Today’s live broadcast is dedicated to my dear friend Roz Lawrence, because today is her birthday and she is the only person I know well who’s older than me. Roz, have a wonderful day!
In this episode, I fight off an attack orchid, and, assisted by my invisible friend Glen, contemplate names for bath houses in Muskoka, and read one of my “Facebook Life Events.”
In this life event I have a sensual experience involving a two-pound tub of President’s Choice Blue Ribbon Margarine without looking even remotely like Maria Schneider, mainly because it’s just my foot involved.
Otherwise my uncanny resemblence to Schneider has cost me many a movie role and the spokesperson gig for the Dairy Farmers of Canada. I’m just messin’ with your head, but— made ya look!
Please buy my book so I can stop eating used cat litter. The link follows at some point.
Gosh, I have to say, I look fucking fabulous in this one. I think it was the oatmeal scrub, which I’m repurposing as lunch with a handful of raisins I found in the pocket of my hoodie.
So here’s the link: » Buy my book on Amazon before David Sedaris gets jealous and accuses me of pulling focus with my surname and confusing his fans.
AWESOME FACTSX: You will notice that my surname is an exact anagram of “Sedaris,” if you write it backwards, change all of the vowels to “o” and “i,” add an extra “d” then ignore all the letters that don’t fit.
Every purchase goes 100% to supporting me in my dotage.
Banish the black! burn the blue ! and bury the beige! From now on ….
Think Pink! Think Pink when you shop for summer clothes!
Think Pink! Think Pink when you want that "quelque chose"!
The redoubtable Kay Thompson, who ought to be inducted into the Homo Hall of Fame as an honorary gay man, was Judy Garland’s vocal coach, which tells you a lot, and, when not flailing her arms about while talking and calling it “cabaret singing”, also wrote a series of children’s books called “Eloïse”, about a little girl who lives at the Plaza Hotel in New York.
Yep, the Plaza Hotel. From these humble beginnings, Eloïse sallies forth to have Pirate Adventures, among others, though we must forever regret that Thompson shuffled off this mortal coil before updating us with “Eloïse Gets Shtupped While Unconscious At Studio 54”.
The opening musical number of Funny Face, “Think Pink”, features Ms Thompson, plus her swirly-skirted minions—who for reasons never explained speak in unison, like borg—and a virtual steam room’s worth of butch-dancin’, Bronx-talkin’ “we’re not gay, no way!!” male dancers dressed in overalls.
Please, I beg you, before watching, turn out the lights, put down your Bayeux tapestry restoration work and resolve to give this gem your full attention.
For this is not just another musical number, oh no.
This is one of the supreme camp moments in cinema. It is the Sistine Chapel ceiling, it is the Cellini “Perseus Holding the Severed Head of Medusa” of camp.
And look at what they came up with: A spectacular invitation to absolutely nothing that covers just about every frame of the original, including the then-hi-tech process photography mixing action and freeze-frame, and even going one better with nods to Salvador Dalí and a fully-fledged Ziegfeld Follies finale, featuring a dancing chorus of Freds and Gingers and a curvaceous stairway to the stars.
What must this have cost, in hours of filming, in budget, in planning and script writing, set-building and costume sewing, in editing and orchestrating with original music, lyrics and choreography! (One point three million, as a matter of fact.) The color aubergine is indeed seductive here, both nostalgic and spiritual, earthy and celestial; it bathes its ravishing models and their swirling ball gowns in a decadent, sickly glow.
But what are they selling in this commercial? Vague promises that ladies will find whatever their hearts might desire, but where, and what if a designer-label gown or a gymnastics leotard aren’t on the shopping list? The whole concept is so abstract, the joke so esoteric except to Hollywood historians and gay males, and in its execution straying into overstaying its welcome at nearly five minutes, that I wonder if any of the millions of perplexed TV watchers of the millennium figured out what they were watching and why.
And I wonder if most of the perplexed viewers who weren’t Hollywood historians or gay males simply switched the channel when the singing started. You’re either into movie musicals or you’re not; there’s rarely a neutral opinion.
I have the oversized white soup plates to prove I was there at the deathbed of an iconic brand, a Canadian institution that began as a tiny storefront on Yonge Street just two years after Canadian Confederation, an astonishing success story whose strategies were copied by aspiring shopkeepers all over North America.
On the underside of each plate is a single, bold lower-case “e,” in rich deep purple, the stillborn wordmark of the short-lived Eaton’s rebrand. This now reads like a desperate message found in a time capsule, a caution-overboard, go-out-with-a-bang cry for help from the immensely loyal but ill-fated crew of a swiftly sinking ship.
UPDATE: I received this heartfelt email from a “fan”:
Dear Wannabe Film Maker Who Can’t Even Operate His Smartphone:
Me and a couple of other male colleagues booked maternity leave so we could watch your “Mayonnaise” epic, which clocked in at 20 minutes of nothing but you stirring an egg in a bowl. Talk about bait and switch! We tried to cancel and go back to work, but you know. Until Planned Parenthood mans up and drops the pro-female PC liberal bullshit, we’re basically fucked.
It’s like, over for us, but maybe you could edit it down a bit, for the sake of. You know. Personkind.
Also, do you know where we can score some good weed? We’ll be at the food bank today, just before it closes. Thanks, dude.
So I had another go at the edit and I’ve got it down to 12 minutes – that’s seven minutes less. This video is now tighter than Kirstie Alley’s thigh warmers. Sorry, culottes.
And THAT’s the way (uh-huh uh-huh) we all now apparently LIKE it (uh-huh uh-huh). Enjoy!
What can you do at 62 with an egg yolk and some oil? If you guessed “get a guaranteed seat on the subway”, you’d only be partially right.
This is the second attempt at this episode, after I forgot to turn the camera on, dropped the yolk in the sink, and watched a large roach stampede by during the first attempt. But if you’re into the “gross factor”, never fear—I make the mayo while smoking.
There’s no planning in any of this, you know. None.
You didn’t ask for it, and here it is! Episode 2 of the series that’s making a big splash!
If you spend, like, a lot of time in a wading pool with your inflatable shark and a Collector’s Edition “Aqua Diver Barbie”.
You’ll see me tussle with a Tassimo, sorry, Bosch, coffee pod maker thingamajig, learn the secrets of buying pastries instead of baking them yourself, and get some insight into the tormented mind of a gadget lover. As well, you’ll hear me get really nervous when Doug starts spouting off about BLM, at which point I try to shut him down by doing a really bad Caribbean accent, so now I’m afraid to leave the house.
It’s not a lot of fun being a white, gay, male liberal. Nope. Me and fun just take a gander at each other, sniff and cross to the opposite side of the street. Which means we’re both on the same side again.