Today in Growing Old Gracefully, Sincerity Edition: Depeche Mode's David Gahan Vs. Morrissey

I have a shameful confession to make: as a gay new wave boy coming of age in the ‘80s, I had a bigger crush on Dave Gahan of Depeche Mode than I had on Morrissey. That is to say, I wanted to do it longer and harder with the singer of “Just Can’t Get Enough,” “Personal Jesus,” and “Master and Servant” than I ever did with the singer of “I Want the One I Can’t Have,” “Every Day is Like Sunday,” and the most beautiful song ever written, “The Boy With the Thorn in His Side.” In fact, I never even wanted to see Morrissey naked.

This is no doubt a shocking and, to some, wholly inappropriate admission. After all, David Gahan wasn’t even singing his own lyrics of ennui, heartbreak, and longing. No, he was singing the words of bandmate and quintessential ‘80s eurofag Martin Gore, many of which were complete crap. (See: “Rumors, Blasphemous”). Morrissey was brainier, funnier, and more awkward, the kind of shy guy that might drop an Ecstasy tablet at the discotheque and then spend the rest of the night in the corner sipping a glass of Riesling, reading Lady Windermeere’s Fan, and giggling into the back of his hand. So mysterious and sensitive. So much love to give. So forgivably irritating. So please, please, please, let me, let me, let me……..

But you know what David Gahan had that Morrissey didn’t, besides a choir boy's alabaster face and a leather jacket? That’s right: the ability to shake and slap his own ass with the unbridled enthusiasm of a whore at a hoedown. He may have been singing a bunch of platitudes about “words” being “unnecessary” and “love” being “enough in itself,” but he could really make those meaningless syllables mean something with a few well-executed butt gyrations.

Jimmy and I were recently watching Depeche Mode: 101 on DVD and marveling at how adorable our David was sauntering around the stage in his white tank top and white jeans. “Now that butt,” Jimmy declared, “has been f**ked.”

“Jimmy!” I said, shocked that he would say such a crass thing without giving me a chance to say it first. But it’s true. David Gahan, though he is straight (well, as straight as a member of Depeche Mode can be), always looked totally up for whatever came his way. Was it just me, or was it extremely easy to imagine him backstage after a show with a bunch of fanboys tugging at him and, slowly but surely, convincing him that he really hasn’t lived until he’s had a d**k in his ass? Not just me, right?

Whereas Morrissey always gave the impression that if you approached him completely naked, flushed, and breathless, he would wring his hands, curl his lip, give a reason for needing to go (“forgot to do the washing up, Mum’s gonna murder me!”), and hightail it out of the room, David Gahan looked like it would take very little cajoling for him to just strip off his clothes, sit down on his leather love seat, look you in the eye, and euphemistically ask “what’s on the telly, then?” while pulling you by the jock onto his lap.

Which brings me to David Gahan, 46, and still singer for Depeche Mode. This man is more of a fox every day and is benefiting from the passing of time like no human should. Swoon.

But I have even more exciting news to report: judging from the promotional photo making the rounds of the Internet for his new single (below), Morrissey, 49, has loosened up quite a bit—at least enough to stand proudly naked next to his delicious bandmates and have his picture taken with a 7-inch covering his Rusholm ruffians. There he is, after all these years, finally ready to admit he has pubic hair, yay! I just want to know, what did these guys get up to after the shoot was over? Surely they didn’t just get dressed and go home….

New Fun Thing: The Buffalo Beast's List of 50 Most Loathsome People in America, 2008

Wow. Who knew Buffalo, New York was so full of sneering merchants of venom? I don't know who these "Buffalo Beast" people are, but they certainly put together the most enjoyable 50 some-odd paragraphs of hilarious vitriol I've read since Gore Vidal's Dreaming War: Blood for Oil and the Cheney-Bush Junta. One of their "Evil Contributors" is Bitch Queen Matt Taibbi of Rolling Stone fame, so that should give you some idea of the treats you have in store here. This is my new favorite publication, and it appears that, in the tradition of Johannes Gutenberg, they actually print a paper version, so one of yous should get me a subscription.

Only misstep: inclusion of John Updike, whom they dub as "apparently immortal." Bad timing, Beast.

Investigative Reporting at its Finest: NY Observer Finds That NBC's Andrea Mitchell is Loved by the Gays

Ye Olde Nellie Queens over at the New York Observer are sure in a tizzy. They're very excited about their new scoop about NBC correspondent Andrea Mitchell and her secret gay appeal, and they don't hold back on any of the unique phraseology so beloved by ALL gays, or at least those from the Old School of Gay Indoctrination. You can't swing a Madonna album without running into the word "sassy," "flawless," "platinum blonde," "diva," "quiche," and "bathhouse."

So the Intrepid Gay's assignment, apparently, is to get to the bottom of the alleged fondness of gay men--as a homogenous group, who all love the same things, obviously--for Ms. Mitchell. He talks to lots of gays who are more than willing to opine on why she fits the mold of a gay icon. Here's an actual quote from one of them, talking about why he friended her on myspace!

“I actually saw her profile on another gay guy’s MySpace and I saw her picture and I was just drawn to it,” he said, as we began salivating. “I can’t say why, but I just instantly added her. I never really heard of her before and I can’t say I really know who she is. I just went for it.”

Gays know these things instinctively--we don't need to be told. It's why Ann Coulter's Neck is also a beloved gay icon. It just seems like it should be.

But why?! WHY? Why is Ms. Mitchell such a furious fag magnet? the Intrepid Gay wants to know. Is it because she's gotten bitchy with Barbara Walters, shacked up with a rich and powerful older man (Alan Greenspan), been plagued with a ginormous nose in a business that rewards facial blandness, or emerged swanlike from the horror of being a brunette in the 80s? We don't find out, but if the Observer had bothered to ask me, I could have easily settled this for them. It is for none of the above reasons that she is a secret gay icon.

It's obviously because she has an indestructible blonde wig with its own missile defense system. And also she's a tranny.

Anderson Cooper is an Adorable Drunk

I know this is absolutely ancient news (last week!), but I had to post it for posterity. The day after the inauguration of Michelle's husband, Anderson Cooper apparently still hadn't sobered up from the drinking and the pill-popping and the fancy dancing with Sasha, Malia, and smoking hot Latino dolphin trainers. And, sadly, you could kind of tell. There's something really awesome about a tanked news anchor talking about the fumbled Obama Presidential oath while drunk and also wasted.

Jukebox: Soviet

Folks, it's the end of the first week of the rest of our lives, and so we must celebrate. And you know what that means it's time for: that's right—synthpop. And who better to salute our new era of American competence than a little band of fey-bots called Soviet who dance with their keyboards like any normal person would. No, they're not a gaggle of dirty commies from Kazakhstan; they're just a workaday group of whiteys from LA with a fetish for the Cold War's greatest decade. In keeping with the optimism of recent days, this song is called "Breakdown." Enjoy, but not too much, because, really, we're doomed.

...And the Earth Quivered, Jizzed in Its Pants

Good Lord, I haven't been this turned on since George Clooney and his curly mullet joined The Facts of Life as a handyman in 1985. Not since Ricky Schroeder took his shirt off on a latter day Silver Spoons episode have my lips trembled with such longing. Must immediately do Google images search for "Mrs. Garrett" to calm myself down......

Michelle Obama: First Lady of Dancing

Fellow citizens, the day has finally come, after so many depressing years, when the First Lady of the United States will finally return to the White House the ideals of fantastic dancing. Sure, it's a little weird to watch this video of Michelle Obama dancing with her two daughters at her birthday party, surreptitiously filmed by the AP. It's always awkward to watch adults dance with children. They usually look like goons.

But what I take away from this video is the conviction that Michelle Obama is not going to be reduced to awkward, gangly pre-teen dance moves just because of the crowd she's rolling with. No, no. She can't hide what she is. And what she is is a dancing mom the nation can be proud of. Suck on that, Barbara Bush.

Our great country has not seen dancing this true, this solid, this important, since Eleanor Roosevelt introduced a scandalous high kick and jazz hands into the fox trot in 1933.

Eagle Attempting to Poke Outgoing VP Dick Cheney's Eyes Out Restrained by Reluctant Security Guard at Inaugural Ceremony

I fully understand the security guard's reluctance to hold the eagle back from gouging out the eyes of Dick Cheney (and feeding them to his dumb wife Lynn) as he leaves office, but, really, it's time to look forward, don't you think? And you can't really look forward with another man's eyes in your beak.

Ann Coulter Attacks Single Mother

All right, I know I've been dedicating a LOT of precious blog space recently to Coulter coverage, but, you know, it's not my fault if she insists on causing a scene everywhere she goes. If she tries to drop-kick or strangle an innocent single mother, I have to cover it. That's what a blog is for.

Jesus, will her stupid f**king press junket ever end?

Shootin' It: In Which Jimmy and Tim Briefly Discuss the Issues of Our Times

Jimmy: So did you see that clip from The View?

Tim: You mean with Ann Coulter's Neck?

J: Yeah.

T: Mmm-hmmm.

J: They kind of tore her a new one.

T: Yeah, I guess, but why doesn't anyone ever call her on her moralizing bullshit? I mean, I know there's tons of stuff to call her on, but Ms. Small Government was on the Mike Hukabee show the other day talking about the evils of sodomy and how the government should stop people from doing it because, I guess, Jesus says so. Why doesn't anyone ask her if she's a virgin? She's not married. She's nearly 80 years old. We all know she's had all sorts of nasty sex, even with Democrats. So why the fuck is she moralizing about sodomy? Jesus God may not like sodomy, but he's pretty much on record saying he disapproves of dumb whores having premarital sex.

J: Wait. Guys want to fuck her?

T: Yes! Bill Maher fucked her, that nasty pig.

J: Wow. Probably in the ass, too.


Thank you, goodnight!

New Fun Thing: Obamicon Yourself

Feeling hopey? Well then hopify yourself, lazy, what are you waiting for? The Hope is not going to just happen. You have to tease it out, and this seems like as good a way as any.

Things I'd Rather Do Than Ever Read Another NYT Column by Bono

Folks, this is how horrific Bono's column in the New York Times was yesterday. I would rather do any of the following than to ever have to experience that type of thing again:

1. Read a New York Times op-ed by Ann Coulter.
2. Watch Ann Coulter flirt with and discuss sodomy with Mike Huckabee.
3. Watch Ann Coulter take a shower. (shiver)
4. Listen to Ann Coulter having an orgasm.
5. Watch Ann Coulter mud wrestle Larry King nude.
6. Make love to Ann Coulter.
7. Rent an apartment from Ann Coulter.
8. See Ann Coulter’s secret freckle.
9. Visit an Ann Coulter fan club meeting.
10. Listen to Ann Coulter’s new single “Baby Mama’s Baby (Gonna Kill You Maybe)”

I'm not kidding.

They Made This?: New Renee Zellwegger Movie New In Town

Yikes. I've been meaning to start a new series here at the ole blog, one focused on stuff that people have taken the time to create, develop, and release into the marketplace that, when you see the evidence that it is forthcoming, you just can't believe your eyes. They made that?! you ask yourself.

Well, first on the docket is sweet-tart-faced Renee Zellwegger and her bland new movie, New in Town. Let me take a stab at a plot synopsis: she's a big city girl who just loooooves shoes and she somehow ends up in some podunk town in a northern clime full of zany characters who ultimately challenge our shallow but endearing heroine's preconceptions of rural America and she gets a good deep dickin' from some hot flannel-wearing guy named Bo with two left hands (literally), who convinces her that she's been wrong for so long about everything. Or something.

This movie looks awful, and that is all.

Obama Gives a Crap

So you thought Christmas was over, but WRONG, baby Jesus haters, I ain't done with it yet--thanks to dedicated See Tim Blog reader and Bizarre Foreign Traditions operative Muzzle Mammoth. Ms. Mammoth sent me this heartwarming story about a gift she got from her in-laws, who were recently in Spain:

"According to Spanish lore, it's very important to have a figure of someone taking a dump in your Nativity scene. Apparently it's important b/c the pooping figure symbolizes fertilization of the Earth that comes from manure (ok, human manure actually doesn't do much to fertilize the earth and actually produces methane gas, but that's a different category altogether.) And supposedly it's bad luck to leave out the pooping figure.

"Anyway, so they gave Carlos a pooping figure for his/our Nativity scene and it's Obama taking a big huge dump and on the front of the figure it says...'Yes, we can.'"

Well, this is absolutely the cutest little figurine of a person taking a dump that I have ever seen--even cuter than the figurine I bought Jimmy in Japan that lies on its stomach and holds incense in its butthole.

Tell us more about this place called Spain, Ms. Mammoth!

Yay! Ann Coulter's Neck Is Back!!!!

Finally! After months and months in the wilderness, aging mummified right-wing bilesack Ann Coulter—and the handsome, sinewy Neck that dutifully props up her leather mouth pouch year after year—is back in business. Ann Coulter's Neck is out promoting a new book, dontcha know, all about how all Democrats are pussies, all Republican turncoats are women, all children of divorce are strippers, blah blah blah. The usual insights into the human condition, viewed through the eyes of a self-loathing she-male hopped up on Lithium and Appletinis. God, I've missed that Neck. But, really, Ann, such language. Do you kiss Republicans with that mouth? Or just Democrats?

Welcome back, sweets. Where would old fashioned family values be without you, your husband, and your God-fearing children to defend them? Oh, wait......

Last Dream of 2008

I know it's 2009 already and we should have already completely forgotten the past and begun steamrolling ahead into the future without any further thoughtful analysis about the year we've just finished, but I just can't do that yet. This dream was wack. I'm not sure if it's due to the pain killers I was on for my poor, poor injured arm (gym mishap! apparently!), but whatever the source, my subconscious has apparently just been brimming with awkward adult situations it needs to convey in dream form, and boy did it toss me a doozy this past Tuesday.

I was dressed all in black and standing in line at some sort of red carpet event, like I normally do on a Tuesday night. I was a contest winner or something. Yes, a winner of a contest; a contest for emotional masochists. You see, my fairy godmother, Siouxsie Sioux, was in town doing some kind of dumb promotional meet-and-greet thing that she obviously didn't want to be doing, so of course I was first in line to meet her.

It turns out that the prize I had won was to have my clothing ensemble mercilessly picked apart by Siouxsie in front of a bunch of people and cameras. Great. I only win the shitty contests.

I'm confident, though, as Siouxsie puts out her cigarette on the red carpet, exhales a plume of smoke in Bristol Palin's face (what is she doing here?!), and walks toward me with her critical panda eyes. Because I'm dressed in all black, which is slimming. Or it would have been if the black pants I was wearing hadn't been billowy, flared, and my mother's.

Siouxsie stretches out her hand and points down to my feet and up to my head and says, "How attached are you to this.... look?"

"Um," I stammer. "Not very. You know, these are my mom's pants, I wouldn't normally be caught dead in..."

"Hmm. Yeah, this is a disaster. Horrific. Absolutely ghastly." Then, to her handlers: "Are we done here?"

And with that, she disappeared into the crowd, leaving me on the red carpet by myself, my mom's pants billowing and swaying, the paparazzi clicking and flashing, Bristol Palin and her mother Sarah, among others in the crowd of gawkers, pointing and laughing.

Then the scene changes and I'm hanging out with some friends on that traffic island/sitting area near the Apple Store at 14th and 9th. I've changed out of the billowy pants thank God, but I apparently didn't have anything to change into, because from the waste down I'm stark raving naked. Still got the black shirt on, though, so at least I'm not indecent. As we sit talking about how awful those pants were, we hear shouts about the election. The shouts build and build, and the message they are carrying finally dawns on us: Obama didn't actually win the election. Because of a technicality (that thankfully remains unexplained, because this is a dream), he lost the election to Jerry Stiller. A crowd forms in the street and begins to get larger and larger, as people hop up and down, defiantly proclaiming that Jerry Stiller will not be their president.

I stand up, still naked from the waste down, and start walking up 9th Avenue looking for a place where I can buy some pants. The crowd gets larger and larger and harder to navigate through. The shouts reach a crescendo and just as I see Siouxsie and Sarah Palin talking on the sidewalk I wake up.

Such a powerful dream, full of symbolism and some such. What does it all mean? Well, I'll leave that kind of analysis to the experts, like Cindy Adams and Dr. Phil. Personally, I think the dream sums up the anxieties of an entire generation that is fed up with stupid fashion and losing elections. How great it was to wake up and realize that Obama is our president-elect and that Siouxsie doesn't know that I sometimes wear my mother's slacks.

I sat down at my computer, still half asleep, and checked my email. Then I checked my blog stats and saw that some person from Queretaro, Mexico had arrived at my blog by typing in the words "sextape with my grandma" into Google; another from Hubei, China found me by Googling "damn moms tube."

2009, you will be mine.