That’s right. That’s right, ya’ll. You heard it here first.

I think this is what the kids call: "Getting down with her bad self."

Chenowith is a little bit of a miracle. She can pretty much sing anything. I don’t know how huge her range is, but I’m sure the Guinness Book is still trying to track her down.

Kristen is brilliant here. She knows the line between camp and reality. The world she’s created makes perfect sense to her. She’s not “playing at” anything, she’s absolutely present and completely engulfed in the magic of her own possibilities. As she deals with her hundreds of pieces of Architecture, from her massive strand of pearls to a tiny sequined brooch, she never falters. In fact, they seem to give her more and more information that she simply adds to her already full plate.

And as she reaches that insane climax at the very end of the song, her declaration is heightened by these grand Expressive Gestures that make perfect sense. The last 4 notes and her physical life complete each other. She’s unafraid to hit these notes and land these Gestures and deal with this Architecture and it’s so satisfying it almost hurts. Chenowith is a true Broadway treasure.

Bush is the most unpopular President in recent history.

Anyone surprised?

Anyone still hanging on to this pipe dream of him actually clawing himself out of this hole?

Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?

About a year ago I went to an audition for a new pilot that’s still sitting on someone’s shelf at the moment. It was a very important audition and I was terrified. I’ve spoken of my lack of fashion sense before, and when I walk into an audition, I try and look as good as I can. Usually, if it’s for a transgender role, I run into the same three faces:

Calpernia, Kelly, Candis, and Willam.

Yup. That’s right. There’s four of us. In Hollywood. Four. Count ‘em.

So I know when I meet the girls in some random waiting room, they’ll be dressed to the nines, in their Gucci, and their strands of trinkets and bobbles, and fabulous shoes and coifed hair. I’m just trying my best to not wear the same Gap outfit I wore a week ago.

I need help.

At this particular audition, I met for the first time, the woman I’ve been stalking since I got to Hollywood. And Willem’s Blog is one of the funniest around. She was sparkly that day. We sat on a couch and chatted and I felt immediately at ease. In fact, we’ve been attempting to go shopping for the last year. LA is a hard place to make dates with people. You either pencil someone in and cancel at the last minute, or you try your hardest to keep arranging something that your agent won’t scream at you for.

All in all, as we sat together, I felt under-dressed and kind of like her older lesbain softball manager. That’s okay. It was a good talk, and she’s since given me some of her local dress shop secrets. (I recently bought a little cocktail dress at one of them, and I actually matched the shoes. I then marched up and down Sunset and had my own private parade.)

But here, Willem, with a bird’s eye view of all The American Idol contestants, gives us her own special review of the tragedy that was The Night of Andrew Lloyd Webber. Her blurb about Seyesha is hilarious:




“The Syeasha chick was good but miss lady and I need to have a sit-down.

I've tried on that same $975 Herve Leger bandage dress Syeasha wore last week while I was on Melrose. I put heels on so I could see how it really looked once the booty was tooshed up. That was just for the DRESSING ROOM.”




That’s right. Exactly. Gotcha.

Now I’ve got to take this girdle off, it’s killing me.