Monday, October 25, 2010


I've never thought of myself as a diva-gay, by which I mean a homosexual who is constantly clutching at a non-existent pearl necklace when anyone mentions the name Barbra. This may be because my mother, who has probably shaped my personality more than any other person on this earth, always had a strong distaste for La Streisand, finding her arrogant and unlikable. However, after a recent spate of non-Babs Diva news, I'll be damned if I didn't find myself searching for some pearls once or twice in the past month.

First up, Madonna is opening a line of gyms. Let me say, before I get into this, that Madonna's body is not something I think people should be striving for...frankly, it's a little freaky. It's also completely unattainable to those without enough disposable income to hire a personal chef, a personal trainer and a personal cosmetic surgeon. Further, apparently there are no plans to open one in the US and she's partnering with 24-Hour Fitness, which Derek Jeter has already done. Guess what? I don't care. This is awesome. I mean, let's just get started and say would you rather go to a gym sponsored by Derek Jeter or a gym sponsored by Madonna?

Hold on a minute, back up...are you a straight male? If you answered "yes," why are you reading this blog? Of course you're welcome and we love your beautiful soul, but seriously this is really probably not a place where you're going to get your opinions expressed all that often, and you'll probably be subjected to as many stereotypes as I can heap on you in the course of one post, just to even the score a little bit. That being said, if you're one of those who loves a good laugh and some snark, so be it...join us! But I digress.

Of course you would rather go to a gym sponsored by Madonna! Me too! And this is outside of the fact that I hate the Yankees with a passion that can probably be qualified as genetic. Madonna's gyms will be called Hard Candy Fitness, and it is being claimed that "Madonna's touch will be everywhere." I'm guessing that any gym that is sponsored by Madonna is going to have a lot of touching in a lot of places, particularly in the steam rooms (see, I'll stereotype my own people for a laugh too). How amazing would the greeting be at Hard Candy Fitness? The front desk staff could speak in affected British accents, and dismiss clients as not worth their time. Most gyms strive to be welcoming...HCF could strive to be intimidating. I can picture the ad campaign now...a close-up of Madge's freakishly developed bicep with the tag-line "Sweat, bitches." A picture of her sinewy leg in a leather boot with the tag-line "This boot was made for kicking your ass." A picture of her abs with the tag-line "I've made up my mind. You're losing that food-baby." The possibilities are endless.

Then of course, there's always the upcoming Hollywood blockbuster Burlesque starring...Cher. Omigod, every time I see a preview for this, it's all I can do not to pee a little bit. I was slow in gaining appreciation for Cher; during my childhood gymnastics classes (I was killer on the floor exercise), "If I Could Turn Back Time" would come on and I freely admit that I thought it was sung by a man. Probably until I was in high school. That being said, with the onset of Will & Grace into my consciousness, my Cher-respect grew. Then I saw Moonstruck. And The Witches of Eastwick. And Silkwood. And Mask. You know, I think Cher is a better actress than she is a singer, but above all she is a fantastic entertainer. I cannot wait for this film; whether it's an epic train-wreck or just an epic, it's been announced that Cher will be performing a Dianne Warren-penned ballad "You Haven't Seen the Last of Me," and that's really all I need. There's already been talk of coordinating a bi-coastal viewing party, so I can bask in the glorious camp on display at the same time as my people out in LA. Every time Cher delivers a smack-down to Christina Aguilera, everybody drinks!

In a side-note, all of this Cher love is in no way to imply that I enjoy the song "Believe." Oh, you know it. Don't pretend. It makes my ears bleed.

Finally, I just found out how I will be spending my New Year's Eve: HBO will be premiering Bette Midler's Las Vegas concert "The Showgirl Must Go On" at 9 pm, which means I should be able to curl up with a glass of red wine at 8:55 and be asleep by 11:30, which is my preferred bedtime on December 31st. I find New Year's Eve to be one of the more pointless holidays on the calendar, right up there with Arbor Day, Flag Day and St. Patrick's Day (sorry Erin, love you!). All I can really see it as is an excuse for people to act like drunken idiots and scream a lot, while pretending that this night is some kind of major turning point in their lives. My guess is that if you didn't lose weight/stop smoking/get a job in the previous 364 days of the year, you're probably not going to do suddenly wake up on the 1st filled with unshakable resolve, simply because it's a new year.

Anyway, to avoid such tomfoolery I try to stay away from things like New Year's parties, and instead have a nice quiet evening at home. Last year, I had a glass of red wine and watched Jersey Shore. As enjoyable as I find mocking the dregs of humanity, I am far more excited about having a glass of red wine (hmmm, I spy with my little eye a common denominator) and spending the evening with Bette Midler. I love me some Bette Midler because she has one of the dirtiest senses of humor out there (ever hear her routine with the Sophie Tucker jokes?), she was in Beaches, The First Wives Club, and Hocus Pocus and at one point in her early career she offered to take off her top for a $5,000 pledge during a telethon she was hosting. And she did. Hear that, Janet? That wasn't even a malfunction. That was a full-on wardrobe function. It's Ms. Midler if you're nasty!

It's probably amazing to some people that I'm wrapping up a post entitled "Divas" without mentioning Tina Turner. That's because Tina falls under the term "goddess." Maybe someday I'll write a post called "Goddesses" and talk about Tina, Stevie Nicks and my mother. Who knows, it could happen.

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