by Adrian Ryan

Shut Up I'm Talking

In breaking news: how in the hell do my fingernails get so damn dirty? I mean, I don’t DO anything…like, ever. But it looks like I’ve been digging for truffles in a mud slide. It defies all logic. It’s the work of the devil. Or Republicans. Probably the devil, though. I’m telling you.

So, anyway, RuPaul’s Drag Race.

Are you planning to even watch this year? Yes, yes, I know, darlings: it’s such a crushing load of heartbreak that after two full seasons of complete and total Seattle domination that there are no local queens to be found this time. What the hell was RuPaul thinking? A mystery.

Even Eladio Presciado, king of LeFaux at Julia’s on Broadway, kvetched to me just last night, “Every year I’ve known at least ONE queen. Every season! I’ve never even heard of any of these bitches!” And you know? Neither have I ever heard of any of these so-called “bitches”… and it makes more difference than one might expect. Huge! (I am sure certain “football people” would understand—what would a sportsball season without any Sea Chickens, after all? I ask you.)

Well, regardless, the thing premiers on March 2nd (on LOGO, of course, the HALLMARK of gay broadcasting, gag-barf-retch) and my question is this: where in hell’s bells is the “official” watching party going to be now? Julia’s (the most obvious choice) has clearly washed its hands of the whole affair, and in years past the official party was always at the Lobby Bar – even though far better and thoroughly unofficial parties were thrown elsewhere and actually hosted by competing queens in person.

But as you know the Lobby died hard and ugly and went straight to gay bar hell, and as of yet no bar nor lounge nor anything else has risen to lay claim to the event.

All I know for certain at this juncture is that R-Place is bringing in a mess of this season’s competing queens to perform almost every week of the run, and that Jimmy Scarpello and Arden Turnbull of SinFinite Productions are planning to throw a doozey of an (unofficial) watching party at 95 Slide every Monday… you know. If you actually DO end up watching. Which you will. Who are we kidding?


And lastly, in completely unrelated affairs: have you yet heard the (heart) breaking rumors that my future husband/scruffy ginger sex-muffin Prince Harry has been slipping the old magic wand to that Hermione Granger chick from Harry Potter or whatever? Well. Infinity points to Gryffindor. Bitch.

Well, I don’t care. Whatever. Russell Tovey’s ears just asked me to marry them, so I have no right to be bitter about taken ginger prince wands. I said that first they’d have to resign from that awful “Looking” show on HBO and find a real job, naturally. I mean, really. You understand.