L Train Inexplicably Named Best Subway Line in NYC

When I read this news yesterday it shocked me to my very core. The L train? Number 1? Is the earth no longer round? Is the moon indeed made of cheese? And, what, is Cindy McCain a living, breathing human being all of a sudden? My two readers might recall that I had a nervous breakdown on the L train a few short months ago and swore to never commute into the city on it ever again ever. I'm proud that I've kept that promise. If I can't ride my bike or my flying inner tube or my inflatable burlap sack with wheels into Chelsea, I opt for the G train to the E. Which is kind of like opting for oatmeal instead of porridge, but, whatever, it's been a good change for me, emotionally.

But, according to the new State of the Subways Report Card, the L train is the most best line in the city. For real. Dig:

The L ranked highest because it performs best in the system on two measures—regularity of service and announcements—and well above average on three other measures: frequency of scheduled service, delays caused by mechanical breakdowns and the percentage of dirty cars.

Um, what? Bitching about the L train is a tradition in these here parts. But does the L—with its snail's pace, its lengthy stops at nearly every station between Graham Ave and 8th Avenue, and, dear Lord, its crowds—in fact represent the best of what the MTA has to offer?

"I'd like to contest these findings," my boyfriend Jimmy just said at a press availability in our living room that no press were able to attend. "They are scurrilous and devoid of even the tiniest trace of provable truth."

Jimmy talks like a criminal defense attorney when he's angry and confused.

Cat Chat: Introducing Princess Chunk

My boyfriend Jimmy has always dreamed of having a fat cat to fuck with. He's been trying to fatten my cat Stella up for the past 11 years to no avail (because of all the vomiting). But this cat, this ginormous mound of fur-covered meat called Princess Chunk, featured on the cover of today's New York Post, is 44 pounds of pure unadulterated joy that already has Jimmy walking into walls with excitement.

The Chunk currently resides at a New Jersey animal shelter and is in need of a home. If not for my fears that the Princess would waste no time in devouring my Stella before turning to me to ask about dessert and a good port wine, I'd be on the phone talking adoption right now. Someone needs to act fast, though. Those malevolent shelter volunteers are putting Chunk on a diet (1 percent milk!) that could compromise her very essence.

Save the Chunk!

Hot Alien Report

Have I ever mentioned my appreciation for hunky blue alienmen with shaved heads and a glint of evil in their eyes? No? Strange, because I really don't think of much else. In any case, drink in the scorching hot photo I found when doing a random Google image search the other day. (Who knew that entering the key words "blue" "man" "group" and "torso" would return such a jackpot?) The photo is apparently a promotional image from a movie called Watchmen, which, hey, has a website. Judging from the trailer, it sure looks horrible, but I can't shake my hunch that there's a 10% chance that it's awesome.

Tuesday Editorial

Click to enlarge

Hilarous Video of the Day/Week/Year: Boycott McDonald's!

I for one had no idea that the good people at McDonald's were so gay for...gays. I for one plan to show my appreciation post haste, so if you'll excuse me, I have a date with a Big Mac. I plan to f**k it in its anal butthole. It's gonna be sodomy-rific!

Jukebox: Art Garfunkel

Wow. What a shitty week. Let's console ourselves with a beautiful song, "Bright Eyes," from a beautiful movie, Watership Down. Flying ghost rabbits always make things better.

Alan Judson Whitaker, RIP

Alan, Christmas 1993

Been and Gone: Golden Girl Estelle Getty

Did you hear that bottomless high-pitched shriek earlier this morning? That was the sound of the nation's gay men getting the news that the great Estelle Getty, The Golden Girls' Sophia Petrillo and the old woman that every gay man wants to be, has died at age 84. Estelle was a classy dame, and she should be an inspiration to all of us--she didn't get her signature role until she was in her 60s. It's never too late! RIP, Ma.

Sunday Evening at the IKEA with Tim: An Inner Monologue

6:15 – Wow. This place is huge. Like the Emerald City or Tara or the Neverland Ranch.
6:30 – They have Swedish meatballs here? And chicken fingers and fries? And some kind of chocolate, caramel, and crispy rice tort? I’m starving all of a sudden.
7:00 – Mmm. Nothing like a high-carb, full fat meal to put one in the mood for trolling around showrooms and debating the relative merits of round end tables vs. square end tables.
7:11 – God I hate shopping. Can we eat again?
7:25 – Sofa, chosen. Bed frame and mattress, chosen.
7:34 – [silent, reverential viewing of the Statue of Liberty at the window while burping up Swedish meatballs]
7:42 - Coffee table, chosen. Easy chair, chosen.
7:46 – Shouldn’t all of these children be strapped into their beds by now?
7:52 – It’s kind of amazing how just anyone is allowed to have kids.
8:01 – Sofa, sold out. Bed frame and mattress, sold out.
8:13 – Frozen Swedish meatballs, chosen.
8:17 – I wonder what the Swedish word for guido is…..
8:20 - Coffee table, sold out. Easy chair, sold out.
8:24 – Where’s the wet bar?
8:33 – Wow, a 99 cent breakfast combo. What time is it?…
8:39 - Jimmy's prediction was right; this was more fun than Coney Island.

My Camera Phone Will Not Be Denied: The Logo Channel's Sordid Lives Premier Party

I am a popular and singularly significant voice in American blogging. That's why so many people read this blog and why "See Tim Blog" is the most refreshed webpage of countless movers and shakers like my sister in Durham and some guy in South Korea. It is also why I was invited to the recent party celebrating the premier of the Logo channel's new series Sordid Lives. (I'm also friends with one of the "little people" involved in the show's production, but God, I hate to brag) It was held in midtown Manhattan and was sponsored by Skyy Vodka and Sara Lee, naturally.

The show is being billed as a "black comedy about white trash" set mostly in a small town in Texas, and it stars Olivia Newton-John, Caroline Rhea (former host of The Biggest Loser), Leslie Jordan (the really short old guy from Will and Grace), Rue MacClanahan of Golden Girls fame, and, apparently, Alison Janney's boyfriend. A stellar cast, yes, but I was hoping for a little more camp. Anyway, many of these folks were on hand for oggling on the red carpet, and, as ever, my camera phone would not be denied.



The cast and writer/director Del Shores, posing for someone else.



Caroline Rhea, very pregnant, posing with a small assemblage of gays.



Allison Janney (C.J. from West Wing!) showing off her shiny dress. Her lover or brother or friend or bus driver is in the show and she was there to support him and also to get free vodka.



Olivia Newton-John—whose superstar face shines so bright that it cannot be captured properly by a mere Samsung Verizon phone—being interviewed by Entertainment Tonight.

But the biggest thrill of the evening for me was sitting next to Bebe Neuwirth, Dr. Lilith Sternin-Crane from Cheers. Do you know how hard it is to sit through a screening of a show when all you can think about is what you're going to say to Bebe Neuwirth after the show? It's really hard. Anyway, she was really smiley and nice (and freaking beautiful; I'm generally passionately opposed to people wearing berets, but Bebe can do whatever the hell she wants). I told her that I loved her in Tadpole, and she smiled and said "thank you" in a friendly tone that nonetheless seemed to imply, "bye, stalker."

Oh, and the gift bag contained the following: a one-week guest pass to New York Health and Racquet Club; a two-week membership and one private training session at David Barton Gym; a piece of Sara Lee pound cake; and Rue McClanahan's memoir My First Five Husbands, which I'll be auctioning off at my next potluck.


Bebe Neuwirth told me she loves this picture of us.

UPDATE: In my Bebe mania, I forgot to comment on the actual show. Sordid Lives: The Series is actually pretty funny, in an over-the-top, early John Waters kind of way. There's definitely enough pill popping, drinking, inappropriate sex (one scene involves Rue McClanahan and a legless younger man), and general deviancy to keep most heathens happy. Tammy Wynette's daughter Georgette Jones even makes a cameo, playing her mother's ghost talking a suicidal drag queen off a windowsill.

The only part that doesn't work at all--on any level--is the story that follows Ty Williamson, the son/nephew/grandson, etc of the loopy women in Texas. Ty is in LA to follow his dream of becoming an actor and to deal with his sexuality issues. Thing is--and Lord knows I would rather eat my own hand off than to type an unkind word--but the guy playing Ty, Jason Dottley, is a really. Bad. Actor. (Full disclosure: at the premier, he was wearing a bejewelled necklace-type thing around his neck that said "JDott," which didn't predispose me to liking him.) He is supposed to be portraying a guy who is coming to grips with the possibility that he is gay, but, you see, his gayness is visible from space. You can Google-map his gayness. A blind, deaf, retarded armadillo could tell you about his gayness. Better would have been to cast a guy that doesn't scream 'homo' from the moment he hits the screen. But what do I know? I can't even think of an intelligent thing to say to Bebe Neuwirth.

Liddy Dole Is Hilarious

Dingbat North Carolina Senator Elizabeth “Liddy” Dole—Salisbury, NC’s very own village idiot-made-good—is not only made of moth balls, kudzu, and crepe paper; she is also hilarious. Get this: remember gay-hating troll Jesse Helms, the newly dead North Carolina senator who represented my home state in Washington for two millennia and in that time did all he could to see to it that as many gays as possible died horrible deaths by obstructing federal AIDS funding? Remember him? Well, Dole has proposed naming a new HIV/AIDS relief bill in honor of ole Jesse. Out of respect.

So the question becomes: Why is Elizabeth Dole suggesting that dead Jesse Helms is a gay homo faggot?

Controversial New Yorker Cover Misrepresents Size of Oval Office!

This is beyond the pale! The Oval Office is not that small. Michelle can barely sling her guns in that room! And where is Obama supposed to build a cave where he can teach his two daughters how to build IEDs?! Where is the outrage?!

Once again, it's up to SeeTimBlog to set the record straight. The correct dimensions of the Oval Office are 35' 10" (major north-south axis), 29' (minor east-west axis), and 18' 6" (height), with a 16' 7" line of rise (the point at which the celing starts to arch). Everyone knows this!

Why are the New Yorker editors and artists such liars? I mean, I understand artistic license, but this is ridiculous.

Miss USA Falls on Her Ass Again in Front of a World Audience; No Metaphor Here

Carrying on the annual tradition of Miss USAs falling on their asses at the Miss Universe pageant, Texas beauty Chystle Stewart, Miss USA 2008, bravely fell on her rear end during the evening gown competition of the annual pageant, which was held in Vietnam (irony!) last night. Picking herself up, she then proceeded to applaud herself for the unfortunate stumble as she swaggered on down the runway. She then screamed "bring it on!" to the judges as a "Mission Accomplished" banner unfurled from the ceiling, rendering her once again omnipotent and blameless. Then Miss Venezuela won, the end.

The Bashful Paparazzo: Philip Seymour Hoffman at Astor Place

He visited the Shakespeare and Co. bookstore on Broadway and then went to a kiosk and a Starbucks. But don't tell him I told you!

Obama Wants to Emphasize Foreign Language in Schools; Angry Right Wingers Would Rather Just Stick With the Language They Already Kind of Know

Because there ain't no French word for "freedum," y'all. Crooks and Liars has the village idiot roundup.

I don't know what these guys are so worried about. According to a new book, reviewed here, our nation's kids are too dumb to learn a new language anyway.

Some Pig

My boyfriend Jimmy and I are both gay. Jimmy, though, is more gay than I am because he paints art and just spent a whole week at an "artist retreat" in Colorado taking a sculpting class. (In his defense, I did spend that week rolled up in the apartment listening to all my old ABBA records, but straight people often do that, too.)

Anyway, Jimmy made me the pig pictured above, his first ever sculpture. As yet it's unnamed, though I'm toying with the idea of christening her Frannie. (Of course she's female. You don't think we'd let a male pig in the house, do you?!)

I love this pig so much. She now hangs out in front of our shelf of DVDs. (Her favorite so far is Harvey Birdman: Attorney-at-Law.)


Frannie is definitely now the cutest pig in our apartment. Sorry, Pumpernickle!

My Camera Phone Will Not Be Denied: Wet Hot American Summer at McCarren Pool

I'm thinking they need a bigger screen.

Jukebox: Juice Newton

Juice Newton was my first concert, when I was all of 12 years old. I'm not bragging, it's just the truth. It was at an amphitheater on Lake Chautauqua in upstate New York, and I went, naturally, with my 60-year-old Aunt Sue and her 70-year-old friend Evie. Juice rocked hard, and you could see her bangs from space.

Well, the magic was relived (kind of) last Saturday night, at the unlikely venue of Tortilla Flats in the West Village. As my drunk friends and I were sipping on our frozen Margaritas, the first strains of a long-forgotten tune flurried out of the restaurant’s jukebox. The faces of a few folks around the dining area began lighting up as they recognized the tune, and soon enough I felt a jolt of electricity pulsate through my tequila-soaked body as I realized that the tune in question was Juice Newton’s “Queen of Hearts.” The entire restaurant erupted in a jovial cacophony of woefully incorrect lyrics and open-palmed tabletop drumming. The waitstaff, who I guess were also drunk, took the opportunity to put down their trays, crank up the volume, and perform their best Solid Gold moves. It was enchanting.

But that was just a teaser. After “Queen of Hearts” was over and just as I began to feel the inevitable soul-crushing come-down that always follows such a massive high, Magic Jesus smiled down on us, said to himself, “These folks deserve another hot track,” and commanded the jukebox to spit out a second Juice classic. The first dramatic chords of “Angel of the Morning” blasted from the sound system, and once again the whole restaurant was on Cloud Newton, swinging, swaying, and braying like a bunch of muppets. As innumerable hands and second-rate voices, including my own, reached up to heaven during the emotional chorus

Just call me angel of the morning, angel
Just touch my cheek before you leave me, baby

I realized with misty eyes that, yes, this is the moment that my entire life has been leading up to. Sadly, this moment only lasted for about 3 ½ minutes. But it was sure powerful.

So! In honor of special times like this, how about we watch a few of my zany mistress’s musical videos for old time’s sake? Enjoy all that hair!


Queen of Hearts


Angel of the Morning


Love's Been a Little Bit Hard on Me

UPDATE: Oh, fuck it, here's another one.


The Sweetest Thing (I've Ever Known)

Been and Gone: Jesse Helms

It’s always sad—and not at all symbolic—when a bitter old racist gay-hating senator dies on the 4th of July. Jesse Helms, the virile farm hand and Champion of the Aggressively Stupid from Monroe, North Carolina who served 36 terms in the U.S. Senate, dating back to the Great Hurricane of 1780 (the year his first gay child was born), has died after many years of threatening to and will finally get what’s coming to him: that’s right, high tea up in heaven with Jesus Christ; unfortunately for Helms, Robert Mapplethorpe will be serving the biscuits.

Helms did a remarkable job of making sure that North Carolina, my home state, remained a punchline throughout the 70s, 80s, and 90s. Whenever he said the word “liberal,” his jowly cheeks shook like exploded granite with righteous indignation. His cheeks also shook like that when he uttered the words “homosexual,” “art,” “communist,” and “croissant.”

Helms was a trailblazer in the fight against AIDS funding in the 80s. “There is not one single case of AIDS in this country that cannot be traced in origin to sodomy,” he said. Such a good point. And by the way, fuck Ryan White.

Helms was also sophisticated. In 1993, he proved that he could kick ass and take names on any middle school playground in the country when he decided to whistle part of the blackface minstrel-era tune “Dixie” on a Capitol elevator he was sharing with a black colleague, Carol Mosely Braun. “Watch me make her cry,” he said to fellow Republican Orin Hatch. “I'm going to make her cry. I'm going to sing 'Dixie' until she cries.” It was hilarious hijinks like this that allowed Helms to maintain his popularity year after year with good-humored illiterates and knuckle draggers across the swamplands of the Old North State.

Helms famously defended his seat in 1990 from terrorist insurgent (and black Democrat) Harvey Gantt, the first election I ever voted in and the first election that taught me all about the wonderful power of race-baiting in political campaigns. Good times.

In honor of Jesse’s passing, I’d like to revisit a time a few years ago when for some reason I was traveling on Highway 74 between Charlotte and Raleigh and happened to pass by a building in Wingate, NC that I somehow had not known existed before: The Jesse Helms Center. Obviously I immediately performed a liberal U-turn and made a b-line for this hilarious den of militant insanity. Upon my entrance, I was greeted by a friendly red-headed 22-year-old young lady and given a brief overview and tour of the center . She was slightly suspicious of me and my motives for being there, since I'm an obvious libtard, but she couldn’t really turn me away since I was the only visitor. Also, she was probably bored.

Below, please enjoy my photo evidence that a liberal gay communist terrorist sodomite was once allowed to wander the Jesse Helms Center without an armed guard in a white robe at his side.


I prepare myself for my dance with the devil.



This is the most racist and homophobic eagle I've ever seen.



Me blocking Jesse's view of the UN Secretary General, who he totally hates.



A wall dedicated to displaying every positive newspaper article ever written about Helms.



What's that, Jesse? Why yes, my eyes are baby blue!

UPDATE: The scholars over at Wonkette have the shocking truth (maybe!) about the nefarious cover up by the Jesse Helms Center of the actual date of his death: the unAmerican pansydate of July 3rd!

Happy 4th of July, Amer-u-kuh!

There are so many things to love about this video, an oldie but goodie. The hair, the make-up, the fashion, the sexy angel, the fact that the credits for the video start halfway through. Also, the fact that who the hell is this guy, this Dennis Madalone? He says he's with us in a different way, but what was the first way? And who are these Loved-Ones? Are they mad white figures that are shooting out of Madalone's hair at one point? Are they magic? Is that why the ocean is now American flag-colored? Ok, I can accept that.

This video represents everything that is best about Amer-u-kuh. Firefighters that walk in the clouds. Cliffs. Water. Sand. Mullets. And creepy babies with perfectly round heads. But I think youtube commenter auriga1488 typed it best when s/he said, "This is just art perfection in every sense. Rhymes, wording, sense, harmony, rhythm, performance, pronunciation, haircut, video editting, photography, and many, many others!"

Enjoy this video today and forever and don't forget to hug a Loved-One. Also, see below for a video that is with you in a different way.

Diabetes the Worst Thing That Could Ever Happen to a Human, Says New York Times

As both of my readers know, I've been a Type 1 diabetic (the type that even nonfatties get) since the smooth and supple age of 15, and though the diagnosis was terrifying at the time, addicted as I was to Little Debbies and Froot Loops, I slowly came to accept that I would be giving myself 4 insulin shots a day and pricking my finger between 5 and 10 times a day, depending on how paranoid I was about my blood sugar levels. And, yeah, sure, I've had a few frightening insulin reactions in my time, incidents that scared the bejeezus out of my parents, friends, and, one time, customers at a table I was waiting on. But overall, diabetes is now just a part of who I am, like being tall or liking dudes or having the smooth, hairless chest of a porn star. I stay active, bike to work every day, keep my sugar levels under control, and see a doctor regularly. In short, diabetes is now--and has been for 20 years now--just a part of my daily routine.

But sometimes the media can be really helpful in jolting a guy out of his complacency and forcing him to realize the threat he lives under EVERY SECOND OF EVERY DAY. In a kindly article entitled "Diabetes: Underrated, Insidious and Deadly" in the New York Times Health section yesterday, Tara Parker-Pope lays out the ugly truth about this disease that, if one is not careful, can eat one from the inside out and turn one into a crazed, friendless, depressed, legless, brain-craving zombie. Here is my favorite quote:

“It is a disease that does have the ability to eat you alive,” said Dr. John B. Buse, a professor at the University of North Carolina School of Medicine who is the diabetes association’s president for medicine and science. “It can be just awful — it’s almost unimaginable how bad it can be.”

Hmm. Maybe I won't have that deep-fried chocolate covered hamburger for lunch today after all. I want to at least live through the long weekend.

Bush Finally Showing Some Leadership

Bush Tours America To Survey Damage Caused By His Disastrous Presidency

I Am Finally Ready

...to accept Jesus as my lord and savior and protector and dealer.

Laydeez I Love: Maya Rudolph

Lord Jesus, where is Maya Rudolph? The world needs her now more than ever. Who oh who is going to bring to life the likes of Beyonce, Donatella, Charo, and LaToya on SNL? Most importantly, who else next season will be able to get Michelle Obama’s terrorist fist jab just right?

Rudolph is gone from SNL, but at least we’ll always have the above video, in which she not only proves the intensity of her patriotism but also reveals for the first time the hitherto unknown original ending to the “Star Spangled Banner.”