Today in Growing Old Gracefully: Dale Bozzio of Missing Persons

I was reading that new book about MTV recently (the same one I referenced a few weeks back), and it was pretty a pretty fun read, with lots of dirt and a few stomach-turning moments. Everyone was such a drunk slut in the '80s. So gross and unfair. Anyway, one part in particular jumped out at me, because I'd been wondering whatever happened to Dale Bozzio, the lead singer of Missing Persons. Beth McCarthy, an MTV producer, explains on page 134:

Mark Goodman asked me to go to his dressing room to get some notes for him--I was the assistant to the line producer, so I would do errands for the VJs. I ran to his dressing room, opened the door, and, um, Les was getting a blow job from Dale Bozzio. I saw this out of the corner of my eye and closed the door very quickly.

Wait a minute, wait a minute. Dale Bozzio? Giving a blow job to the executive vice president for programming for MTV? That doesn't sound like her. Why would she do that? To get her videos played, sure, but why else? Anyway, Dale doesn't seem like the type of trollop that would suck on a dick to get ahead. I mean, look at her, does she look like the type a gal who would compromise her integrity just for the sake of some modest airplay on an upcoming cable network?



Okay, yeah she does. But how about we give Dale an opportunity defend herself on page 135 against this scurrilous rumor, shall we? Go ahead, Dale:

I don't have any comment. I appreciate your time, but I'm not interested in being interviewed, okay? I'd rather have nothing to say.

Okay, yeah, she did it. But who among us didn't give a blow job in the 80s for a little bit of airplay? We all did this. Poor Dale. I feel for her, this being the only thing she's remembered for in a 600-page book about MTV. But at least this passage led me to the Google machine to look her up. I hoped she was doing something life affirming and worthwhile, like growing medical marijuana or appearing in dinner theater productions of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I was in for a bit of a letdown.

Oh how the mighty have gotten arrested. Yes, Dale was arrested for animal cruelty in 2008, an event that led to the above mugshot being taken of our dear Dale. She was convicted in 2009. So basically, Dale Bozzio has become a crazy cat lady. Except worse: she's a crazy cat lady who neglects her cats. WTF? This is a like an 80s pop singer who doesn't give blow jobs.

Anyway, this seems like as good a time as any to remember Dale Bozzio in better days, so watch this video, won't you?

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….

Today in Growing Old Gracefully: Aretha Franklin

Good Lord, Aretha. What on earth? I take it you’ve been stocking up for the winter? Five winters? Ten winters? All I can say is at this point I hope you’re pushing for NATO membership. A mutual security arrangement is definitely called for here—you’re obviously in no state to defend yourself. (Watch out for Russia!)

Today in Growing Old Gracefully, Sincerity Edition: Siouxsie Sioux

Can you kids keep it down? Aunt Siouxsie's trying to pose.

Siouxsie Sioux is my fairy godmother, and I never would have made it through high school without her. The black patent leather shoes she shined for me using her very own ice cold breath were the hit of my senior prom. I’ve had trouble understanding in recent years why she hasn’t been crowned Empress of the World yet—hell, I’d even settle for a major American magazine doing a profile of her; she has been in the music industry and leading men around by the dog collar for 30 f**king years now, after all—but, alas, she hasn’t. Because what the world really needs is another article on Amy Winehouse. Whatever, she’s 50 now and looks like Amy Winehouse’s younger sister. That is, she looks freaking awesome.


Don't you want to just put Siouxsie on a
plate and sop her up with a biscuit?

Even when she was in her 20s and 30s, Siouxsie always seemed like your crazy old aunt that practiced voodoo and was always rattling on about the Arabian Nights, ragdolls, salamander kings, bad photography, and Jayne Mansfield. (You have an aunt like that, right?) As such, 50 seems the most natural age for her. If you haven’t gotten her album Mantaray yet, put down that shitty and lyrically clunky Alanis Morissette album and get thee to a record shop immediately.

Until then, watch Siouxsie get all Sally O’Mally with the high kicks in the video for “Here Comes That Day.”

Today in Growing Old Gracefully: Boy George

The headline in Britain's Daily Mail a few months ago said it all:

Boy George: 'I didn't chain a male escort to a wall'.

Listen, George, I believe you, really. I'm a fan. My boyfriend and I both read your memoir Take It Like a Man and we never read the same memoirs. But, you know, if you find yourself in a situation where you must make a public statement denying that you chained a prostitute to a wall in your plush London home, it doesn't really matter if it's true, does it? I haven't done that yet either, but nobody's asked me. In court.

Today in Growing Old Gracefully: Robert Smith

Oh, Robert. Yikes. Hmmm. Soooooo....Yeah, nice guitar


I know that fat jokes about Robert Smith are passé now, but the fact remains that we really need to address the dizzying downward spiral of every teenage goth’s favorite lovecat. Now, Our Bob has been a little doughy (in a cute way) for a while now. That’s not news. Let’s just say there were probably quite a few Cinnabon stores on Fascination Street, if you get my drift. More than a couple Hot Hot Hot deep-fried Twinkies on his plate, if you follow me. A not-at-all infrequent number of late night trips to the fridge for another slice of that triple chocolate decadence cheesecake with cream and hot fudge that tastes Just Like Heaven, if you—

Anyway, my point is this: getting fat is a part of getting older. I myself plan on porking up as I age, starting later today at Carmine’s Pizzeria on Graham Avenue in Brooklyn. But aging shouldn’t mean looking like a sperm whale in drag. It just shouldn’t. Especially if you’re still up on stage regularly performing songs with titles like “Let’s Go to Bed” and “Never Enough.” How can you expect to be taken seriously wailing at your lover to give it to you “One More Time” if you’re the spitting image of Johnny Sack’s supersized wife Ginny on the Sopranos?


Johnny Sack and Robert Smith after the Cure's recent show in Alexandria, Virginia.

Today in Growing Old Gracefully: Madonna

As all you homosexuals out there surely know, Madonna's crotch's new album Hard Candy is coming out this week, which is why all across NYC rainbow flags have been flying at half mast. It's certainly a time to celebrate. I mean, Madonna's crotch is 50 years old now, and it's STILL starved for attention. Just like you and I will be when we're 50. (In other words, Madonna's crotch is just like us!)

You would think that after all these years Madonna's crotch--surely the hardest working crotch in the business-- would be tired and ready to retire to the south of France, but it appears the party is just getting started. I mean, look at the cover of this album. So much pink. So much. Think of all that Madonna's crotch has been through over the years--Sean Penn, Warren Beatty, Sandra Bernhard's mouth, Lourdes and Rocko, not to mention fierce competition from the younger generation of proud vag flashers like Britney and that Lohan girl--and it's still clamoring for its close-up. Well, thankfully it's time for another album, because the crotch wants out of the house.

This album cover is not embarrassing. Not embarrassing at all.