Tarhearted.

AESTHETIC HEAVEN.

 

I want this world back sometimes. There is nothing so aesthetically pleasing in the world as the movies I grew up watching on late night cable.

Except for maybe the Times Square grindhouses, which I missed entirely.

 

 

VINTAGE MODELS WORKED, HUNTY.

I finally started writing my musical for The Bushwick Starr, which opens in just over a year. It's a large scale horror fashion musical that takes place on a runway (maybe) and an expansion of my late night serial for The Bats, The House of Von Macrame, which ran for six weeks at The Flea this year. The plot revolves around a psychic model and a hunky fashion photographer who unwittingly become involved in a series of occult murders within the fashion industry. Think The Eyes of Laura Mars mixed with Suspiria mixed with The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Anyway.

I've been watching a lot of vintage modeling, which is like heaven for me. Check out some of these awesome glamour sessions:

 

 

 

 

 

You're welcome.

 

BOYFRIEND MATERIAL.

So.

I've secretly been writing a web series. Why is it a secret? I guess it feels less legitimate than theater, even though it'll probably be seen by many, many more people. Also, it's new for me and people I admire like Michael Cyril Creighton and Eliot Glazer are already doing it so well. (When It Gets Betterish premiered I'd already written three episodes of my show and almost gave up, it's so good.) That said, just because there are three good gay web series's out there, that isn't a reason for me not to do something, is it? I mean, there are at least ten good plays happening right now, right? (Tarhearted homeboy Robert Askins' Hand to God is coming back in February for eight more weeks, btw!)

The truth is that sometimes you have to do something different to stay sane. I have lots of amazing theater projects coming down the line (did you see that MilkMilkLemonade is #1? Sorry, Mike Daisey.) Plus TV projects and a graphic novel. The thing is, I need a project I can be the boss of. I'm a very collaborative writer, and not at all sensitive about taking notes, but when you're not self-producing theater, when you have a book deal, when you're working with producers on TV pilots... all you do is take notes, and it can start to wear on you (me.)

So.

If I don't chicken out, Boyfriend Material will be a six episode black comedy that follows a broke faggot named Curry Carmichael around Brooklyn over the course of one day as he is dumped for not being "straight acting" enough, tries to score a trendy new drug called Super Coke, gives a Hasid a hand job, prevents a lesbian suicide, and attends the premiere of a performance art piece with a transgender mugger.

I think it's different enough from the three gay web series I like to warrant being made. Boyfriend Material will be in black & white and filmed in Broolyn's finest crack dens, alleys and abandoned buildings.  It's a nod to a New York City that was grittier and presumably more fun, and a simultaneous satire/celebration of underground filmmakers like Kenneth Anger, Andy Warhol and the earliest John Waters.

At least, that's my hope for it. Maybe I'll still chicken out. If not, look for an incessant and aggressive fund raising campaign in the next month. On second thought, you won't need to. I'll find you.

In the mean time, please enjoy these great web series.

 

Jack in a Box

Two Jasperjohns

It Gets Betterish

REB BROWN, HUNK.

Here is a series of photos of Reb Brown, certified hunk, fire of my loins, the 1970's Captain America and star of such great films as Space Mutiny and Yor, The Hunter from the Future.

 

Here are some things we could do on our dream date (a partial list.)

• Go see What's Your Number?
• Build a Bear
• Paintball
• Take a trapeze class
• Just hold hands
• Dream Phone

 

• Get crunk, smoke cigarettes and just fool around
• Dungeons and Dragons (I'll be an Elven sorceress!)
• Get a hot dog
• Wiccan ritual
• Occupy Wall Street
• Get married
• Rob a licquor store

Also, this:

 

 

THE SHAGGS, CRITICS, AND TASTE.

I saw The Shaggs at Playwrights Horizons, a new musical about a band that I've been obsessed with since I was a teenager. For the uninitiated, The Shaggs were three teen sisters in New Hampshire whose father pulled them out of school and forced them to start a band, squandering the family's savings in the process. The band never went anywhere and was relegated to obscurity until the early 80's when radio djs began to play the record as a joke.

It's a really sad story, and it made me glad that these girls didn't record their album in the world of today, with youtube and social networking everywhere. In that regard, they were spared.

But not everybody laughed at The Shaggs. Frank Zappa really loved them. So did famed music critic Lester Bangs. And so do I. And no, not ironically. Sure, they weren't the best songwriters or musicians but, then again, neither were The Ramones. The Shaggs managed to capture the innocence and sadness and anger and mystery of being a teenage girl all at once, and watching the play made me think of The Virgin Suicides and how that novel felt to read. This felt similar. There is something special and weird and wonderful about their music, but also something mysterious and dark too.

I was disappointed to read Isherwood's review in The New York Times. Not because he didn't like the play per se, but because of his glib dismissal of The Shaggs themselves. EDIT: I just read The wall Street Journal review, which is entitled"How Do You Create A Musical About A Terrible Band?" Sigh. I know I'm being sensitive, but The Shaggs mean something to a lot of people, myself included. It made me think about taste.

When I was thirteen I was obsessed with The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Like, really, really obsessed. it had just been played on television for the first time in history for its 20th anniversary, so a lot of kids my age were seeing it for the first time. And, mostly, the kids at school didn't like it. It was gay and weird and cheap (all the things that make it great) and the dumb kids at school just didn't get it. It hurt my feelings, but then it also became a barometer for me. A litmus test. I was simply unable to respect somebody's taste if they didn't like it. That, to me, was 101 shit.

When I was single I couldn't date anybody who didn't like rock and roll music. Why? Because it's just too important to me. Music and movies and plays and art are the most important things in the world to me (after friends and family.) I'm reminded of a quote from High Fidelity: "I agreed that what really matters is what you like, not what you are like... Books, records, films -- these things matter. Call me shallow but it's the f****n' truth." It struck me, reading Isherwood's review, how protective I am of these offbeat little things I love.

I remember seeing a play in the marathon at Ensemble Studio Theatre a few years ago and loving it so much that it's basically my favorite short play I've ever seen. I re-read the script all the time when I need a pick-me-up. I was shocked to discover later that this particular play upset people so much they complained or even walked out and I still fight people about it to this very day. (Later it really hurt my feelings when a few people acted the same away around my play, The Sluts of Sutton Drive. Hell, it was probably the same audience members.)

On the flipside, there have so many things that are universally loved that I just detested. How could anybody sit through Forest Gump? Who on earth would be seen in a Juicy Couture tracksuit? I'm constantly frustrated by other people's "common" taste. And you know what? That makes me an asshole.

This is a lesson I've learned over and over and over in life, but it never quite sticks. To quote my granny, "It takes all kinds." Not everybody can like The Shaggs or Rocky Horror or punk rock or the plays I write. Sure it'd be nice if they did, but they won't.

I don't want to call out Isherwood. I almost never agree with the Times, as their taste, to me, always seems a little stuffy and unadventurous. I don't want to argue the merits of this particular musical, either. I enjoyed it and found it moving, but who cares what I think?

All I want to say is this: let's be our own taste makers, yes? Let's all protect what's precious to us, advocate for the art we love, and follow our own taste. It's really the only way to find a gem.

BUYING LOCALLY WITH FARM FRESH GIRL.

This maker and star of this short film was my best friend in college. She was my first muse and I wrote all of my earliest plays for her. We are kindred spirits. Nasty, messed up kindred spirits. God, I wish we lived in the same city.

NSFW. Fuck, this ain't even safe for LIFE.

Tarhearted proudly presents, Farm Fresh Girl.

 

Check out the rest of the site, CLIIT, which spoofs third wave femism and lazy progressives in amazing ways.

CLIIT.

CRUISING.

How on Earth did I go thirty years without seeing the Al Pacino film, Cruising? It looks HILARIOUS. How is a movie in which Pacino plays a cop sent undercover to investigate a serial killer within the gay leather scene of 1980's New York NOT in the canon of great American films? GOD. The year 1980 gave us so many good things.

 

 

And, just because I'm obsessed right now, please enjoy Hunx and his Punx's "Cruising."

 

59 AND FEELING FINE.

Happy birthday, Elvira!

GOODBYE, GLENN.

Actor Glenn Shadix, best known as Otho in Beetlejuice, has died. Bummer. Otho was everything I wanted to be when I was a little boy watching Beetlejuice: gay, tasteful, a New Yorker.

And I would be remiss if I didn't point out how amazing he was as the minister in the best teen film of all time, Heathers.

Goodbye, Glenn! You were truly beautiful. Let's just hope he's rubbing noses with Jesus.

OPENING CREDITS: GEORGY GIRL.

Ever since I was little I've been obsessed with the opening credits from movies. I don't know why, but I often think they're the best part of a movie. I loved the credits for Who's That Girl and Footloose. Later The Rocky Horror Picture Show and Crybaby.

One of the earliest opening credits was Georgy Girl, a mid 60's movie starring Lynn Redgrave (who was cheated out of the Oscar.) Even as a little boy I knew I was a queen and was always drawn to sissy hairdresser or sissy waiter characters in movies. I love the queen at the salon in these credits. I suppose I should be offended by these representations, but to be honest I just felt relieved to know they existed.

I'm way off track.

Anyway, I love the simple aesthetic of this credit sequence. I love the song The Seekrs wrote for the movie and I love the innocent, early feminism Lynn Redgrave displays here. I also love the idea of picking a haircut by pointing and a wig. Glamour!

This reminds me of how much I loved the opening credits for To Sir, With Love when I was little. This should be a weekly column!