And this is why those wacky Republicans can't do what Jon Stewart does.

It's an interesting phenomena. I've never seen a Republican comedy show. I remember a while ago they tried on and well, it wasn't....what's the word I'm looking for.....oh yes.

Funny.

Is there something in the water? Is it generational? I honestly don' understand it and I've thought a lot about it recently. It seems to me that when most of them try to lambaste the Left all they end up looking is insane. I'm not saying there aren't funny Republicans. As I've said many times, I have right wing friends, and they're very, very funny. But it seems to me that most of the time, when politics is in play, there's a loss of something. I don't think it's replaced by anger or fear (I think that's a cop out), but it seems more to the pont that it just goes away. Like it disappears.

Am I nuts?

I keep thinking about Ann Coulter.

I know she's a bit extreme, and I also know that as both parties evolve and change that they want to distant themselves from any kind of extremism, but the last time Coulter tried any kind of parody, she ended up calling John Edwards a "fag".

I got the joke. It wasn't that I didn't get WHY she said it. But that kind of humor isn't funny.

So I fear that it's less about the fact that some of the Right doesn't have a sense of humor (because that's not true), but it's more like they just don't understand how to tap into it without it coming out plain nasty.

Again, I think it might be generational. A lot of that party is dying out. They're old, they're set in their ways, and their thinking goes back to Donna Reed and the Edsel in their driveway. Maybe it's just time for a new set of Repubs. Ones with spiky hair and purple I Pods. Maybe they actually know why Barney Frank is funny.

Maybe.

I got this from my good pal Lindsay Jones on Facebook. This was a tough one, but really fun to do. Here were the instructions: Using only song names from ONE ARTIST, answer these questions.







Pick Your Artist:

Judy Garland



Are you male or female:

(I’m Just) An In Between



Describe yourself:

I Can’t Give You Anything But Love




How do you feel about yourself:

I’m Always Chasing Rainbows




Describe your current boy/girl situation:

Love




Describe where you currently live:

Cottage For Sale




If you could go anywhere you wanted to go:

Somewhere Over The Rainbow




Your favorite form of transportation:

The Trolley Song




Your best friend is:

The Great Lady Gives An Interview




Your favorite color is:

Lost in the Stars




Favorite time of day:

Oh How I Hate To Get Up In The Morning




If your life were a TV show, what would it be called:

Get Happy




What is life to you:

Life Is Just A Bowl Of Cherries




What is the best advice you have to give:

Here’s To Life

Now, if all goes well we'll never hear from her again.

But really, anyone who believes that to be true, please stand up.

Paul Begala, a commentator at CNN, sums it up this way:



"We will know. In the fullness of time (and I predict, not much time) we will know. Again and again in her statement, Gov. Palin returned to the nettlesome ethics inquiries that have been visited upon her since she signed on to be John McCain's running mate. No doubt they are annoying. But does anyone believe that's why she's resigning? No, there's more to this story. And Ms. Palin's resignation only increases the chances that we will all know the rest of the story soon. Or, as she might put it:

We will all KNOW the "rest of the Story" *((SOON!))*"

As surprising as it seems, and as shocking as it continues to be, yet another hypocrite and active political bigot is caught with his pants down. This time, not only did the Governor lie to his staff about his whereabouts for the last 6 months, but he left his wife and four little boys on Father’s Day to frolic with his mistress in Argentina.

What a charmer.




After going AWOL for seven days, Gov. Mark Sanford admitted Wednesday that he had secretly flown to Argentina to visit a woman with whom he was having an affair. Wiping away tears, he apologized to his family and gave up a national Republican Party post, but was silent on whether he would resign.

"I've been unfaithful to my wife," he said in a news conference in which the 49-year-old governor ruminated on God's law, moral absolutes and following one's heart. He said he spent the last five days "crying in Argentina."

At least one state lawmaker called for his resignation. As a congressman, Sanford voted in favor of three of four articles of impeachment against President Bill Clinton, citing the need for "moral legitimacy."



Moral Legitimacy. That kills me.

Two legends doing what they do best. I've always been a Danny Kaye fan and have always felt his musical ability was overlooked. To keep up with Louis Armstrong in any capacity is a feat in and of itself, and Kaye's musicality is unmistakable here.

And then there's Satchmo himself. The divine, rough, soulful, gruff demeanor Louis provides is his trademark. His trumpet is almost a part of him, but the other side (as with Danny Kaye) is a real treat. His ability to scat, and to sing with from his soul has never been equaled. There's a true joy in his voice that always makes me smile and keeps me smiling for hours.

This is a miracle of a duet.

By the way, I have no idea what this is from. If anyone knows, could you post it for me please?

Otherwise...enjoy.

Our world. Musical, gorgeous, filled with contradictions, and a massive, big, blue marble of wacked out insanity joined together by a common tune.

I love it.

I love it all.

Leonardo tangles with Katie as she attempts to teach everyone how to sing the classic "Row, Row, Row Your Boat."

I need a life.

Really bad.

Just in case you missed the parade, you can click here and see Fausto (a Chicago legend, and hilarious podcast and radio host) give brief highlights.

Fausto kills me.

And the parade was glorious.

A wonderful piece on the history of Stonewall.

As I was slapping on the rest of my lipstick and checking to make sure nothing was either hanging out, or about to hang out, I caught myself in the mirror. I stood in my bedroom in the full length mirror and said very quietly:

“I can’t believe this is happening.”

I was asked about a month ago to be the Grand Marshall of the Gay Pride Parade in Chicago where I spent almost 30 years in theatre and almost 7 years in Schaumburg (a suburb located not too far from the city itself). Most of my life has been spent around people from the Midwest. And most of my adult life as I transitioned, had been spent around gay people and other Transgender women. I always claim to have been raised by the gay community, which is probably why I have such an affinity for sequins and purple boas.

I’d blame my neurotic need to clean on the Gays, but that actually came from my mother.

Because of my irrational fear of large groups of people, yesterday was a particularly frightening day for me. Even when I teach, getting up in front of 10 or more students tends to make my knees shake a bit. I also suffer from terrible, almost debilitating stage fright…a fear that sometimes leaves me trapped back stage between a curtain and a very bewildered stage manager.

So, before hand, I asked two good friends of mine (and coincidentally two very *large* friends of mine) to escort me to the parade, and even ride with me in the car flanking me like Diana Ross. I wasn’t exactly fearful of someone coming up and yanking my weave out of my head, but I was more afraid of someone coming up and calling me a phony.

I have very bizarre fears.

Luckily, my friends understand my insanity, accept it, and usually pat me on the head and eventually acquiesce. I owe a lot of favors to my friends. I hope someday to pay them off…in cash.

We arrived at the parade an hour early, and occasionally old pals dropped by the long, white convertible the three of us stood by , shook my hand, said hello, and chatted with me for a while. No one with a gun, or a hatchet, or a confused look on their face as if to say:

“YOU’RE not Ann-Margaret!”

All was going well so far.

I did some quick interviews, our driver got the signal it was time to go, and we piled into the car. Mike sat to the right of me, and Eric to the left as I plopped myself up on the back of the convertible.

The day was gorgeous. Perfectly clear, not too hot, and a gentle breeze occasionally wafting through my sun dress I borrowed from my best friend Honey. Now, if you’ve ever been to Chicago, you know that when I say “gentle breeze”, I don’t mean a normal gentle breeze, I mean a monsoon. They don’t call it The Windy City for nothing. This breeze was so strong, that I think there were times when it blew the brown off me.

Mind you, I was wearing a dress. And because I didn’t want to be sweating in places where it can get really uncomfortable to sweat, I decided to wear very little underwear. I dressed like Blanche Deveraux…without the menopause part. So, every once in a while, as we rode down Halsted street amidst the cheering and the whooping and the cat-calls (a sound I haven’t heard since I was about 23 and a hooker on Belmont and Broadway), I’d have to put my legs in a vice-like shape in order to not get arrested. I looked a bit like a Mime with a bladder problem.

It didn’t matter though. As we drove down the streets, people dressed in shorts and t-shirts, to the Transgender gals in bee hives and miniskirts, to the guys on roofs in leather and assless chaps, to the lesbians on motorcycles smoking cigars and spitting, waved, yelled, barked, howled, gyrated, and pumped their fists into the air. I waved back, smiled back, and screamed right back at them, loving every minute of the freedom, the joy and the excitement racing through us all at one time.

Every once in a while I’d hear my name called out, or I’d hear a random: “Shante!”, and one time, from behind me, I heard a male voice shriek out:

“Schaumburg!”

It was very surreal.

It was as if my life was being played back to me as I rode forward down a street I had lived on in my past life. As though I was driving through my past, and there were voices echoing behind me, on eh sides of, and ahead of my was my future. I couldn’t see what it was, I couldn’t quite make it out, but the sun was shining, and my fingers were crossed.

And then I passed by a clothes store that used to be Club Victoria, the very first place I had worked at when I arrived in the city at 20 years old. The building was the same, with the same shape, the same sun roof, the same alley to the right, and as I squinted to get the sun off my eyes, I could swear I saw us all, all the girls and I, standing on the roof top, waving and cheering as my very first gay pride parade past me by. A drink in my hand, a cigarette in the other and flanked by Daphne, Gloria, Ginger and Diana.

My past.

Yet again, I was faced with my life passing me by and the uncertainty and fear and excitement of what was next.

As we neared the end of the parade, Mike asked our driver if there were ever any protestors. As this year has gone by, and the extremists have gotten angrier and angrier as equal rights have been put into law, my fear grew again. People can be carried away by their own prejudice. People shoot, hit, fight, kick, anything to get the rage out of them. And as we rounded the bend and the end of the road was feet before us, I heard an angry voice over a rickety bull horn:

“You’re unnatural! You’re not of the world, Alexandra! Shame on you! And on the Lord’s Day! A Sunday! Shame on you!”

There was this voice. A lone voice coming from a large man standing in the shade with a sign that read:

“God doesn’t choose.”

He was mad. He was red faced, and cold. His eyes were deep set and in the dark with the trees that loomed above him, he stood there alone trying to drown out the sound of the oncoming celebration. And me, sitting on top of the white convertible, I was ready with my text. I had words for this group of people. Big, angry, large words that I’d been saving through all the months of rejection and political unrest and being forced to be silent while the other side got air time on CNN. I was enraged and I needed to get it out into the open AT these people.

And as I looked around for more signs, I noticed it was just him.

Just this man.

This sad man under the trees on this beautiful day screaming to no one.

I looked at him, took a deep breath and said as loud as I could:

“I’m so sorry. I love you. I’m so very sorry.”

I don’t know why that came out of my mouth instead of the hate, I don’t know why I said that, and I don’t know why I felt so bad for him, but I wanted to tell him how sorry I was that he was so alone.

Just him, the trees, his empty words, and God.

It was a beautiful day, and as we drove home and wind whipped through me, I glanced at the Lake. It was sparkling blue and the sun splashed on top of it. Easy and kind. Boats sailed by, people ran through the afternoon, other cars honked occasionally at us in spirit and in solidarity. I smiled to myself, and said very quietly:

“I can’t believe this is happening.”

A wonderful, wonderful post from Joe. My. God about the annual Gay Pride Parade. He runs this every year, but I never get tired of reading it. It’s so spot on, and so insightful and holds nothing back. There’s no blame and no arguing, it’s simple and really funny account of our history and what it really means to be at that parade (a parade I myself have had problems with).

Yet, as this year approaches, and I’m to lead the festivities, I’m a but ashamed of how I’ve acted toward my own community and its constituents.

Joe writes:



“All you suburban, lawn mowing, corpo-droid homos out there, hiding behind your picket fences, the ones wringing your hands and worrying that Pride ruins YOUR personal rep, listen up. Do you think that straight Americans worry that Mardi Gras damages international perception of American culture? America, land of the free, home of "Show Us Your Tits!"? They don't and neither should we. Our Pride celebrations are just our own unique version of Mardi Gras, only instead of throwing beads, we throw shade. No one has to ask US to show our tits. We've already got 'em out there, baby. And some of them are real.”



I guess that was a real problem for me, and one I’m still wrestling with. How far do we go before we become cartoons and how much do we take before we revolt? I don’t know. I don’t know that any of us know. The only thing that really makes sense to me is the joy of celebration, and I guess however you do that, is true for you. Who am I to tell you to knock it off?

Even at this age, Jackson was a soul singer. Too young to probably understand exactly what was coming out of him at the time, he sings like a bird and moves like a 40 year old. There's something special about him even then. Something that was coming out of him, that was pouring out at us. And his voice seemed as though it had been trained for years, even though he had never taken a voice lesson in his life.

Extraordinary gift.

Like The Beatles.

These men are on fire.

Beautiful.

Big, beautiful, huge, massive, expansive, surreal.

No one on the planet like him.

He is Garland, John Wayne, Edith Piaf, The Calvary.

I love it when he literally jumps straight up into the air.

His talent knew no boundaries.

He was one of a kind.

His voice will be missed. We lost a legend.

Farrah Fawcett was born in Corpus Christi, Texas, to Pauline Alice a homemaker, and James William Fawcett, an oil field contractor. Fawcett has said that her first name was "made up" by her mother because it went well with her last name.




From 1966–1969, Fawcett attended the University of Texas at Austin and became a sister of Delta Delta Delta Sorority. She appeared in a photo of the "Ten Most Beautiful Coeds" from the university, which ran in Cashbox magazine. A Hollywood publicist saw the photo, called Farrah and urged her to move to Los Angeles, which she did, leaving after her junior year with her parents' permission to "try her luck" in Hollywood.
In the late 1960s and early 1970s, Fawcett appeared in hundreds of TV commercials. Her fabulous looks and perfect smile got her noticed quickly and she soon became the face of Faberge.


Fawcett's first TV series appearance was a guest spot on I Dream of Jeannie

She later appeared in The Six Million Dollar Man with Lee Majors, which first aired in 1974,[2] The Dating Game, and several episodes of Harry O alongside David Janssen.





In 1976, Pro Arts Inc., pitched the idea of a poster of Fawcett to her agent, and a photo shoot was arranged. The resulting poster, of Farrah in a one-piece red bathing suit, was a best-seller; sales estimates ranged from over 5 million to 8 million to as high as 12 million copies. It’s thought that this poster is the highest selling piece of pop art ever created.

On March 21, 1976, the first appearance of Fawcett playing the character Jill Munroe in Charlie's Angels was aired as a movie of the week. The movie starred Kate Jackson, Jaclyn Smith and Fawcett (then billed as Farrah Fawcett-Majors) as private investigators for Townsend Associates, a detective agency run by a reclusive multi-millionaire whom the women had never met. The program earned a huge Nielsen rating, causing the network to air it a second time and okay production for a series.




The series formally debuted on September 22, 1976, and ran for five seasons. Although Fawcett was on a hit TV show, her acting at the time was dismissed as sophomoric by the critics. At this point in her life, working in front of the camera steadily was practice for the budding star. Campy and broad, the show Fawcett still had a spark that was undeniable.

Fawcett emerged as a fan favorite in the show, and the actress won a People's Choice Award . In a 1977 interview with TV Guide, she said:

"When the show was number three, I thought it was our acting. When we got to be number one, I decided it could only be because none of us wears a bra".

Fawcett left the show after only one season, and as settlement to a lawsuit stemming from her early departure, she appeared three more times as a guest star in each of seasons three and four. Cheryl Ladd replaced her on the show, portraying Jill's younger sister Kris Munroe.





Following a series of commercial and critical flops, Fawcett won critical acclaim for her 1983 role in the off-Broadway stage production of the controversial play Extremities, written by William Mastrosimone. She followed Susan Sarandon in the role, in which she played a would-be rape victim who turns the tables on her attacker. She described the role as "the most grueling, the most intense, the most physically demanding and emotionally exhausting" of her career.

New York critics and audiences alike discovered there more than just teeth and hair at work here. Fawcett’s off Broadway turn was a dream come true and her ability to surrender at a moments notice and dissolve herself into a character’s emotional state became notworthy.





The following year, her role as a battered wife in the fact-based TV movie The Burning Bed earned her her first of three Emmy Award nominations. It was the highest-rated TV movie of the season. There’s a moment in the movie when Fawcett’s chacarter is in the kitchen. She’s planning on leaving but can’t seem to find the right time. She stands near the sink with her abusive husband lurking over her. The fear and the terror in her eyes is palatable. Her entire Shape changes. She bends down and ducks with each word thrown at her. As if she’s getting physically hit by the text coming out of his mouth. A pure moment of terror underplayed by a brilliant actor.





In 1986 Fawcett appeared in the movie version of Extremities, which was also well-received by critics, and for which she received a Golden Globe nomination

She appeared in Jon Avnet's Between Two Women with Colleen Dewhurst, and went on to several more dramatic roles as real-life women, both famous and infamous. She was nominated for Golden Globe awards for roles as Beate Klarsfeld in Nazi Hunter: The Beate Klarsfeld Story and troubled Woolworth heiress Barbara Hutton in Poor Little Rich Girl: The Barbara Hutton Story.


The moment near the end of the film when Fawcett as Hutton is dying, Grant walks in. and as she lays there, Fawcett’s Gesture up to his face says a million things: Loss, Pain, Pity, and Denial. It’s a beautiful moment.

Farrah also won a CableACE Award for her 1989 portrayal of groundbreaking Life Magazine photojournalist Margaret Bourke-White. Her 1989 portrayal of convicted murderer Diane Downs in the miniseries Small Sacrifices earned her a second Emmy nomination and her sixth Golden Globe Award nomination.




Fawcett, who had steadfastly resisted appearing nude in films or magazines throughout the 1970s and 1980s, caused a major stir by posing nude in the December 1995 issue of Playboy Magazine, which became the best-selling issue of the 1990s, with over four million copies sold worldwide.

At the age of 50, she returned to the pages of Playboy with a pictorial for the July 1997 issue, which also became a top seller. That same year, Fawcett was chosen by Robert Duvall to play his wife in an independent feature film he was producing, The Apostle. Fawcett received an Independent Spirit Award nomination as Best Actress for the film. I love this film, it’s actually one of my favorites. Fawcett was first choice by Duvall for the role of his long suffereing wife. He never considered anyone else for the part. When Duvall comes home after having been gone for at leas a year and now proclaims himself a preacher and Lead by God, Fawcett sits sliently on the couch turning a cross in her hands over and over. There’s a Tempo she’s working in that fascinated me. She only has about 3 small scenes, but the momentum of that Tempo and the use of tha piece of Architecture was brilliant. By saying nothing, she said everything.




In 2000, she worked with director Robert Altman and an all-star cast in the feature film Dr. T and the Women, playing opposite Richard Gere. Also that year, Fawcett's collaboration with sculptor Keith Edmier was exhibited at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, later traveling to the Andy Warhol Museum. The sculpture was also presented in a series of photographs and a book by Rizzoli. Farrah was now not only a respected and beuaitful actress, she turned herself nto an artist as well.

In November 2003, Fawcett was appearing on Broadway in previews of Bobbi Boland, the tragicomic tale of a former Miss Florida. However, the show never officially opened, closing after a week of previews. Fawcett was described as "vibrating with frustration" at the producer's decision to stop the process before it had a chance to succeed or fail. Only days earlier the same producer closed an off-Broadway show she had been backing.





Fawcett continued to work in television during the period, with well-regarded appearances on popular television series including Ally McBeal and four episodes each of Spin City and The Guardian, her work on the latter show earning her a third Emmy nomination in 2004.

From 1982 until her death, Fawcett was involved romantically with actor Ryan O'Neal. The relationship produced a son, Redmond O'Neal, born in 1985. On June 22, 2009, The Los Angeles Times and Reuters reported that Ryan O'Neal has said that Fawcett had agreed to marry him.

On June 5, 1997, Fawcett received some negative commentary after giving a rambling and distracted interview on The Late Show with David Letterman. Months later, she told the host of The Howard Stern Show that her behavior was in fact just her way of joking around with the television host, explaining that what appeared to be random looks across the theater was just her looking and reacting to fans in the audience. Though the Letterman appearance spawned speculation and several jokes at her expense, after Joaquin Phoenix's mumbling act on a February 2009 appearance on The Late Show, Letterman wrapped up the interview by saying, "Joaquin, I’m sorry you couldn’t be here tonight" and recalled Fawcett's earlier appearance by noting "[w]e owe an apology to Farrah Fawcett."





Fawcett was diagnosed with anal cancer in 2006, and began treatment, including chemotherapy and surgery.
Her doctor, Lawrence Piro, and Fawcett's friend and Angels co-star Kate Jackson—a breast cancer survivor—appeared together on The Today Show dispelling tabloid-fueled rumors, including the suggestions that Fawcett had ever been in a coma, had ever reached 86 pounds, and had ever given up her fight against the disease or lost the will to live. Jackson decried such demoralizing fabrications, saying they "really do hurt a human being and a person like Farrah

The two-hour documentary Farrah's Story, which was filmed by Fawcett and friend Alana Stewart, aired on NBC on May 15, 2009. The documentary was watched by nearly 9 million people. This was very difficult for me to watch. I made it all the way through, but watching Farrah’s strength and power was a bit overwhelming. It only solidified for me that the stuff she acsessed throughout the years for her brilliant and searing performances came from some place inside her. She wasn’t just acting, she was processing. She went somewhere far and somewhere frightening. She never cheated us. Not ever.

The moment in the documentary when Farrah takes the clippers and shaves her own head was astounding. I sobbed like a baby. To watch a woman who’s mane was infamous take her life into her own hands was something I don’t think I’ll ever forget.





Fawcett died on the morning of June 25, 2009, in the intensive care unit of Saint John's Health Center in Santa Monica, California, with O'Neal and Stewart by her side.

Farrah was a true American success story. From humble beginnings to a seasoned and respected actress. I loved her. I emulated her. Every generation has their icon and Farrah, for me, was mine. Marilyn was before my time, and I grew up watching and idolizing Fawcett. To watch her go from child-girl, to woman was life changing. And the last moment of her life, to be filed with that much power, and hope and strength went right through me. Farrah was more than just a great actress, she was a great human being. I’ll miss you Farrah. You inspired me. And I’m certain that wherever she is, somewhere off in the distance she can hear:

“Good morning, Angel.”









FARRAH TRIVIA





Lived with Ryan O'Neal for 17 years. His daughter, actress Tatum O'Neal, disapproved of her father's relationship with Fawcett.

1976: Listed (as Farrah Fawcett-Majors) as one of 12 "Promising New Actors of 1976" in John Willis' Screen World, Vol. 28.

She had a rather strange opening night in "Butterflies Are Free" at the Burt Reynolds Dinner Theatre in Jupiter, FL. An obese lady in the front row of tables began yelling insults at her and making bird calls during the performance. Later this unidentified woman raised her dress and flashed the performers, causing co-star Dennis Christopher to take notice, although the character he was playing was a blind man. Nearby, a male patron began vomiting, and then yet another patron fainted. Incredibly, the reviews for Farrah's performance were positive.

Was offered the Goldie Hawn role in Foul Play (1978).

Despite sometimes bizarre behavior, including an incident on "Late Show with David Letterman", that has led to claims she is a drug addict, she says that she never uses drugs. She claims she gets giggly when she is nervous. She went on Letterman unprepared, she said, and her nervousness affected her behavior.

Measurements: 33 1/2B-22-33 (as starlet and commercial model), 35C-24-35.

Was offered a cameo in the film version of Charlie's Angels (2000). Negotiations fell through after Fawcett insisted on being cast as the voice of the new Charlie.

Inducted into the Texas Film Hall of Fame (by Dabney Coleman) for her legendary status on screen and off.

She is actively involved in charity work with the Cancer Society, in addition to her work against domestic violence.

Was originally a Microbiology major in college until changing her major to Art in her sophomore year.

Was neighbor of Tori Spelling and Aaron Spelling for 10 years

She attended Rodney Dangerfield's memorial at which she held a Native American butterfly release ceremony and is sculpting a bronze life-size statue of Rodney to be placed in Pierce Brothers Memorial Park.

Following the debut of "Charlie's Angels" (1976), the number of baby girls named Farrah increased dramatically in the US.

Early in career appeared as a contestant on "The Dating Game".

Family friend Farrah Forke was named after her.

Olivier and two-time Tony Award winner Patti LuPone has responded to a posting in the New York Times Artsbeat blog about her recent performance at the Orleans Casino & Hotel in Las Vegas, NV.

The blog, penned by Dave Itzkoff, concerned one of the two debut performances of LuPone's newest concert act, The Gypsy in My Soul, at the Nevada venue.

LuPone, the blog stated, "stopped in midperformance on Sunday night at the Orleans hotel when she saw an audience member using an electronic device. . . . [LuPone] threatened to have the fan thrown out if it happened again, before she resumed singing 'Don't Cry for Me, Argentina.'"

In response to the posting, LuPone sent Times blogger Itzkoff the following note:




"Your story about my stopping my concert in Las Vegas on the New York Times ArtsBeat blog was forwarded to me.
I found the tone of your report very snide and feel compelled to write you to ask – what do expect me, or any performer for that matter, to do?

Do we allow our rights to be violated (photography, filming and audio taping of performances is illegal) or tolerate rudeness by members of the audience who feel they have the right to sit in a dark theater, texting or checking their e-mail while the light from their screens distract both performers and the audience alike? Or, should I stand up for my rights as a performer as well as the audiences I perform for?

And do you think I'm alone in this? Ask any performer on Broadway right now about their level of frustration with this issue. Ask the actor in Hair who recently grabbed a camera out of an audience member’s hand and threw it across the stage. Or ask the two Queens in Mary Stuart (Harriet Walter and Janet McTeer) how they react to it.

I find it telling that my story elicited 47 comments from your readers while a few other stories on the blog elicited a handful, with many getting 0 comments. It certainly touched a chord with people, almost all of whom sounded like audience members, who share in my frustration with what threatens to become standard behavior if no one speaks out and takes action against it.
This has been going on in my career for 30 years since I starred in Evita, and, you're surprised I stop shows now?

"Sincerely,
Patti LuPone"





I’m with Lupone here. I know it’s odd to think that the actors on stage are actually real people who happen to be on stage, but strangely enough, that’s actually true! We can SEE you! We know what you’re doing! We may be getting raped, or beaten, or twirling a rubber duck over our heads, but we’re still actually there in the theatre with you as you are in your seats watching us.

There’s a strange attitude that’s happened to audiences and it’s been happening since I can remember, and only as this new age of Dial-A-Relationship has taken over, everyone and their mother is now hooked up to 17 different electronic devices. Things in their ears, on their hips, and in their hands. Flashing, beeping, gyrating, and always blaring some erratic, stupid, inane song from The Village People they thought was cool when they played it for their friends on a Friday night at 2am.

It was funny then. It’s not in a crowd.

I don’t care about your ring tones. And I certainly don’t care about them when I’m on stage trying to do my job.

I’ve never stopped a show before (I don’t have that much power) but I have walked into the audience, up an aisle, and taken a cell phone away from someone. In the middle of a show a woman’s conversation was so loud and so hilarious (to HER) everyone in the theatre was craning their necks to see how it ended. I spoke my lines as I walked, took it out of her hand, and walked back up on stage. I hid it under my costume and gave it to the usher at the end of the show.

She was fine. She actually apologized afterward and felt terrible.

As far as photos and video, I think it’s the same thing. I don’t like people flashing things in my eyes when there’s already enough in my eyes as it is. And please don’t take video of our show and stick it up on You Tube. That’s…well…illegal.

So…although Lupone may seem a bit over the top, I’m with her. Stop the show, Patti. And maybe next time when people come to see you, instead of taping your concert illegally, they’ll use their cameras for more esteemed purposes, like trying to win the grand prize on America’s Funniest Home Videos.

God help her.

This needs nothing. I almost didn’t post it because it’s so undeniably ridiculous and racist and insane, but then I thought….ah, what the hell. It’s what he believes is true. So…why not?

Poor thing. He's so frightened he literally doesn't know what to do. He's running so far away from his own fear that jibberish is coming out of his mouth. It's almost sad...if it wasn't so awful.

I'm Not My Mother


Another clip from the upcoming DVD.

Again...thank you guys. Thank you for everything.

It seems there was this Catholic priest who had an affair with a woman and then some pictures surfaced of him kissing this woman and then he decided to leave the church, become an Episcopalian, divorce his wife, and marry the girlfriend.

Oh yes. And his name was Father Oprah.






Republican Sen. John Ensign of Nevada, a leading conservative mentioned as a potential presidential candidate, admitted Tuesday he had an extramarital affair with a woman who was a member of his campaign staff.







I think if the Regal Right is going to attempt to carry off this ‘Traditional Marriage” thing, then we ought to start propagating consequences for the breaking of those contracts. If we’re to consider that a marriage between one man and one woman is the only marriage worth defending and worthy of protection under the law, then consciously defying that contract should be reprimanded.

An apology’s nice. But isn’t there something in the Bible that talks about stoning? Not that I’d be comfortable with the actual throwing of the stones, but I wouldn’t mind seeing it on Pay Per View.