Harry Razorhands

Little Dougie dragged me down to the multi-plex this weekend to see a movie. I don't go out to the movies much these days. They just don't make them like they used to, by which I mean, starring me! When you hear people complaining that movies aren't as good as they used to be, that's what they are referring to; that the movies no longer star me! But now, they're not even making them the way they do still make them. A prime example was the picture Dougie took me to. I just didn't get Harry Potter and the Demon Barber of Fleet Street at all. I was expecting a nice movie about a randy hair-stylist, like a remake of Warren Beatty's Shampoo. It turned out to be something quite different.

I realize that Tim Burton had a freak success with a children's movie a couple years back, with his Harry Potter and the Chocolate Factory, but still, just handing him the Harry Potter series to do with as he would seemed an odd choice, even for Dreamworks. During the opening credits, it seemed like a good idea. It was basically the same opening credit sequence as in the Wonky Willy movie, only this time in the Cherry & Raspberry part of the factory. But then the odd choices began, and kept coming.

Why on earth recast darling little Daniel Radcliffe as Harry Potter?. Okay, Little Danny has been growing up too fast for the series, and is now just too old to play Harry anymore, plus he's been doing live sex porn shows - with HORSES yet, on stage, which is bad for a kid's star's image, so maybe he had to go. But why replace him with Johnny Depp? Yes, Johnny is a good actor and all, but I do believe he's even older than Little Danny, by many months. And he really needs to get some sun.

Then, they replace Harry's magic wand with magic razors. Yikes! Better get that spell right the first time. And then, they hit all the characters with a Singing Curse, magically forcing them to sing all the time, instead of speaking. I believe The Singing Curse ranks up there with The Imperious Curse, The Curciatus Curse, and The Death Curse, as one of The Unforgivable Curses; in this case, The Excruciatus Curse.

However, if you're going to make everyone sing, shouldn't you hire actors who can sing? Just a thought. Call me crazy, but singing generally sounds better when the person singing actually can sing. It's a revolutionary concept I know. I've always been an innovator. Back in the old days, when we made musicals with non-singers in the leads, Marni Millhous Nixon used to come in and dub their singing. Her Yul Brynner was uncanny! It got to the point that when Angela Lansbury was cast in The Harvey Girls, MGM dubbed her singing out of force of habit, even though she's a great singer. Where was Marni Nixon now, when Tim Burton needed her? Johnny Depp was passable enough, if it were a high school musical at a school for the deaf, but if I want to listen to David Bowie sing (and for the record, I don't. Stay home, Davy.), I'll listen to David Bowie. He's still available on vinyl, isn't he? Oh? Only on vinyl? Okay. Marni would have been a vast improvement on Johnny.

And Helena Bonham Carter? Are they deaf? She could make you wish you were. Helena's singing went to Helena Handbasket. How did she get the part anyway, you ask? Let's put it this way; last week, she gave birth to the director's baby, which means she conceived right around the time she was miscast in the movie. Apparently, she got her role The Old-Fashioned Way. I'm glad to see not all of Hollywood's venerable traditions have gone out of style. And the woman is Beverly Sills next to Alan Rickman's "Singing". (By which I mean dead.)

But let's talk about the story. I'd heard from people who read (Those freaks!) that in the later books, the Harry Potter stories get a little dark, but this movie is a black hole! And not the good kind, either. (The "Good Kind" of Black Hole is the one that Adawale Akinnuoye-Agbaje sits on. Mmmm. And Wally darling, you can use my face for your chair anytime you like!) For some reason, they moved the setting back in time 160 years, to the 1840s, except for the first shot, when Harry and some runway model who calls herself Antonia arrive in London in 1894. (Well, they sail in under Tower Bridge in the opening scene, which wasn't built until 1894, 50 years after the rest of the movie. I guess they were still traveling backwards in time then.) Harry has come for revenge against Severus Snape for fag-bashing Fumblewhore to death, even though that story hasn't been filmed yet. Snape and Wormtail are hiding out from Harry in 1840, Snape working as a Potions Judge, while Wormtail works as a Beetle, an odd combination of animals, even for him. And he's gone back 120 years too far to hide out as a Beatle anyway. (I assume he's pretending to be Ringo, judging by his appearance, and his "Singing". He drums well on Little Antonia.)

Harry teams up with Bellatrix Lovett, a former Death-Eatartrix. It becomes clear that the term Death Eater originally came from folks eating her scrummy Soylent Green Pies, which are death in a crust. Yum! More important, she advocates giving entire bottles of gin to small children, proving that she has reformed from her evil ways, and is now a saint! She gets Little Toby drunk right up front, right after he escapes from Borat, who appears in this movie without underwear, in a costume which proves to all that Borat, like the musical score, is cut. If only he were attractive, it would be a great look. I think the real reason Bellatrix gets Toby sloshed is because he's by far the best singer in the cast, and makes her sound bad every time he starts warbling. (Actually, she makes herself sound bad every time she starts warbling, by warbling.)

Anyway, Harry eventually gets his revenge on Judge Snape, ironically turning his old potions master into a potion himself; not, I imagine, a grooming potion.

Of course, Harry's success with his Snape Potion gets him all carried away. He turns Scabbers, aka Wormtail, aka Peter Pettigrew, aka Beatle Ringo, into ratatouille, thus allowing him to finally settle on a species. He roasts Bellatrix, and even serves up Ron Weasley and that insufferable Know-It-All Grainger. I'll pass on having any of her, thanks. I always found her hard to swallow.

Meanwhile, Little Antonia, the girl who sailed into London's past with Harry, forms a passionate lesbian attachment for Joanna, a dishrag she never meets. As everyone knows, lesbians are like pigeons; they mate for life. What do you call "Living Together for 20 Years"? "A lesbian first date." So although Joanna and Antonia never meet, they fall deeply in love, and would swear eternal fealty with each other forever if only they ever got to speak or sing two words to each other. Harry almost tries to shave Joanna, despite her being a female, a natural mistake easily made with many lesbians.

Well, eventually everyone gets raspberry jam and cherry soda all over themselves. Harry has problems fixing his recliner easy chair, and Mrs. Lovett's Soylent Green Pies are a raging success. The faculty of Hogwarts is appalled. I would have been appalled myself, but I was enjoying a drink with Vodkamort, The Drunk Lord, and some Fermentors. I now have to wait for Harry Potter and the Half-Wit Queen, next fall.

But at least Little Orphan Harry Potter has finally found his long-lost sister, who is definitely a witch!

Soylent Green pie anyone?

Cheers darlings.

Love, Death, and "Blank".

Relax darlings, I’m not dead. I was in hiding, but I’m back now.


My last posting, which has remained on top for such a long time (Which is just where you want the World’s Sexiest Men Alive - on top!), provoked controversy beyond my expectations. Oddly though, no one has complained about having those lovely pictures of gorgeous men posted for so long. Nor did rabid Matt Damon fans besiege me with protests. They were busy watching the DVD release of The Bourne Aquarium, over and over.


No, it was insane Larry King fans and ex-wives who absolutely could not abide my insistence that Sir Sean Connery was, is, and ever shall be the Sexiest Old Guy Alive, until such time as he is dead. Having spent Christmas pouring over the obituaries for 2007 (As long as my own name is absent, which it was, there’s no more Christmassy way to spend this dreary pagan festival, once the vodka has been unwrapped.), I can state with semi-certainty that Sir Sean is still alive and sexy.

However, Morehead Heights, my magnificent movie star mansion, was picketed by a mob of rabid Larry King groupies, making a terrific clatter marching about, day after day, loudly clanking their walkers, which those blue-haired biddies can wield like lethal weapons. I had to go into hiding in my underground fallout-wine-cellar-shelter, which is equipped with enough alcohol to survive a nuclear holocaust, a third Bush Administration, or a third season of Jericho, whichever is worst. There I remained, accompanied only by the Headless Indian Brave each night, until all the Larry King fanatical groupies died out, which took the better part of three weeks. Fortunately, no one develops sexual longings for Larry King who has more than a month to live. They’re all gone now, and I have commissioned environmental artist Christo to turn their abandoned walkers, now strewn about my driveway, into a beautiful sculpture, to be called Mobilis Immobile.

Since it’s really too late for a Christmas posting, I thought I’d do my year-end death wrap-up. Many people died this year, but I’d like to discuss a case of Star-Crossed True Lovers turned tragic.

Yes Brett Somers and Charles Nelson Reilly were perhaps THE great lovers of 70s daytime TV. Forget Luke and Laura (Oh. You already have? What a time-saver.), Brett and Charles were the lovers who broke your heart on The Mismatch Game every day. Their ruthless passion for each other was doomed never to be consummated. Two obstacles to their love could never be overcome:

1. Brett was tragically shackled in marriage to Jack Klugman, despite his having abandoned her for his One Great True Love, Tony Randall. They could never divorce because they had Catholic friends, though it was a sham of a marriage.

2. Brett’s clitoris just wasn’t big enough to give Charles’s butt the kind of rough pounding he craved. Brett’s loss was Paul Lynde’s gain.

But when Charles finally passed away this year, after a career as one of Hollywood’s most virile leading men (Who could forget his heterosexual pretense in the original Broadway production of Hello Dolly, which the critics called the funniest thing in that delightful musical farce?), his death was more than Brett could take, and she died soon after, of a broken heart. As the wife of more gay men than you could shake your sticks at (Though they’d love it if you would.), I know just how painful it can be to love a man who can not return your passion merely because you only have a vestigial penis. (Just like Clark Gable, according to mouth-witnesses) We can only hope that they are now united in TV Heaven, where they finally match they way Charles always needed them too

A few other folks passed away as well, so let’s take some quick glances at them. Naturally, there is always the NO LOSS LIST, this year including such human blights as:

Anna Nicole Smith
Boris Yeltsin
Jerry Falwell
E. Howard Hunt
Kurt Waldheim
Ike Turner

Henry Hyde.

Actually, with Hyde, Fallwell, and Waldheim, it's more of a Good Riddance List.

But to hell with them, which, ironically, is just where they’re headed. Let’s remember some good folks. If you’re dead and I’ve left you off the list, well, you’ll never know, will you? For those of you dying between Christmas and New Years Eve, sorry. You didn't make the cut. Get your asses out the door faster next time. I haven't got all day you know. In no particular order, in 2007, we lost:

Magnus Magnusson, Mastermind of Mastermind. This know-all now knows nothing.
Yvonne De Carlo, Nearly as beautiful as me. Coincidentally, we were both married to Frankenstein’s monster.
Carlo Ponti, This movie producer had a very hot wife. I like men as much as the next guy (Which is saying something, considering the next guy is Little Douglas), but I’d do Sophia in a vodka minute.
Darlene Conley, Bold, beautiful, and hilarious.
Peter Ronson, This little-known Icelander was hot as hell back in Journey to the Center of the Earth in 1959. I wonder what he looked like 48 years later.
Art Buchwald, A giant, albeit, a short giant.
Bob Carroll Jr. He made Lucy funny, no easy task.
Sidney Sheldon. He made Jeannie funny before writing a lot of trash.
Lee Bergere. Forever the Carrington butler.
Molly Ivins She could have filled the void left by Buchwald, but instead she trailed along after him.
Barbara McNair. She played a nun with Elvis! And once she sang along with Little Douglas on one of his funny penis songs.
Frankie Laine, He’s caught the mule train to the next world.
Sir Ian Richardson. A fabulous actor! Too bad he squandered his great talent on all that crappy Shakespeare junk.
Peter Ellenshaw, The great matte painting artist, who made the London Mary Poppers flew over.
Buster Keaton Jr. Well, his dad was a genius.
Walker Edmiston, Wonderful puppeteer and actor, who once had dinner with Little Dougie and Doodles Weaver. Aren't you glad you weren't a fly on the steaks at that supper?
Ray Evans. He gave us stuff to sing about.
Sheridan Morley, I thought his dad was gay!
Janet Blair, She was Vincent Price’s Peter Pan, among other roles.
Bruce Bennett, One of two Tarzan’s who died this year. I must step up the auditions.
Thomas Eagleton. He was no help to George McGovern at all.
John Inman. Wonderful comic actor, a bit of a pouf, the proud possessor of an autographed copy of my book, and what gay man could ask for a more appropriate name?
Richard Jeni, Fine comic.
Betty Hutton. My ears are still ringing.
Bowie Kuhn. Something to do with sports. I don’t follow them.
Stuart Rosenberg. Never directed me.
Freddie Francis. Neither did he, but he directed a lot of Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee’s scary movies, and he won an Oscar for cinematography.
Calvert DeForest. As Larry "Bud" Melman, he proved you don’t need talent to have talent.
Calvin Lockhart, Calvin, on the other hand, did have talent, and sweet Heaven, he was gorgeous!
Michael Dibdin. Good author, or so I’m told by people who read books, and how can you trust them?
Stan Daniels, Brilliant comedy writer, and the author of The Butler Song! Now for eternity, he'll be screwing Delores Del Rio. Sounds like Heaven to me.
Johnny Hart. His humor was prehistoric, and his Id was wizardly.
Barry Nelson, The first James Bond. Fortunately, they tried again, with Sir Sean.
Roscoe Lee Browne, Large talent, magnificent voice, short stature.
Kurt Vonnegut Jr. Wrote a good book or two, the rest were GREAT!
Don Ho, Famous for singing about champagne. Sounds like a genius to me!
Kitty Carlisle, She sang she was Alone when in a crowd of Marx Brothers, What was her line again? Line!
David Halberstam. Ever read one of his gigantic books? Me neither. Some people called him a social critic, but who wants to socialize with a critic?
Bobby Pickett. He’s mashed his last monster.
Jack Valenti. He almost made the No Loss List. He gave us the movie rating system. So what exactly is the difference between X and NC-17?
Dabbs Greer, Darling Dabbs. He named Superman, among five million other performances.
Tommy Newsom, When the Doctor was out, Tommy was in. He was a sexophonist. Sounds like he made dirty phone calls.
Tom Poston. Do they make better comic actors? Nope!
Gordon Scott. Another dead Tarzan. Stop the slaughter!
Wally Schirra, He was out of this world!
Curtis Harrington. What’s the Matter With Helen? Whoever Slew Auntie Roo? He was the man to ask. The merest whisper of a homo, a pal of James Whale, a talent for cinema.
Fulton Burley. He sang Clancy Lowers the Boom over 40,000 times, and was hilarious every time.

Gretchen Wyler, Lovely actress.
Mala Powers, Also a lovely actress.
Don Herbert. Not a lovely actress, but as Mr. Wizard, he taught kids long before Dumbledore did.
Ed Friendly, He made Rowan & Martin even funnier.
Leo Burmester, a fine actor. He once hugged Little Douglas as Dougie sobbed. He was Les Miserables at the time.
Joel Siegel, Big mustache. Liked movies. Friend of Little Kent Levine. Never gave me a bad review! Now that’s my idea of a film critic.
Moe Di Sesso, After he left Bodega Bay, they were cleaning up the bird droppings for months, and what he did with Willard’s rats wasn’t very pretty either.
Beverly Sills, Call her Bubbles darlings, everybody did. Has stopped warbling.
Kent North. Hunky gay porn star who took his own life. Never mind what he’s stopped doing, although I have it on DVD.
Kerwin Mathews. Sinbad, Kerwin good. A beautiful homo famous for fighting the overly anorexic.
Charles Lane, Charlie was the third oldest living member of SAG, after Betty White and me. Now he's not.
Lady Bird Johnson. She wanted to "Beautify America," and finally has.
Kieron Moore, Some people got hot when they saw Jeanette Scott fight a triffid that spat poison and killed, but I got hot watching Kieron saving Jeanette from those same triffids. He fought Sir Sean too, in Darby O’Gill and the Little People.
Jerry Hadley. A fat lady must have vocalized, because Jerry’s opera is over. Two down. It’s a start.
Tammy Faye Bakker. Just barely escaped the No Loss List. Mascara stocks plunged when she died.
László Kovács, Took a good picture or two.
William Tuttle. He gave Tony Randall 7 faces, which must have confused the hell out of Jack Klugman.
Michelangelo Antonioni. Supposedly a great film-maker, but I could never understand a single word anyone spoke in his pictures.
Ingmar Bergman, Same gag applies to Ingrid here, though he was beautiful in Casablanca.
Lee Hazlewood. He sang with Nancy Sinatra, which wasn’t easy. His boots have walked - to Boot Hill.
Hal Fishman. He reported the news on KTLA channel 5 in Los Angeles since the Revolutionary War. Now that he’s dead, there's no more news.
Merv Griffin. I never married him. I think.
Phil Rizzuto, He was famous for something.
Richard Jewell, He was famous for not being a crazed bomber. Neither am I. Neither are you. Oh? You are? I stagger corrected.
Madeleine L'Engle. Salvador Dali had to iron all his limp clocks again after she wrinkled time.
Jane Wyman. A great first lady.
Danny Roddick, a very pretty gay porn star, but, let’s say, not entirely happy.
Alice Ghostley. Such a funny lady, and now Alice is ghostley.
Marcel Marceau, French blabberhands.
Charles B. Griffith, He wrote Little Shop of Horrors. Good writer. Worked cheap.
Martin Manulis, Producer. Made stuff.
Lois Maxwell. She died without ever getting porked by James Bond. While Sir Sean was Bond, it was tragic, but when Roger Moore took the role, it was a narrow escape!
Ned Sherrin, Witty funny English actor. They still have a few more left though.
Gary Franklin, On the Franklin scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being best, he was a 10, by which I mean, he was the best Gary Franklin around.
George Grizzard. He just never could beat Sam Waterston on Law & Order, but that’s no reason to die. He wasn’t afraid of Virginia Woolfe.
Deborah Kerr, Class, beauty, talent. I hate her guts!
Joey Bishop. The last Rat Packer to die. Now to get rid of these damn roaches.
Robert Goulet, If ever he could leave us, it turned out to be in Autumn.
Peter Viertel, He hunted elephants with John Huston. Fortunately for the elephants, he was better as a writer.
Laraine Day, Lovely actress.
Norman Mailer. I’m told he was a great writer, but don’t ask Gore Vidal about him.
Delbert Mann, A director, but he never cast me, so fuck him.
Ira Levin. He cheated on his Stepford Wife to give Rosemary a Baby who was a Boy from Brazil. In Deathtrap, he made Christopher Reeve make out with Michael Caine. That’s entertainment! Little Dougie has read all his novels. Dougie hasn't read any of Mailer. That tells you a lot about him.
Michael Blodgett, Used to appear on TV shirtless. A Saint.
Ronnie Burns. George and Gracie’s son. Loved him on their TV show, 55 years ago. What’s he been doing since?
Dick Wilson, This perv was obsessed with groping anal wipes. Ew. What a thing to be famous for.
Verity Lambert The mother of Doctor Who, and a BBC legend. Her name means "Truth". What a burden.
Joe Restivo. Good comic.
Mel Tolkin, Great comedy writer. Had nothing to do with The Lord of the Rings, more's the pity. It could have used some more laughs.
Evel Knievel, You know, those seat belts are there for a reason.
Dan Fogelberg, Good warbler. Could scribble out new warblings too.
Jack Linkletter, Outlived by his daddy Art. Rode most of the rides at Disneyland before you did.
Frank Capra Jr. His dad never directed me, so fuck him too.
Luciano Pavarotti. That’s three dead opera singers. A hat trick.
Tom Snyder, Now Dan Ackroyd needs a new act. He made being fatuous entertaining, which is more than Larry King ever has.
Denny Doherty, Oh momma, he was a poppa!
Miyoshi Umeki, They gave her an Oscar for pretending she was in love with Red Buttons. Never was an Oscar more deserved, or more unpleasantly won.

Just keep telling yourselves, you’re not dead, and even better, neither am I!

Cheers darlings.

Boxing Day Addendum:

I know I issued a Death Cut-Off on Christmas, but I just learned that legendary dancer-choreographer Michael Kidd has died, and as he actually died a couple days ago, and he was an amazing talent, I've decided to relax my rule and let him slip in. Incidentally, I'd have relaxed and let him slip in anytime he liked, as he was a doll 50 years ago. Yes, he was a guy, and yet he was a doll, which may be why he choreographed the original Broadway production of Guys and Dolls. And get this! Even though he was a ballet dancer and a Broadway and Hollywood choreographer, he was straight! He even had Kidd's kids! What an innovator! No wonder I never married him. Another of his best remembered works was choreographing 7 Brides for 7 Brothers, or as I always thought of it, 14 Married In-Laws. That's a lot of dancers for a short man to handle. He was 92 at his passing, and I undestand he'd retired from dancing for some reason a few months back. They all get lazy after a while.

So dying celebs, don't be a last-minute entry next year. Particularly you candidates for the No Loss List. Get on the list early and often, and Ann Coulter, I'm talking to you!

Cheers darlings.

The Most Important Issue in the World!

The war in Iraq, the presidential race, the WGA strike, the effect of the Bush administration on liquor prices, all these are important issues I'm told, but let us be frank, People Magazine opened up a can of worms last month which has forced me to confront The Most Important and Controversial Issue on Earth: who is The Sexiest Man Alive?


The controversy erupted when People inexplicably chose Matt Damon for the title. I swear (constantly), the first thought to pop into my turban was "Oh my God! Did Huge Jackman die?" One transcontinental telephone call to Australia later, I was relieved to learn the answer was "No." Bu this raised the unavoidable question, if Huge still lives, how can someone else be The Sexiest Man Alive? The title is deservedly Huge's until he dies, or at the very least, is horribly disfigured.


And really, Matt Damon? Yes, Little Matty is adorable, and is rumored to be able to act as well. In addition, he has an Oscar --- for WRITING! (The peculiar hobbies some people have. You'd never catch me writing! What am I doing right now? I'm dictating. It's entirely different. Just ask Joseph Stalin.) Matt and his co-winner Ben Affleck (A not-unsexy lad himself.) must be the only members of the WGA who actually can leave the lights on when they get laid, and have had sex without having to pay for it. They've even had sex with movie stars; I mean in addition to each other. However, neither really makes my short list of The World's Sexiest Men. And really, as a member of the WGA, shouldn't Matt have refused the award while he is on strike? Take a look at Matt, compared with the actual short list.





There's Huge of course, the True Title Holder, beautiful Brendan Fraser, star of George of the Jungle and Gods and Monsters, the awe-inspiring Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje of LOST and OZ, Hungarian gay porn star Arpad Miklos (Who is available for rent, and I don't mean his videos. You can rent Arpad himself. He's pricey, but he's worth every penny!), and the reigning James Bond, Daniel Craig. Does Little Matt really belong with those gods? He may be the Talented Mister Ripley, but these others are the Talented Misters Ripped Abs.


Being The World's Foremost Authority on Male Pulchritude, I was naturally called upon to check Matt out personally, and take his qualification in hand, if only I could have found it, which ought to eliminate him from consideration altogether right there.





I addressed this controversy briefly in announcing my Studly Hunk of the Month for December, where I chose Brendan Fraser, since Adawale, Arpad, and Daniel have already served, and Huge has served twice. Brendan made my short list of future ex-husbands when I saw George of the Jungle, a fascinating nature film, and Gods & Monsters, which Little Dougle lists among the top ten films of the 1990s. When I investigated his qualification, what I found impressed me deeply, very deeply, and thickly as well. The man is what God would have had in mind when He invented Man, if only He existed, which is why Brendan's Studly Hunk portrait is of him as Adam.




Of course, Matt and Brendan have history together, as the photo below bears witness, albeit a picture from long enough ago that Branden hadn't yet achieved his full, buff perfection. Side by side, you can clearly see why Brendan beat Matt. As it happens, I overheard their conversation at the time, so it's included.





So how can Matt have beaten Brendan for People's misbegotten honor? Is there no justice in the world? Oh, the hunky humanity! Something fishy is at work here.




In the midst of this controversy, another, albeit lesser controversy erupted. The AARP (Association of Attenuated Rotting People), an organization of old people (Yes I know that, at age 110, I am one of the oldest people on earth, but on me the years are undetectable!) selected Larry King as Sexiest Old Guy Alive. No, I'm not kidding. Larry King, the moronic old fart who sits at a desk, his suspenders holding up his truss, pitching soft ball questions to folks who can't get booked on good shows, or are afraid of the penetrating, hardball questions Ellen DeGeneris will toss at them, has been selected Sexiest Old Guy Alive! Again, my immediate response was, "Oh no! Paul Newman and Sir Sean Connery must have died!" Fortunately, that has not happened. (At least as of 1:28 AM, December 3rd, 2007. At their age, that "Alive" status could change at any second.) Look and compare their respective sexiness for yourself.




Okay, none of them are looking their best these days, although Larry is still the clear loser. But let's even the odds a little (Is that mathematically possible?) by comparing them at their peaks.




It's just no contest. Larry has "Loser" tattooed on his forehead. (Under the combover.) And while Paul and Sir Sean seem to be neck-and-neck (and what glorious necks. Don't they make you want to neck?), I have to give the title to Sir Sean.


In fact, Sir Sean just made sex symbol headlines yet again, when a nude painting he posed for half a century ago recently came to light, and is well worth lighting. I must admit to being almost as impressed by the artist as by the model. If I had Sir Sean standing about wearing nothing but a purple mirkin, I'd never be able to concentrate on painting. Panting, yes. Painting, no.





As a gourmand of men, I was called upon, way back around 1950, to judge a male beauty pageant in Scotland where a very young Sir Sean Connery was a contestant. As a modest young man, he was not yet using his title professionally, so as not to have an unfair edge. The only reason he didn't win was because I deducted points from him for shaving his chest. There's nothing wrong with being naturally smooth, but if you're masculine enough to have furry pecs, leave them that way. Only women should shave their chests. God knows, I've been waxing my breasts for years, and the results are well worth it, despite the waxy yellow build-up. Sir Sean learned his lesson however, and has never shaved his chest since, having taken to shaving his head instead, and he really should stop doing that too. It makes him look old.



From early on in Sir Sean's career, a certain rumor concerning his - ah - dimensions has been circulating throughout show business. Let's just say that the number 14 has been mentioned again and again, most often by women with severely bowed legs. At least, I think the number was 14. It's hard to understand what people are saying when they've dislocated their jaws. Milton Berle once said, "Sir Sean makes me feel inadequate." Let's just say that the truth about Sir Sean's legendary endowment is rather hard to swallow, but it's well worth trying.

Not being one to take other people's word about such a vital piece of information, I lured, I mean invited, Sir Sean into my hot tub, strapped on my snorkeling mask, and investigated the matter at hand personally.

In the immortal words of Madeline Kahn, "It's twue! It's twue!" And my jaw healed in just a few days.

Sir Sean is not above a little investigating himself. Here he is perusing my award-dodging autobiography My Lush Life, a mere 37 years before it was published. Sir Sean is an active, energetic man, one who would never put off an important task like reading my book until the last minute. So what's your excuse? This column is finished. You could read it right now.

Cheers darlings.