My Camera Phone Will Not Be Denied: Dina Martina at the Laura Beechman Theater, NYC

Jimmy and I enjoyed a night at the theatah last night, because we are urban sophisticates who sometimes find something we both want to do on the same night. I recently discovered Dina Martina thanks to my secret conservative extra-marital boyfriend Andrew Sullivan and his blog. Andrew started featuring Ms. Martina on his web series Ask [Someone] Anything, in which he gets a prominent person--usually a political or cultural pundit--to sit down and field questions from readers. Dina Martina is a nice "lady" singer Andrew loves who performs all summer in Provincetown, where he summers like a big old gaywad, and so when she landed in NYC to do a stint of shows, he asked her to sit and preview her show/field questions from the unwashed Internet. It was her insightful and edumacational answers that convinced me that Jimmy and I could not spend our Sunday night doing anything more meaningful than basking in the glamor and clammy glow of La Martina.

She did all sorts of stuff from the great American songbook, from "Genius of Love" by the Tom Tom Club to "Legal Tender" by the B-52s, from the theme song from "The Love Boat" to a song for children that she'd written on a crumpled up piece of notebook paper she appeared to have found in a public toilet. It was, as Mitt Romney might say, "marvelous." She's on her way to London, so London peeps, she's playing at the Soho Theater from October 23 to November 3, get your tickets, it's good clean American comedy, like the Osmonds but so much better.

Jimmy darted out before I could force him to take my picture with her, but that's okay because I just took one myself, minus me, plus a nice woman with electric red hair.

Below, watch Dina take a question. You'll learn something, maybe.

Why Is This Sexy Mannequin in the Window of the Adult Store Constantly Trying to Seduce Me?

This mannequin won't leave me alone, I swear to God. Every day I walk past her on my way to Sixth Avenue to get a coffee or an Atkins bar or an apple or a hit of acid, and there she is, dressed in her sexy skivvies 'n chains 'n leather wristband thingies, giving me that come hither look. As if. Come on, mannequin, you've been around the block. Surely you know you are barking up the wrong tree. I don't even like wristbands! And how do you stand like that in that position day after day after day? It's not natural, mannequin, to put your arms and hands in that position for long stretches of time. Who taught you to do that, Anna Wintour? Give yourself a break and sit down for a while or something.

In conclusion, while I admire your confidence and your swagger and your dead, dead eyes, you've got to just give it up and start focusing on those who will be more receptive to your message. Because let's face it, unless you've got a hot gay surfer friend behind that curtain, I'm just not interested, okay?

Wait, you do? And his name is Chad? Hold on, let me put my wristband on.

Missed Connections Dept

Well this is kind of a bummer. Turns out I was this close to recently running into potato-faced misanthrope Morrissey at the Strand bookstore here in NYC. As reported by Queerty, Mozzer was apparently minding his business and perusing photography books when an elderly woman collapsed near him and he leapt to her aid like the SuperVeganMan that he is. The takeaway from this story is, of course, that I was at the Strand that day, too. Mozzface left soon after the incident because he's so sensitive and camera shy, which means that if it hadn't been for this selfish old lady I might have had an opportunity to sneak up and slap him on the arse with a copy of the Picture of Dorian Gray, which would inevitably have prompted him to ask me out to his favorite vegan eatery, probably called Grass or something.

I WANT TO EAT AT GRASS WITH MORRISSEY SOMEBODY MAKE THAT HAPPEN!

I'm Confused By It: "Mitt Romney" at Herald Square

 Okay, I didn't get a great picture of this person because he (I'm going to just assume it was a dude) wouldn't freaking stand still for longer than a millisecond, but the sign he's holding says "I AM MITT ROMNEY". So the question becomes: "B'scuze me?" Or maybe just plain old "Huh?"

Now, we all know I'm not always the sharpest tool in the tool container, but am I missing something? If this is satire, what is being satirized? Filthy rich plutocrats who secretly love wearing red spandex, look fake pregnant, and wear spooky serial killer masks? I'm confused by it.

When I first approached this person to snap a photo, he stroppily held out his hand and shook his head as if to say, "Uh-uh, you want a shot, put a dollar in the pot" or some such. When I wasn't immediately forthcoming with cash, the guy turned around so as to ruin my picture, then held up his sign toward the oncoming traffic on 34th Street, apparently hopeful that a passing car or taxicab would pony up some sweet dosh for some sort of explanation of this nonsense. This is not how capitalism works, amiright?

Or maybe it is, I don't know, I'm poor, gimme some money for writing this dumb blog post.

Busking Report: An Impromptu Duet

Sometimes when you get off the F train at 14th Street you are simply forced to turn off your iPod because otherwise you are a jackass who misses out on a beautiful little number performed by a dude with a piano hanging around his neck. And you would also miss out on a young lady with an umbrella passing by, stopping, and joining in for a few gorgeous seconds.

Of course, sometimes a train announcement interrupts your moment of zen, but never mind, the music will still be there when it's over.

Wonkette Drinkie Thingie, Rudy's Bar, NYC

Everyone knows that Wonkette is the single best source of news about political idiots, snowbilly grifters, and buttsecks jokes. They have also twice linked to this here blog because SeeTimBlog is the single best source of news about angry teabagger illiterates and how best to talk to your gay baby about awful breeders. So I was thrilled when I saw that editrix Rebecca Schoenkopf--who is in the midst of a little RNC- and DNC-inspired jaunt along the east coast, during which she's taken in Tampa, Charlotte, Philly, and maybe some other places who cares--was going to be stopping by Rudy's Bar in Hell's Kitchen here in NYC in order to meet her public and buy us pitchers of beer.

I tried to rope in a friend or two to accompany me but got no takers (thanks, NYC Facebook friends, I'm unfriending ALL OF YOU), so I had to show up by myself. I got a beer and made my way to the back yard space where the shindig was happening. On the far wall a giant screen was showing the game. (Which game? The baseball game. Which baseball game? The one that was last night.) I stood on my own for a while pretending to watch this "the game" and trying to see if there was anyone who looked semi-approachable that I might beg to talk to me. Then I saw Rebecca talking to some folks in the center of the space. I figured if I was just going to walk up and interrupt someone's conversation it might as well be hers.



So I stepped down and squeezed into her general area. Then I just stood there watching the folks around her talking, waiting for my moment to strike. In the mean time I introduced myself to a tall gentleman next to me and asked him if he was with Wonkette.

"Blowjobz1258," he said.

"I don't know what that is," I replied. Then I realized: he was introducing himself by his Wonkette commenter moniker.

"Are you on Wonkette?" he asked incredulously.

"Oh, no, I mean, I read it religiously, but I don't comment."

He was done with me by this point, pretty much, getting on his phone and pretending to text as he stepped away. I turned around and there was a tiny man standing behind me who had just come down the stairs. He looked up at me and said hello. I shook his hand and introduced myself.

"Hi Tim, I'm Zaltar," he said with an indeterminable accent.

"Zaltar? That's your name? Your real name?"

"Yes," he said. "Zaltar. It's Turkish." (I think he said Turkish, he may have said Klingon.)

"Wow, you do realize that's pretty much the best name ever, right?"

"Yes, I do."



At that moment, I saw Rebecca turn away from the older gentleman she'd been talking to for a few minutes. Here was my chance. Her eyes met mine, she smiled, and I introduced myself. She was nice! I told her that I'm SURE she doesn't remember but that she linked to this blog a while back when I tried to start a meme based on John Derbyshire's hilariously racist riff on The Talk that black parents have to have with their sons about living in a white world, which we all learned about in the wake of the Trayvon Martin shooting. (Mine was the gay version of The Talk. The meme did not take, sad face.) She said she remembered, that it was the first post of the morning and that she remembers just being really lazy and block quoting me and then linking to my post. I thanked her for doing it and told her that was just fine because click-through are click-throughs, amiright?



There was a guy standing next to her holding what looked like a Jack on the rocks and who looked about twelve years old. Since I'd already made it with Rebecca I thought I'd go ahead and throw caution to the wind and insert myself into his life, too.

"Hi I'm Tim, what's your name?"

"Jack."

"Jack. Jack Stuff?!"

"Stuef, but yeah."

That's right, it was Jack Stuef, my favorite ever Wonkette writer, dearly departed. I showered him with flattery, because I'm such a starf*cker.

"I was devastated when you left," I told him.

"Uh, really?" he said. He was not buying my schtick at all.

"Yeah. Well, okay, I might be overstating it. I was incredibly sad for days and thought I might never be able to read the Internet again."

Soon after this he excused himself to get another drink and get as far away from me as the venue would allow. Oh look, there's blurry Rebecca (my camera phone had had a few drinks by this point).



I then moved on to take over someone else's life and found two young folks off to the side who had friendly yet sarcastic faces that I felt really drawn to. They were Mwaanza and Lillie and they were both born in 1990, isn't that weird? I didn't realize people could be born after the eighties, but whatever. Here's a great picture of them.



We talked about what irritates us about everything for the rest of the night, the end.

In conclusion, this place had free hot dogs. Free hot dogs! Communism is delicious.

UPDATE:

A hawt photo of yours truly is posted over at Wonkette, feast on it below and check out other nonblurry photos here.

Creative Busking Dept: Theremin Magic Show!

This just made my heart all squooshy when I got off the F train today at 6th Avenue. It was a li'l Japanese theremin-maker just stone cold standing there and conjuring sounds like a dang sorcerer's apprentice or something. Doesn't it make you feel boring and useless that you can only play musical instruments that already exist in time and space and that have to be plucked or picked or bowed or blown and that can't just be gestured at? Yes it does, but there are other reasons you are boring and useless, so don't worry too much about it.

Devastation: My Cat Stella is Voting for Romney

I'm just beside myself. I knew that Stella was a fiscal conservative--she's always been a pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps kind of kittycat. (Sure, she's never worked a day in her life, but neither has Ann Romney!) And yeah, she did kind of have a soft spot for Sarah Palin back in '08 because, as she put it at the time, "that woman is a grade-A c*nt." (She was impressed!) But, really, I thought Stella and I both agreed that the Republican Party had gone absolutely bonkers in the past few years and in no way did they deserve to be in the White House again.

So when Jimmy told me that Stella had told him that she was a Feline for Romney, I was aghast. I went straight to the cupboard, took out the DentaBites, shook the packet, and into the kitchen she ran, at which point I scooped her up, took her into the living room, and sat her down to give her a talking to.

"Stella, what's this I hear about you planning to vote for Romney? You do know that he's a congenital liar, right? And that he's just going to bring back Bush-era policies that will screw the middle class? And that he's going to try to get rid of Obamacare? Stella, you do also remember that your daddy is a type 1 diabetic, which, in the parlance, is a preexisting condition?"

"Socialism."

"Stella, Obama is not a socialist, Jesus."

"Kenya."

"Stella, if Mittens wins you know what he wants to do? He wants there to be a Constitutional Amendment to ban gay marriage, which means your two daddies would be forcibly divorced and I would lose my damn health insurance."

"Birth certificate."

"Stella, let's be clear: Obama was born in Hawaii, and Paul Ryan is in the tenth grade. Tenth graders can't be vice president!"

"You didn't build that."

"Argh. Okay, Stella, listen, if Romney is elected president, daddy's probably not going to be able to buy you Fancy Feast anymore. How does that sound?"

"Secret Muslim."

"Stella, do you spend all day on Breitbart.com? I'm going to have to start putting some parental controls on the Macbook."

"Seamus."

"Girl, that poor dog is supposed to be a reason not to vote for Mittens."

"White is right."

"Stella!"

"Liberal fascism."

"You're making less sense as this conversation goes on."

"Eh, tired, bye."

"Stella don't you dare walk away. Stella! If you go under that bed I swear to God I'll..."

"Can't hear you. Purring."

This Doll Is Gonna Eat Your Face While You Sleep

My one regular reader might remember that my mom loves dolls and Christmas things/figurines and giant terrifying Santas. She collects these things, snapping them up wherever and whenever she finds them, be it a terrifying year-round Christmas shoppe, a mail-order catalog, or a friend with extras she wants to get rid of.

Apparently that's how the above doll in a box came into mom's possession. My blood ran cold when I saw it in the garage on my recent visit down to North Carolina because it looked exactly like THE DOLL OF ALL HUMAN NIGHTMARES. Let's take a closer look.



Yep, that's the one.

"Isn't she precious?" Mom asked/told me.

"Yes," I whispered, lower lip quivering. "P-p-precious."

Then I moved in closer to see what message was printed on the front of the box in a cutesy scribble to convince me that this doll was not stolen from the devil's secret stash.



Once upon a time there was a doll created by a coven of witches with an agenda and it scratched your eyes out on your birthday, the end.

Sorry, Internet Meanies, Lana Del Rey's Album Is Actually Awesome

Okay, okay, I'm late to this Lana Del Rey party, I admit it. Or rather, I was all over the pre-party--drinking down all the tasty cocktails Ms. Del Rey served to us slobs at the open bar of the Internet last year. They were all lush drinks with hifalutin names like "Video Games" and "Blue Jeans" and "Born to Die," and each had an epic, dramatic, sugary sweep to it (and a mango-coconut aftertaste). After that hella good pre-party, I was ready for the main event, a full album.

In these early days, Ms. Del Rey, of course, had her critics--plenty of them, all over the interwebs. Folks who hated her because she was beautiful and she knew it, like that woman from Weird Science, or hated her because she was "inauthentic," having changed her name from Lizzie Grant to Lana Del Rey and allegedly gotten lip implants or some shit, or hated her because... oh, fuck it, just because. The tug of war between the lovers and the haters meant that by the time Our Lady of the Immaculate Lip Augmentations was ready to release an album and start pimping it, the Internet was ready to self-destruct and it would only take one measly little trip wire to make this happen.

My Lana's appearance on SNL the weekend before the release of her album Born to Die was that measly little trip wire. Things got mean and a little weird. Though the songs she sang, "Video Games" and "Blue Jeans," should have sold themselves with ease, her performance was wobbly and unsure. I figured she'd just been thrust too soon into the spotlight and hadn't honed her stage craft enough. And, like any human, she was probably nervous. It seemed the Internet, which predictably exploded with hatred and mockery in the wake of the appearance, came away with an altogether different impression about the quality of Lana's music. But the criticisms were already locked and loaded long before Del Rey was booked on the show: she's a fake, a cynical creation of managers and record labels, the Twitter trolls said. And, ha, look, she can't even sing live, so we were right all along.

Then, like clockwork, upon the album's release, the nation's critics came stampeding from their outhouses, clutching to their breasts their feverishly typed diatribes about how Born to Die was a barely alluring failure, a style-over-substance catastrophe, a big glitzy red carpet leading to a fancy porcelain toilet with a big golden turd in it. Pitchfork was first out of the gate with a dismissive grade of 5.4 out of 10 (this from a site that had hyped Del Rey from the very beginning). Bloggers shot their wads all over the place, engaging in Big Conversations about how Lana Del Rey was a fraud, an empty vessel, a talentless hack, as well as a bad role model and a terrible development for feminism, girl power and self esteem. The Village Voice even managed to compare the beats on the album to those of '90s trip-hop also-rans Sneaker Pimps. That's not at all a fair comparison, because if you've ever listened to the Sneaker Pimps you'll know that you always came away from their music feeling molested to within an inch of your life by their loud-ass beats, whereas Lana's are classy, clipped, and easily swept over by all the lush orchestrations. But anyway, congratulations, VV, on your Googling skills. Even the Onion's AV Club, usually a level-headed bunch, lost their damn minds, giving the album a D. A D! What? I got a C in high school chemistry and I was terrible in the lab. (And I had no lush string accompaniment.) Props to NPR and the New Yorker's Sasha Frere-Jones for their thoughtful reviews of the album, but they were really alone in the wilderness on this.

And I'll admit: after reading so many headlines about how awful the music was, I shoved Ms. Del Rey into the back of my head and figured I'd revisit her at a later date, after the dust had cleared. That later date came just a few weeks ago and I'm now officially aghast--aghast, I say--at the treatment this album received upon its release. Because I'm just gonna say it: Born to Die is second only to Beach House's Bloom as my favorite album of the summer. It's true!

It begins with the title track, which is all glossy lament and breathy drama, enveloped in a thick swirl of strings. Then there's "Off to the Races," which has been criticized for the white-girl rapping, but I think it's just nifty. (Coincidentally, "Nifty" is my street name.) Then more drama on "Blue Jeans" and "Video Games" and "National Anthem." None of the songs sticks around for too long, which is an unusual choice for an album of, basically, torch songs. But there's also pop: "Lolita" and "The Lucky Ones" and "Diet Mountain Dew"--all smashing, with heavy doses of moxie and just enough Betty Boop squeak. Basically the album is a sumptuous mess of strings, coos, and hooks, hooks, hooks. "Radio" is the most effervescent pop tune I've heard all summer, accept for this one by The School, which just might make you smile for days.

Okay, yes, Lana Del Rey has a few hiccupy vocal ticks that will grate on some folks' nerves. And yes, she sometimes has a sad, irritating face in some of her videos. And okay, she might sing too much about loving up on hot boys and needing them to be her hero. But her reference points are just retro that way, and she's got an elegant way of matching her voice perfectly to the turns of phrase she's spouting--turns of phrase that are largely pretty sharp. (High-pitched squeal for "Gimme them gold coins, gimme them coins"; low, deadpan delivery on "Says it feels like heaven to 'im.") And if her videos of swimming pools and naked hotel room getaways and pet tigers are any indication, she's having a blast. So let her have her fun, because her fun is your fun, even though you're not hooking up with hot boys, you're just sitting there eating Chee-tos, listening to her sing songs about how she's doing it all the time, forever. It's still fun, though. She doesn't nail everything she attempts, but she shows she's got bigger balls than most pop starlet wannabes with the chances she takes, so I can forgive her her sometimes irritating face.

Finally, regarding the dumb debate about authenticity, I'll just say this: In the "Born to Die" video, we have a bombshell beauty with a lazy, languorous voice, singing a sultry torch song while sitting on a throne in a Sistine Chapel–like cathedral, wearing a crown of blue flowers, and flanked by two lounging, mirror-image tigers. How do you even begin a conversation about "realness" when faced with such a tableau? The answer is: you don't. You can't. It's not possible for a thinking person to do that.

So what you should do instead is say, "huh, this bitch is cranking the elegance and drama up to 11 in a hilariously rarefied way and so should be worshipped, probably."

I'm Going to Need To See More Explicit Photos Before I'm Comfortable Saying That Anderson Cooper's Boyfriend Has Been Caught Cheating

Oh, Coop. See, this is why you should have been sitting on my lap at the gym during those weekend workouts instead of lifting, squatting, sweating, and etcetera, all over the place, with your hot boyfriend Ben Maisani, who has allegedly now been busted with his hands all up in the gay cookie jar by the queerballs over at the Daily Mail, even though these photos look incredibly staged, for whatever reason.

I, for one, refuse to believe that someone could do this to America's Silver Fox. And especially with such a dumb-looking meathead. There's a time and a place for dumb meatheads, and that time and place is not in Central Park, during the daylight, where any idjit with a camera phone can record your love. (The time for dumb meatheads is pretty much any other time besides the time I just mentioned.)

Poor Andy, he's in a tough place. I mean, his boyfriend clearly deserves a spanking, but at the same time, he doesn't deserve one from our Anderson, you know?

In conclusion, Kathy Griffin will step in to beat Ben with a standing rib roast, which Ben will never recover from because it will be televised on the 15th season of My Life on the D List.

Been and Gone: David Rakoff

The Daily Show with Jon Stewart	Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c
David Rakoff
www.thedailyshow.com
Daily Show Full Episodes Political Humor & Satire Blog The Daily Show on Facebook

Ugh, this is just terrible. David Rakoff?! I knew he was fighting cancer but for some reason I thought he was in the clear. It just never made sense that he could actually die. What a sad, sad thing. I remember seeing him hanging out at the UCB Theater one time soon after I moved to NYC and felt like I should probably resist the urge to say hello and declare my devotion to him because, hey, it's New York, and folks are more sophisticated here. I've since realized that NYC is just as full of stone-cold starf*ckers as any other place and I should have totally just jumped in his lap and whispered my name over and over in his ear and it would have all been fine. I really wish I'd done that now because at least then I'd be able to say I once talked to one of the most hilarious writers of our time.

What a loss to the world. And guess what boneheads are still alive across this great nation. That's right: all of them, Katie.

I don't even know what to say, this is so sad. But, hey, let's take comfort in this quotation from the man's very own adorable mouth nozzle:

“There are many things in this world that are an outrage, to be sure, but death at our current life expectancy doesn’t strike me as one of them. Maybe I sound like some Victorian who felt that forty years ought to be enough for any man, but one of the marks of a life well lived has to be reaching a state of finally getting it, of not needing more, and of being able to sign off with something approaching peace of mind.”

Wow. Words to shoot for. RIP, Rakoff.

Where I'm At

Even though they haven't inquired or even betrayed any interest, I know that both of my readers are wondering where I've been and why I've interrupted my strict schedule of intermittent blogging. Well, the answer is in the above short film: I've been busy making funny videos of my momma going down a water slide in Atlantic Beach, NC. After we finished at the pool, of course, I explained to her all about the Ryan plan to change Medicare to a voucher system, but that video didn't turn out as well.

A Fun Q and A with Yours Truly at the Brooklyn Eagle's Brooklyn Book Beat Blog (Blang Blong Blurgh)

It's Monday, and all y'all are probably on a desperate search for something to read, to fill up those long hours until your lunch break. So here's a little something for you to enjoy, an interview with me, an "author" that you've never heard of. Go on, live out loud.

Been and Gone: Gore Vidal

The great Gore Vidal, a spectacularly talented screenwriter, novelist, and hilariously bitchy critic of American politics and culture, has died, so See Tim Blog has a sad today. There'll never be another like him--he lived nine lives and was a pioneer in, as conservative icon William F. Buckley would put it, being an enthusiastic apologist for the homosexual "affliction."

Below is a snippet of an interview with him for the film The Celluloid Closet, in which he discusses how he got Charlton Heston to unwittingly play a big old gay homo in the movie Ben Hur. The whole movie (Celluloid) is a must-see, especially the exquisite few seconds where Vidal describes a Disney exec as "looking not unlike Mickey Mouse."

Also, read Myra Breckinridge. It's a hoot.