slur we even call ourselves.
Also, for me, the book has several specific stories that transcend the already compelling surroundings, usually rooted in his deepest bonds—his conspiratorial alone time with his mother spoke loudly to me, his later negotiated relationship with his grandparents is surprisingly touching and his racially informed friendship with his grandma’s servant goes far beyond the words on the page.
As a writer myself, I’ve mostly been interested in relationships, in observing what makes them work. And my novel Boy Culture is defined by an exploration of the concept of a “gay family.” Maybe for those reasons, I found a story about a mentor toward the end of the book to be the most moving—and the most familial in nature.
If there are flaws in the book, I’d have to say I felt that despite the meaningful aspects of some of the later material, the core of the story ends with Sessums’s childhood. I have a feeling there was a need to include that mentor relationship and also some of his fascinating memories of the legendary writer Eudora Welty—for that reason, the end of the book feels slightly extended. I was personally turned off by the praise for Billy Graham (the author’s brother had a more important encounter with him than Sessums himself did...and his appearance in the book was not important), and Sessums—maybe hypercompensating for some of the emasculating treatment he’s endured—goes out of his way to mention he was once nicknamed “B.D.” for “big dick.” This was one small eye-rolling moment.
But if you can enumerate flaws on part of one hand, you’ve got a pretty inspiring book in the other. I highly recommend this brave, shocking book—you're bound to recognize so many things in it, not the least of which could be yourself.
I like and appreciate Rosie O'Donnell, even though she tends to become very defensive and loud when she's wrong (or suspects she could be), and even though she participated in a book about the poisonous and addictive nature of celebrity at the same time she was using her blog to fan the flames of notoriety that have swirled around her from the moment she confessed to the world that she didn't do dick.
Sometimes, Rosie is more passionate than she is right, but she's never insincere and she has been willing to stand up against Bushism since before the days when 65 to 70% of the country was doing the same.
I finished her memoir, Celebrity Detox (The Fame Game), and feel it's been unfairly written off. Done with a writer (I'd guess at least one) who is freely acknowledged by Rosie but who does not get credit on the jacket, the book is easy to mistake for a lukewarm mess. It has all the earmarks of a project started and stopped, retooled, hastily fleshed out and suddenly dumped on us after its long, troubled gestation. For one thing, it's padded with blog entries from Rosie.com, and not necessarily her most famous or finest. For another, it has no true narrative or cohesive sense to it.
Rosie has two Barbs.
But the randomness of the book actually helps make it feel somehow right, I would argue; it's about Rosie's scattered thoughts and deeply conflicted loyalties as well as the mercurial nature of being a national icon, so I feel the lack of structure—which certainly was not done on purpose, or was not the unnamed creators' first choice—is an artistic success.
If you skip the blogs—so singularly interesting and bizarre online, so flat and unhelpful in print—the rest of the book reads as if written by someone with a split personality. This is probably because it is made from the pieced-together parts of a previous attempt to produce a more traditional Rosie O'Donnell "auto"biography and more recent, post-The View tumult memoir. Obviously, Rosie did not "write" this book. I have no doubt she contributed to it, and there are times when her voice is captured in a truly unfiltered-feeling way, but mixed with the ghosts of her past are the syntactic ghosts of ghost writers. This chaos, too, accidentally captures the Rosie experience.
Coming up Rosie.
As an example of not-so-real, Chapter 7 is entitled "Who's Real?" and there is no way it lives up to its name. Rosie did not write it:
"Who's real? In celebrity land it can be hard to tell. Of course, this makes sense, because celebrity is in essence a mirage. It's the pool of blue water you see as a dot in the desert from a great distance, a dot that gets larger and larger as you get closer and closer, looking ever more luscious..."
Need I go on? Nicely written, nicely expressed, probably in agreement with what Rosie would say, but not written or said in those words by Rosie. I don't mean this as an attack—without ghost writers, we would not have guides to life "by" Paris Hilton, but don't fucking kid yourself, we also would not have historical tomes "from" Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton. However in this case, I felt the less Rosie the chapter, the less satisfying. I would have preferred to have those parts of the book attributed to a writer, almost like essays, and then label the more direct-seeming passages as Rosie's own.
The worst part of the book for me were passages in which she offhandedly admits to having harmed herself as a kid. For some reason, I doubted these. It's awful, but I couldn't help wondering...did she really break her own bones? Is there proof?
Are you a Rudd buddy?
Entertainment Weekly (November 30, 2007) offers a special double issue devoted to its picks for The Top 25 Entertainers Of The Year—Potter scribe J.K. Rowling earns the top spot as voted by the mag's editors and its readers.
While it's nice for a writer to assume pole position, I was more attracted to tops (hopefully) of other varieties...namely, impossibly cute Paul Rudd, scarily strong Gerard Butler and classically handsome George Clooney:
Let them entertain you.
Lance Bass is the HX (November 9, 2007) coverboy, posing as a ringmaster or horseman. Whether he's supposed to be under the big top or riding a stallion, he looks right at home.
In his interview, meant to plug his newly released autobiography Out Of Sync, there is a perverse "celebrity honesty" going on, wherein a star gets real to an extent and hopes it will count as the truth. For example, he bravely admits that he and Joey Fatone and "every guy has turned to porn for his cravings on the road." Candid? Maybe, but is that all Joey Fatone turned to?
He also says he is against outing. Instead, he feels that the entertainment media should "contact them: 'I know you did this, and there are rumors you did this, would you like me to help you figure this out and we can do a really nice story on you?'" Is he fucking serious? The media is supposed to look out for the best interests of its subjects to the point of crafting phony fluff pieces around them if it helps ease them into who they are? Girl, you've been around teen mags too long.
Still, though I'd like to, I can't hate Lance. Tossed the example of US5 member Richie Stringini (a Lou Pearlman find who was photographed in a stall in Germany with a friend's face in his crotch), Bass says, "If he honestly is gay, I would suggest to anyone who is gay, just come out and accept it. Especially now in 2007. This business is run by the gay community and it's not going to hurt anything." That optimism and bravery—who knew he was so strong?—trumps the silliness...like when the 28-year-old also claims he couldn't be attracted to 20-year-old Zac Efron because he would feel "a little pedophile-ish." Yeah.
Painful watching Richie's head bobbing as he attempts to explain his photo.
Also interesting in Lance's piece, by Lawrence Ferber, is a sidebar detailing famous (well...) boy banders who are now openly gay. I certainly knew about the adorable and sweet Mark Feehilly (Westlife) and his also very charming partner Kevin McDaid (V), and of course Stephen Gately of Boyzone was the first to come out. But I either didn't know about or forgot about Dave Moffatt of The Moffatts and Ken Lewko of soulDecision. Most fascinating (to me)...I've met all five!
Love him or don't, Lance is a far more credible subject than a retired currently inactive gay pornstar, profiled in the same issue, saying in all seriousness that he wouldn't go back to porn because, "I feel like I've done it, and if I were to go back, it would be revisiting ground I've already covered." You fucked for money on camera—let's don't turn it into a young girl's strange, erotic journey from Milan to Minsk.
What caught my eye in Next (November 9, 2007) was the Candis Cayne cover story written and photographed by Bradford Noble. Candis comes off as a level-headed woman with real elegance and humor, but it's her Madonna gossip I want:
"One time I was auditioning for Madonna's Girlie Show, and made it to the finals. She kept calling me Liza. She'd say, 'Do it again, Liza!' and toy with me like a cat with a mouse. I was up against super muscled boys, and ultra feminine girls, and I was somewhere in between. I was a boy, who danced like a girl...it was a little frustrating, so I started doing drag because it made me feel free."
Like Lance Bass, Madonna doesn't know her own strength!
Sue me, I'm a slow reader.
You might know Jesse Archer from his popular Out Magazine column, or from his blog or from his role in the indie flick Slutty Summer.
I know Jesse because he had a fleeting-but-pivotal role in Boy Culture, causing our paths to cross at a seedy Barracuda promo event that I won't soon forget. You won't soon forget Jesse's memoir, either—You Can Run: Gay, Glam, And Gritty Travels In South America (Harrington Park Press) brims with withering 
humor, improbable situations and the kind of boyfriend tension one does not need when one is traversing a continent with more military coups in its recent history than it would care to remember.
The book has a lightness to its delivery that belies some serious episodes, including some interesting insights into Argentina's Dirty War provided by a trick of Archer's. The story highlights how good we have it and how ungratefu we probably are for having it at all.
What gives the book heart is Jesse's Nick & Nora back-and-forth with his lover Zane. They seem like a perfect couple, kind of like thunder and lightning.
I can't imagine walking a block in Jesse's shoes, let alone a drug-fueled (hey, it was the '90s!) mile over jungle terrain, but the book is more exciting and preposterous than most fiction you'll find and well worth your hard-earned money. Hedging his bets, he's put a teasing shirtless picture of himself on the cover. You don't talk your way across Colombia by being a dummy.
You can buy the book right here.
Mouthing off.
The Book of Craig.
I could be off, but I think the original first line (or close to it) of the short story that became Boy Culture was, “I’ve forgotten every book that I’ve read.” I was so attached to the line that it was years before I remembered it'd been chopped out by the book’s editor at St. Martin’s Press. Makes sense—she was just looking out for her industry.
But it was as autobiographical a sentiment as any of the others in the novel. I’m the most ill-read English major alive. I went through a phase in junior high and high school when I read some classics to prove that I was smarter than you—Lord Of The Flies, Catcher In The Rye. But aside from that, though I enjoyed reading, I tended to read stuff well below my comprehension level. I 
mean, we’re talking about Thomas Thompson’s trashtastic Celebrity, John Coyne’s roleplaying horror tale Hobgoblin and some novel that was so sleazy it involved a teenage brother and sister tricked into having sex with each other as a form of hazing when their family moved into a new town.
Those books I remember.
I’m not as stupid as I claim; I do have favorite writers, favorite books. And I own a lot of books, including some that don’t feature pages of pouting adonises in black-and-white. But it’s safe to say that I have managed to avoid reading a lot of books one might consider unavoidable. That’s just laziness, I suppose. But on top of my natural disinclination to read books, I’ve also had to start with reading glasses recently and my day job is more often an all-day-and-all-of-the-night job. So I’ve hardly read anyone’s work in the not-so-distant past except for my own.
Just before the holidays, performance artist Craig Hickman sent me his autobiography, Fumbling Toward Divinity: The Adoption Scriptures (published in 2005 by Annabessacook Farm—also the name of a bed-and-breakfast he runs) with the inscription, “To Matthew Take care of your blessings!” It was unsolicited and did not seem up my alley—anything that embraces religion or spirituality makes me cringe. I warned Mr. Hickman that I might really dislike it.
But I didn’t.
Continue reading "Fumbling Toward Divinity: The Adoption Scriptures" »
Tab Hunter's quasi-candid autobiography (Algonquin, $24.95) does have some very positive aspects, both from a gay political and a juicy-read POV. Socio-politically, I'm always happy to hear of those in the public 
eye coming out of the closet, whether they're young and vital (Sheryl Swoopes) or, well, Tab Hunter. You can sue me for being a stick in the mud for expecting honesty in these situations, but give me one nance on the jury and I'll never lose the case. And as for juice, it is chock-full of tidbits about the golden and eventually the silver and bronze ages of Hollywood, so that is welcome. It never sizzles, though, winding up the literary equivalent of picking up an unbelievably hot guy for sex only to find he just wants to talk about horses and his weird mom all night.
