I haven’t stopped feeling sad about Sinead O’Connor. She was at once the fiercest and the most vulnerable of superstars. She survived her abusive childhood. She made it out of the toxic 90s. She kept changing, searching, fighting to understand it all. She spent, by her own admission, about six years in and out of a psychiatric hospitals and struggled mightily with her mental health over the years (including multiple suicide attempts). But, as she told the Guardian in 2021:
“Clearly God thinks I’m such a pain in the arse that he doesn’t want me either. I’m a strong little fucker. I wasn’t meant to die.”
No, she wasn’t. But, alas, she has. And I will miss her brilliance, and all the messiness that followed along with it, forever.
But what lives on for all of us, I hope, is her brilliance. Not her perfection, because no one is perfect and she was obviously no exception. But how alive and how aware she was. How smart. How talented. How funny. How charismatic. And, yes, how freaking hot she was. Hey, we all mourn in our own ways. And one of the ways I am doing that is by sharing her stylish, cheeky and endlessly sultry version of Cole Porter’s “You Do Something To Me.” She sure did that voodoo that she did so well. She surely did. Happy Monday, kittens.
p.s. Also, did you clock the queer couples in that video? That’s no accident, as the song was recorded as part of one of the first major music benefits for AIDS. And it’s important to remember, this was 1990. This was before Ellen, Melissa, heck before k.d. came out. She’s been fighting the real enemy since the very beginning.
Honestly, I haven’t stopped thinking about the Barbie movie since I saw it on Sunday. What a glittery hot pink Trojan horse of a movie that promises the shiny plastic fun of childhood playtime (and delivers, thanks to its lovingly immaculate attention to detail) while also unpacking the social significance of the most famous doll in the world as she relates to our concepts of womanhood in our society. You know, girlie stuff.
I don’t know exactly what I expected with the news that Greta Gerwig and Margot Robbie were going to make a Barbie movie. I’m not sure if anyone did. But what we got was a day-glo dance party wrapped in an existential crisis tied up with a bow of cultural awakening that came with a lovely card filled with generational healing. Again, girlie stuff.
Of course, the Right Wing nutters are against it because it’s not just about how pretty a perpetually tip-toed plaything with physically impossible proportions is. Yes, conservatives, Barbie has fallen to the Woke! Mind! Virus! (Just, lol forever at whatever GOP think tank thought that’d sound super scary). Any mention of the dreaded F-word, feminism, and P-word, patriarchy, makes them want to buy another assault rifle and ban abortion even harder. You know, MAGA stuff.
But for the rest of us, Barbie will make us laugh and feel and think and believe all in the pursuit of pure female joy and empathy. And unlike more overtly serious-minded films (again, it’s so weird to say this, but not that the Barbie movie isn’t serious-minded at times), this film swaddles its most cerebral arguments in the warm embrace of emotional resonance. In short, this movie has a whole lot of women in their feelings.
Its most clever trick is to lure us in with the nostalgia while critiquing what that same nostalgia has meant to us over the course of our lives. How since her creation in 1959, this hunk of shapely hardened fossil fuels has affected our everyday existence as women. We are all just America Ferreras trying to be liked by a world that makes that impossible by design.
Granted most women probably don’t go through their days critically examining those F- and P-words as they relate to their jobs and families and relationships. But they sure intrinsically know that they do, and the Barbie movie has connected to that core universality. Yes, we’re all different races and cultures and body types and sexual orientations and socio-economic statuses. But we all also never forget the it’s the men (particularly straight white men) who still run this world.
One of the funnier aspects of the backlash to the movie (well, not so much in a ha ha kind of way, but a not so funny when the roles are reversed kinda way) is how the manosphere keeps whining about how “man-hating” Barbie is. In the beginning, Kens are treated essentially like women have been since time in memoriam in the movies and real life, but without any of the constant threats of violence or expected domestic servitude. Men are just funny little guys who are kept around as, well, arm candy but are not otherwise central to the narrative. They are accessories. I know men understand this because they saw and loved Margot Robbie in “The Wolf of Wall Street.” (It should be noted that Martin Scorsese hasn’t directed a female-led film since the 1970s, ahem.)
With each film, Greta Gerwig has shown off and honed her innate understanding of the constant push/pull of womanhood. I know, I know, her catalog so far has centered largely white (and straight) women’s stories. But, look, it took Christopher Nolan 22 years of directing features before he cast his first Black lead — who was of course still male — and he has still only done it once. Yet no one really makes a fuss about that so, you know, context. (To be clear, both should be more inclusive in their storytelling. Everyone should.) And, to her credit, Barbie is represented onscreen as a seemingly endless array of womanhood, including a trans Barbie which is nothing short of amazing.
The Barbie movie is also proof that women’s stories have always been so much more than just romantic love stories, or at least love stories in their traditional sense. Yeah, this is a chick flick but it sure ain’t no rom-com. It’s the reinterpretation of a chick flick, which examines gender roles and the dynamics that put us into boxes from the moment the doctor exclaims, “It’s a boy!” or “It’s a girl!” Those confines hurt women and men and everyone. Period.
Granted those Gay Barbie rumors (SPOILER ALERT, but deep down you already knew) never materialize in the movie. Kate McKinnon’s Weird Barbie (I mean, the Birkenstocks alone) and Michael Cera’s Allan are heavily queer and/or nonbinary coded. (Speaking of gay, I hope the Indigo Girls made a mountain of royalties for the use of “Closer to Fine.) But, all satirical consumerism joking aside, it’s still freaking Mattel.
My greatest hope for the Barbie movie is that it allows more women to tell truly all types of stories about themselves. Because, hot damn, we are good at this shit — we really, really are. Though I fear that instead of letting us tell our own stories, Hollywood is going to decide to make more movies about toys and other plastic crap. Which, sadly, they already are. Deep endless sigh.
Still the wrongheaded lessons being learned can’t erase its accomplishments. Biggest opening for a female-directed movie, ever. Biggest movie opening of the year, period. Bigger than “Mission Impossible 7,” bigger than “Indiana Jones 5,” and even bigger than “Top Gun 2” (Also, try something original you absolute greedy dolts). Barbie was made for us and we made it big. That is much more than Kenough.
So go grab your best hot pink apparel, and don’t be ashamed of the joy and, yes, catharsis you feel while watching a movie about a 64-year-old doll who has become a generational icon and cultural lightning rod. This is the kind of girlie stuff that should resonate with anyone with an open heart and mind. Come on Barbie, let’s go to a patriarchy smashing party. Happy weekend, all.
Sinead was right. All along. She was right. Sinead O’Connor’s tragic death at age 56 yesterday should remind us all what an otherworldly talent she was, what a fearless truth teller she was, and what embarrassment we should all feel about how our culture at-large treated her for that talent, that fearlessness and that truth telling.
I fell in love with Sinead, like so many others, when her unadorned face and unwavering eyes burrowed into me with “Nothing Compares 2 U,” and she has been a life-long favorite ever since. She was, in fact, the first live concert I ever went to (Peter Gabriel was there too but, you know, whatever). I still know all the lyrics to all the songs on “I Do Not Want What I Haven’t Got” verbatim. Her exquisite freight train of a voice could be all iron or all gossamer or somehow both at once. At times it felt like she was pulling from another dimension altogether.
Yes, everyone talks about her 1992 “Saturday Night Live” performance when she tore up a picture of Pope John Paul II while imploring us all to “Fight the real enemy” in protest over the then not-yet widely uncovered rampant child sexual abuse in the Catholic Church. For the so-called sin of being too right too soon, she was banned for life from SNL and NBC and became a public pariah and universal punching bag.
The Catholic Church, it should be noted, did not issue a formal generalized apology to all Catholics worldwide for its at least seven-decade-long legacy of covering up unchecked child sexual abuse until 2018 — yes, 2018! Previous apologies were all specific to individual countries around the world where they covered up sex crimes, as one does in the name of the Lord apparently. By the Vatican’s own conservative estimates, hundreds of thousands of children were abused by the Church. That apology letter came 26 years after Sinead first sounded the alarm — more than a quarter century later. Damn.
Less than two weeks after her SNL protest (which sparked insane backlash and hate and all the other bullshit people do when art makes them uncomfortable), she played a Bob Dylan tribute concert at Madison Square Garden in New York. When she came out on stage, the amassed audience jeered and booed her for almost three minutes straight as she stood stone-faced. Then she launched into a righteous a capella version of Bob Marley’s “War” and strode off the stage.
Kris Kristofferon famously was the only other artist to come on stage to offer any comfort as the hatred rained down on her from the crowd. By his own telling, this is what he said transpired:
“Don’t let the bastards get you down,” I told her.
“I’m not down,” she replied.
Then she told them to turn up her mic, ripped out her ear monitors and fucking wailed.
The Catholic Church scandal wasn’t the only time Sinead was prescient. She protested the playing of the American anthem before her concerts. She protested police brutality and killings. She protested sexual harassment. She protested the racism, sexism, and materialism of the Grammys/recording industry. She protested fucking war. She protested injustice and suffering, seemingly everywhere.
For all that, Sinead became probably the first modern celebrity to be canceled — well before we had ever heard of the term cancel culture. Still, through it all, she was stunningly clear-eyed and painfully self-aware. She has been excruciatingly honest about her own many mistakes and struggles, from her PTSD stemming from childhood abuse to her bipolar disorder and everything else. I worried for her when I heard about her 17-year-old son’s suicide last year, I really did. Nothing can stop these lonely tears from falling.
But she expressed absolutely, positively no regrets whatsoever about the act that supposedly ended her career.
In 2021 she told The Guardian when they asked if her act of protest against the Catholic Church had defined her career:
“Yes, in a beautiful fucking way. There was no doubt about who this bitch is. There was no more mistaking this woman for a pop star. But it was not derailing; people say, ‘Oh, you fucked up your career’ but they’re talking about the career they had in mind for me. I fucked up the house in Antigua that the record company dudes wanted to buy. I fucked up their career, not mine. It meant I had to make my living playing live, and I am born for live performance.”
Instead she called herself a protest singer, and that is what she will remain for eternity. Read her interviews, any of them, and you’ll come away deeply impressed and likely deeply moved by her intellect, her openness, her vulnerability and her conviction. Plus she was damn funny, too. So Irish, being able to hold untold tragedy inside her while still being charismatic as all get out.
Also, just to be deeply, shamelessly superficial for a moment, she was so breathtakingly beautiful. All that bravery and fierceness packed into this tiny package of raw energy and pure heart. And, of course, her hair or lack thereof. God, she was hot. So fucking hot.
Also, that thing flapping in the back pocket of her ripped jeans above her stomping Docs during her first-ever primetime American TV performance? It was her infant son Jake’s onesie. She wore it as a fuck you to record execs who had told her motherhood wasn’t good for her career.
Oh yeah, and she was queer. Her sexual fluidity, her search for spirituality, her endless quest to understand herself and our collective humanity was worn like a badge for anyone to see. Her refusal to be the pretty pop star they wanted her to be made her a threat. See how much society hates women who won’t conform. That bald head. Those unapologetic opinions. That unrelenting voice.
They pilloried her for it all. But she seemed made from the stuff of the witches they could not burn. So her sudden passing leaves a void, leaves the world a little less brave, a little less honest.
I pulled out all of my old Sinead CDs (yes, I still keep my CDs, heck — I still have some tapes!) yesterday to listen to them again and again. I also went down so many YouTube rabbit holes — as you can no doubt tell. So many live performances still reverberate like little earthquakes. So alive, and so aware of all the indescribable beauty and unexplainable cruelty of this world. If they hated me, they will hate you.
It’s true, we humans only have one ending, and it’s coming for us all sooner or later. I wish it had been so much later for Sinead. I wish she died of righteous old age still raging for what is right and using her instrument against what’s wrong. But may her memory be a blessing for every victimized person, for every brutalized person, for everyone who has ever been an outcast or cast out. May her music watch over all of us who deserve grace, and even for those who don’t. Except Andrew Dice Clay, because fuck that guy.
Thank you, Sinead. I will love you and your music forever and beyond. Rest in power, and hopefully finally peace. Truly, nothing compared to you. Who knows if anyone will again.
Hey, do you have an Amazon Prime subscription? (Yes, yes, I know - stop feeding the billionaires, I know!). Anyway, you probably do and if you do you should definitely look up the series “Deadloch” on Prime Video. Yes, I realize I’m being bossy about things you should watch. But given the recent mass culling of queer female-led shows (like, seriously, we’re in a full “Bring out your dead (lesbians!) plague right now…), I’m trying to support the few we have left. And while we’re on the topic, how about giving us more than just four measly episodes of ALOTO, Prime? How about that?
Right, where was I? Deadloch. It’s ostensibly a crime drama, but also a black comedy with a hearty dab of satire, set in a rural Tasmanian town on a lake with a name that literally translates to Dead Lake Lake. The town is transforming from a small podunk village into an idyllic lesbian cultural mecca. (Yes, you read that right, an idyllic lesbian cultural mecca.) Except, gosh darn, all these dead white men keep popping up. Put it all together and this is your perfect man-hating lesbian crime show complete with two female detectives leading the investigation/series. Did I mention it starts with the accidental setting of a dick on fire? Because it fucking does, it really fucking does.
Also did I mention one of said female detectives is introduced by her with her going down on her wife? And then they put a sweater on a dog. Because it fucking does, kittens. It really, really does.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. Are both the detectives queer? Well, alas, no. And not the one you think, either. Which I believe is intentional (but more on that later).
Now, granted, the show isn’t perfect. They set up a well-worn odd-couple pairing with the two detectives (one is by the book, the other wears cargo shorts to crime scenes). And, quite honestly, the show takes too long setting up their clash and making sure we realize they’re Very.Different.People. But then, about half way through the eight-episode series, it calms the fuck down and settles into the fun female-led crime show/black comedy of our dreams.
Honestly, if the cargo-short wearing detective had been genderswapped I would have almost immediately stopped watching. But the slight shift, by making it an obnoxious slob rule-breaking FEMALE detective we tolerate it because we haven’t seen those kinds of redemption arcs unlike their overused male counterparts. But, yeah, Eddie is definitely grating at the beginning (honestly so were some of the supporting characters), but then it found its groove about midway through.
I also enjoyed the show’s sometimes subtle, sometimes grand caricaturesque details. I don’t know if either series creator Kate McCartney or Kate McLennan are gay (but, if they were and a couple wouldn’t that be cute? The McKates!) But if they aren’t then they at least know a lot of queer women because some of the jokes are just *lesbian chef’s kiss* (Any Aussie kittens out there? Help us out, what’s the 411 on the McKates?)
Anyway, back to my original point., did I mention this is a crime show with two female leads, one who is a lesbian, and they’re solving crimes in a town FILLED with lesbians? Yeah, you know you are going to watch it.
Please tell me you’re watching this fun, outrageous, sexy, violent, outrageous some more and INDESCRIBABLY GAY show! And not just gay like, “Oh, I have a girlfriend who we never get to see and only gets mentioned once.” But like kissy facing, super(duper) sexytiming, cutsie coupley criming/ crime-fighting gay. Like forget animated shows where you have to watch five whole seasons before they do any lesbianing together. Watch the animated show where they’re lesbianing now. And a lot. And all over the place. Did I mention they wear a lot of tank tops too? What? It’s a Tuesday.
p.s. Don't worry, we are gonna get into Deadloch tomorrow, kittens. We certainly are!
Yes, I saw the Barbie movie. And, yes, I loved the Barbie movie. I basically haven’t stopped thinking about it. But, more on that later (like Friday, promise). But, before that, I think I need to send an important reminder to all the straight women who watched the movie this weekend. “Closer to Fine” is ours. Well, it’s ours and Weird Barbie’s. And don’t you ever forget it. You’re of course welcome to sing along. Of course. But, again, ours.
Just in case you were thinking of forgetting it, please enjoy Brandi Carlile and her wife Catherine Carlile singing THE lesbian classic for the Barbie soundtrack. Mini-Spoiler: The Indigo Girls version appears in the film, Brandi and Catherine’s rendition is on a bonus soundtrack. But hey, the more lesbian-sung Closer to Fines the better, I say. Happy Monday, kittens.
p.s. Here is them doing it live — as the now completely culturally irrelevant Bill O’Reilly used to say — and being super cute. And sounding great! Go see Barbie!
Forgot Hot Girl Summer, we’re celebrating Strike Solidarity Summer this year. For the first time in six decades the writers’ and actors’ guilds are striking together to get a fair contract from Hollywood. The AMPTP, which represents the major studios and streamers, has refused to share the wealth –quite literally – with the people most responsible for creating the television and movies we all love and makes them billions of dollars.
This fight is an actually not so small micorcosm of all of our struggles in this moment (and truly most of history). The rich get richer. Periodt. The rest of us, well, we just keep working harder for less. I can rant about Late Stage Capitalism with the best of them. But all we really need to know is that the already obscenely wealthy CEOs of these massively profittable media companies are purposely making decisions (like not releasing whole-ass movies and pulling rafts of too titles from their streamers) that further enriches the already rich (keep in mind, the richest 10% of Americans own 89% of all the stock/mutual funds). So, essentially we’re watching two rich dudes who already hae megayachts keep throwing money at each other as they keep buying more megayachts.
And, no, I am not bullshitting you with these numbers. In fact, they’re even worse than you think. The 1% (a.k.a. the grossest wealth hoarders of them all) own 53% of all stocks/mutual funds. Yes, you read that right – 1% owns more than half of the stock market. Think about that the next time a megacorporation does anyother major stock buyback. That’s all going to the Elons and Marks and Jeffs of this planet.
Look, we all know the concept of capitalism meritocracy is a lie they tell to get us to work harder. Of course, people can have success by working hard. But as they say, exceptions prove the rule. For too long, the American Pull Yourself Up By Your Bootstraps mythology has been just aspirational marketing for trickle down economics. Profit has become too divorced from the labor that makes something profitable in the first place. And that’s wrong.
Instead, these companies pray at the altar of endless growth/stock market expectations at every single worker’s expense. Again, workers make these company profitable and then as thanks these companies turn around and give those profits to people who had absolutely no hand in making anything and are already insanely rich. Vive la revolution!
And, we haven’t even talked about the most insidious undertones of the WGA and SAG-AFTRA current negotiations that will soon bleed out to almost every industry: AI. If these rich bastards can find ways to cut us out entirely and just hand money directly back-and-forth between each other they will have achieved their ideal society of infinite wealth for the already infinitely wealthy being propped up by a chronically underpaid worker class of everyone else. Yes, I do belong to a union and have sat across the table during contract negotiations many, many times. Why do you ask?
As I was saying, it’s Stike Solidarity Summer and we should all be hot and extremely bothered. Pay your writers. Pay your actors. Pay workers everywhere. Solidarity forever. Go get ‘em, Fran! Happy weekend, all.
Well, well, will you look at Christen Press and Tobin Heath on the red carpet, AGAIN. Twice in a row means it’s indisputable, right? I believe, to even the most obtuse straight onlooker, coming to the Espys awards in back-to-back years while holding pinkies on the red carpet means they’re officially official, right? Like, this makes holding pinkies on the red carpet the new Time magazine cover, right?
Look, I know that this is rather ancient news to the Preath diehards (also, please don’t come after me for not knowing their exact relationship timeline, I am just a casual yet appreciative observer of their apparent love). And I know they have posted plenty of coupley stuff before and after. But I truly think we can probably put every last questions of their status and public acknowledgement of such to rest if we all just direct our attention to Tobin’s shoes. Wearing sport slides to a sports awards show red carpet while holding pinkies with your longtime girlfriend? Yeah, it doesn’t get more lesbian than that. We will not discuss the white socks. We will not.
By now you’ve probably heard that “Top Chef” has filled the enormous Padma Lakshmi-shaped hole on the series with none other than former “Top Chef” champ Kristen Kish. Obviously this is great news, not just because Kristen is a famous queer chef, but also because for once a beloved TV competition franchise has made the absolute correct call when replacing a departed beloved iconic original host.
Admittedly, I had stopped watching TC right before Kristen’s season because of its until-then egregious record on winning female contestants. That it took 10 seasons to get two female Top Chef champions, well, it irked me then and irks me still.
Anyway, after the latest news I decided to watch Kristen’s season for the first time and thanks to my Peacock subscription that I always forget I have, I was able to binge over the weekend and catch up to 11 years ago. Damn, I forgot how addictive this show can be. I also forgot how irritating it continues to be to see mediocre male chefs get chance after chance when talented female chefs always seemed to be sent packing after their first mistakes. Whoops, I was going to stop grumbling about that. Where was I?
The other thing that I didn’t realize is that Kristen wasn’t out at the time her season aired. In fact, the show made an explicit point of pointing out (I mean, hey even repeated it again in the finale!) that Kristen and her “roommate” and fellow cheftestant Stephanie Cmar were NOT lesbianing together despite their best friend status and matching tattoos and living in the same building thing. Granted, it is up to every single individual person when to come out. It must be done on their own time and in their own way. She came out two years later in an instagram post celebrating the one-year anniversary with her girlfriend.
Kristen has said in interviews that she had always known she was gay, and not being out during her season of TC wasn’t about fear of her family or friends’ reactions, but just her own “insecurities” at the time. Also, it’s a reminder that 11 years ago is in terms of LGBTQ+ rights and acceptance is a long ass time ago. Her season aired three years before marriage equality was the law of the land (well, at least for now – we all know they’re gunning for Obergefell) and she still came out the year before the historic SCOTUS case.
The other thing I didn’t realize about Kristen is that she is an international adoptee, like me. That makes us both “white Asian,” as she coined during her season. Anyway, I think we should be friends. We’re both adopted, she’s a great cook and I greatly like to eat. Also, I would totally wear that unhinged-looking mosquito net head bag that she took to the rainforest on her new Disney+ show. See, so much in common!
Right, back to my rambling point. While I’m of course a Padma LUVR 4LYFE, I think I just might start back up watching “Top Chef” with Kristen on board. She is a talented chef, a charismatic host (“Restaurants at the End of the World” was an engaging showcase of her TV bona fides), completely not terrible to look at (ahem), and continues to bring welcome diversity of all kinds back to the series. I also can’t wait to hear her tell chefs to “Pack your knives and go!”
Don’t worry, I still know – corporations are not our friends. Corporations only love money. Corporations do whatever they think will get them more money. And corporations will not hesitate to drop us like a rainbow-colored habit if they think we might lose them money. (Cough, Bud Light and Target, cough.)
Requisite Down With Late Stage Capitalism rant over, OMFG did you see Nike’s new Megan Rapinoe TV commercial they made for her final World Cup? Yes, yes, Rainbow Capitalism, I know. But holyforkingshirtballs they made her into a super rad 80s cartoon superhero a la vintage (and kinda present) She-Ra and Jem and day-glow G.I. Joe. And very, very gay. And, well, thanks to all the activists and everyday LGBTQ people who came before us and fought so hard for progress to get us to a point where a $37 billion global brand celebrates an out lesbian sport star by making a kickass animated ad portraying her as a fucking all-American hero. Which, of course she is. And everyone knows it, even Nike.
Is anyone having a better summer than Janelle Monae? Like, I aspire to be as boobie loose and fancy free as Janelle is these days. She’s having the kind of Hot Nipple Summer we all can all only dream of experiencing. And you know what, good for her. Enjoying your damn life is the best revenge. Happy Monday, kittens.
We’re a one-name basis with them. Martina. Billie Jean. Sheryl. Sue. Abby. B.G. And, of course, Megan. They are our lesbian sports icons. And, aside from maybe Martina Navratilova, one could reasonably argue that Megan Rapinoe has done the most to forward the public image of lesbian professional athletes. Yes, we could quibble. But there is certainly no other currently competing queer female athlete of greater stature, name recognition and overall acclaim. And, dammit if she didn’t do it entirely her way – with purple/various other-colored hair and plenty of style to boot.
Last weekend Megan announced that this would be her final season playing professional soccer. It won’t feel the same watching the beautiful game without her. I hope, and believe, her fearlessness both on the pitch and off will inspire a whole new generation of female athletes. Athletes who refuse to be treated as second-class citizens to their male colleagues. Athletes who refuse to hide their true selves, and brim with confidence and pride. Thanks for refusing to be anything but yourself, Megan, which is of course unabashedly excellent and stone-cold gay. Happy weekend, all.
This may be the most appropriate Gender Fuck Thursday post ever, in the truest sense ever. The filmmakers behind the RBG and Pauli Murray documentaries are back again. This time they turn their lenses toward the lives of intersex people, who by their very existence explode our society’s neatly defined gender binaries. We live in a nation where an entire political party is at war with the concept of different gender expression and identity, and intersex people are right there along those frontlines.
Funny how all the right-wing panic about gender affirming care for minors completely ignores the plight of those born intersex. Somehow, when it comes to making life-altering decisions about a minor’s health care that reinforces the existing gender binary it’s completely OK to do without their permission. But if it’s gender affirming care contrary to the existing binaries with the full agreement and consent of the minor in question, it is not OK. Got it, got it. Funny how that works.
The doc is making the theater rounds and then hopefully will be coming to a streamer near you soon. I hope it helps to reinforce the idea that gender is always more complex than our preconceived binary concepts of biology, and nature has proven that out in an infinite number of small and momentous ways since the beginning of time.
Yes, yes — I know, posting again about the Indigo Girls and Tracy Chapman in the same week? I’m not a lesbian cliche. I am just very On Brand. Anyway, as I was saying, you might have heard recently that Tracy Chapman has become the first Black woman to land a No. 1 on the Country Airplay charts thanks to Luke Combs’ cover of her 1988 classic “Fast Car.”
I am decidedly not a fan of Luke’s version, faithful as it may be, because something about having a straight cis het white dude sing those words just hits different. And it also annoys the grumpy old lesbian inside of me that kids today may think a guy named Luke actually wrote this iconic 35-year-old song. Because, goodness, he did not.
But, I am happy that as the primary holder of its writing and publishing credits, Tracy is raking in beaucoup royalties and chart accolades on a song that first charted for her when Ronald Reagan was president. According to Billboard, that’s somewhere to the tune of $500,000 which is no Kate Bush “Running Up that Hill” money, but still clearly will help toward that goal of buying a bigger house and moving to the suburbs. Or, alternately, buy a person a very, very, very fast car.
Hey speaking of the Barbie movie? Is Barbie in Lesbian with America Ferrera in the movie? So a new clip from the highly anticipated movie adaptation of a plastic doll has what’s left of Lesbian Twitter (Yes, I signed up for Bluesky. I am resisting Threads for as long as I can. Dammit.) is pretty sure Barbie and Gloria are in lesbian with each other.
As much as this movie is the ultimate in product placement, I’m holding out hope that Greta Gerwig’s vision of a day-glow army of Barbies and Kens will unleash cinematic eye AND mind candy on us all next week.
Now, as much as Margo and America play up this moment for maximum Eye Sex, immediately followed by possible kidnapping and/or rescuing, I just don’t think Mattel would allow it to be that explicit. Like, sure, they can use “Close to Fine” and sure they can have Kate McKinnon hold us the Birkenstock of Reality. But allow Barbie and a lady who isn’t Skipper to give each other long, lingering looks that then lead to hot, sweaty plastic nights? Doubtful. But, Wishful Gay Thinking is perhaps the most powerful wishful thinking in the universe. So, I say, if Barbie can live in her own Dream House we can live in a world with its own Dream Lesbian Barbie Movie.
Well, I felt bad about giving you that abbreviated “Closer to Fine” version, so here is the whole thing from a few weekends ago. It’s shaky and it’s far away — and so many random big-ass heads pass through — but it’s there complete with a “Happy Pride!” at the end. This is also a nice way to segue into another Girls related topic (Yes, they’ve been on my mind. I’m that gay.) I’m anxiously waiting to watch their new documentary “It’s Only Life After All,” which has screened at Sundance and SXSW and Tribeca and Franeline yet somehow still does not have a distributor. Hello, someone please pick up this movie so us queers can watch it please and thank you. I’ve so far only read fairly glowing reviews about the doc which tracks their nearly 40-year career together. Apparently it features a ton of archival footage shot by Amy and Emily. And it looks at the impact their music has had on their fans and people in the LGBTQ+ and other communities they have advocated for over the years. So, as I was saying, SOMEONE PICK UP THIS DOCUMENTARY. Clearly, it’s homophobic that it hasn’t been snapped up already. Clearly. (I am only sort of kidding about this. Sort of.) I mean, come on Hollywood, “Closer to Fine” is in the dang “Barbie” movie. Again, the BARBIE MOVIE. Please, someone, distribute this film. Happy Monday, kittens.
Despite what the Supreme Court did on its last day, I hope you were just the gayest possible all June. Like definitely too gay to function. And totally so gay it makes the homophobes and transphobes bust several blood vessels in their foreheads from all the frowning. Me? I just spent its last leisurely Sunday with my absolute favorite Girls unlocking the Extra Special Bonus Super Duper Gay Achievement Award of seeing the Indigo Girls two Pride Months in a row now. I am expecting my badge and plaque in the mail any day now. We’re here, we’re queer, get used to it SCOTUS. Happy weekend, all.
p.s. Yes, Emily’s voice has changed. But, like, who hasn’t changed with time? Change is a sign of a life well lived, for all of us lucky enough to get there. Though, one thing they should never change is those “Thanks, y’alls.” Never.
p.p.s. Yes, it cuts off during “Closer to Fine,” which is as we all know, a gay sin. T’was the best video I could find, alas.
Solidarity! (The word is solidarity. Or strike. Or both!) As with past writer’s strikes, I’m all-in with Team Writers, duh. I’ll never be even remotely in with Team Corporate Profits. Like, I’m the person rooting for the killer whales to bring about the end of Late Stage Capitalism. (Go, Orcas, go!) It’s been fun to watch all the famous folks stopping by the show their solidarity with the writers (well, if serious labor disputes with greedy corporate overlords who don’t want to share in the profits with the very people who create the profits through their work and creativity can be called fun… Don’t get me started).
Last month,, “Abbott Elementary” writer and queer filmmaker Brittani Nichols shared photos of “The L Word” strike day. And, lemme tell ya, their signs did NOT disappoint. Joining the picket line were Leisha Hailey, Kate Moennig, Rosanny Zayas, Jillian Mercado, Leo Sheng, Stephanie Allynne and THEE Ilene Chaiken. Yes, and I even loved Ilene’s sign.
As much as we love to hate it, it was the true end of an era to see TLW:GQ be amongst the many, many Cancel Your Gays victims this season — though, huzzah for the maybe??? return of “Warrior Nun,” maybe?. I don’t have similar hopes for the reboot (a reboot of a reboot, yeah, probably not for another 10 years when they could do a “Golden Girls”-style reboot). But it’s still nice to see them bring the lesbian strike appropriate word play and those old L feelings back. Shane on you, indeed.
So, as we all know, lesbians would line up to watch Lena Headey and Gillian Anderson read a damn phone book together if given the chance. So imagine our collective joy at the news that they’ll be acting, together, on the same damn television show. Like, obviously, even if they’re cast as gritty dueling matriarchs a gritty pioneer-days period piece with a gritty, families-against-families turf wars, I will STILL watch. Like in my head right now Queen of the Seven Kingdoms Cersei Lannister and Queen of Sparta Gorgo are drinking wine together and swapping war stories, and other stuff. Look, it’s good in my head. Really good.
Anyway, in real life, Gillian will star opposite Lena in what can only be described as a Big Matriarch Energy face-off. They’re clearly setting up the two women as heads of their opposing clans in this show set in the rough and tumble (did someone say gritty?) frontiers of 1850s Oregon. Yes, kittens, this is a real-live remake of the “Oregon Trail” game. But, again, grittier. Kidding, it’s not based on the game, just history and Kurt Sutter’s imagination. It’s described as such:
“As a group of diverse, outlier families pursue their Manifest Destiny in 1850s Oregon, a corrupt force of wealth and power, coveting their land, tries to force them out. These abandoned souls, the kind of lost souls living on the fringe of society, unite their tribes to form a family and fight back. In this bloody process, ‘justice’ is stretched beyond the boundaries of the law.”
So, uh, sorta like the Oregon Trail game.
Sutter has previously been known for his acclaimed takes on hyper masculine worlds in “The Shield” (cops), “Sons of Anarchy” (white bikers), and “Mayans M.C.” (Mexican/Mexican-American bikers). So here’s hoping his new series “The Abandons” has a more female bent, and the casting of Lena and Gillian, two Alpha-caliber talents, would hopefully suggest that.
“The matriarch of the wealthy Van Ness family who inherited her husband’s mining fortune, then doubled it. Despite the town’s inherent bias against women, her money, charm, and ruthlessness created a network of political allies. For her, power, wealth, and lineage trumps all.”
“A strong, devout matriarch who, unable to have her own children, took in four orphans to create her own family. Driven by a higher purpose – and a strong-willed Irish temper – her faith and love for her family trump all.”
Oh, yeah, it’s definitely Constance versus Fiona. The western is coming to Netflix, but given that the writer’s strike (solidarity, union strong!) is ongoing, I doubt we’ll see it anytime soon. Which is fine. Gives us more time to dream about Queens Cersei and Gorgo. Like you can’t tell me Luce wouldn’t happily grab a cocktail and elevator ride with DSI Stella Gibson or (AND) Special Agent Dana Scully. It’s already happening in my head. Like I said, it’s good in there.
Today is America’s birthday, and even though I do not feel very much like celebrating, here is a song that celebrates us. Please enjoy as the magnificent Sharon Jones & The Dap-Kings reminds us all that this country was made for you and me. Of course, we are far from that more perfect union. The far-right Trump Court has ruled in ways that we will have to fight for decades against just to get back to what was status quo — let alone make progress. But make progress we must. We must keep striving toward inclusion and equality. And in doing so we can space for and respect all who respect the rights of others in the vastness of this land. Liberty, justice and great beats for all.
Nothing like the perfect Pride Month (and SCOTUS) hangover cure to start this new month off with some sexy queer joy. While I have a lot of complicated feelings about “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” and its creator Joss Whedon, I have no such complications about “Under Your Spell.” The song and scene remains one of the slyly and not-so slyly gayest numbers pretty much ever. I can feel you inside? Spread beneath your Willow tree? You make me COM-plete? All while literally LEVITATING OFF A BED. Bless Amber Benson forever for this. Truly. Happy Monday, kittens.
