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.