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distraught

I’m sorry. I just can’t write today. I’m too sad. And confused. And disillusioned. And angry frankly.

I’m trying not to be upset. Hold on... Maybe I should get some water or a cup of tea…

That’s a little better.

Folks, the reason I can’t write today is… oh god… here I go again…

Sweet Jesus! I mean, is nothing sacred? Is there no possibility of it working out between two people? Ever? I mean, if this doesn’t work – what chance do the rest of us poor fools have in this crazy game called love?!

I’m sorry, but my entire notion of the sanctity, the holiness of Gay Cover Marriages is just blown straight to hell:

David Copperfield and Claudia Schiffer are getting a divorce.

I mean, what went wrong? What could have possibly been so bad to warrant this?

"Everything is fine between me and Claudia. We are still good friends."

Well David, that’s all well and good for you, but where does that leave us. The fans. The people who saw you walking down the red carpet together at the Batman & Robin premiere and smiled at the sight of two people so happily faking a marriage.

And you know what, I dreamed of someday too having my own Gay Cover Marriage. Oh sure: "stee, you’re not gay", they said. But a boy can dream can’t he!? With David and Claudia as my shining example, I felt like one day that kind of sexless, loveless, laughably transparent fake relationship could be mine too. Think about it: it’s glamorous and good for a lot of free publicity, but behind the scenes we’d be safe to do as we pleased with whomever we pleased. I mean, isn’t that what a marriage should be?

But now I’ll never know. With this sad news I’m soured to the idea that the crazy dream of Gay Cover Marriage could someday be mine. I know, I know. I still have people like Tom and Nicole, and John and Kelly to look up to, but it somehow isn’t quite the same. Somehow they’re just missing the magic. (Magic. Poor choice of words. Now I’m crying again…)

Damn you cupid.

The Larry King Happy Song Corner

When I wake up, yeah I know I'm gonna be, I'm gonna be the man who wakes up next to you. When I go out, yeah I know I'm gonna be, I'm gonna be the man who goes along with you. If Larry get drunk, yes I know I'm gonna be, I'm gonna be the man who gets drunk next to you. And if I haver, yeah Larry knows I’m gonna be, I'm gonna be the man who's havering to you. But Larry would walk 500 miles. And Larry would walk 500 more. Just to be the man who walked 1,000 miles to fall down at your door… speaking of which. It was a dark night in 1993 in the middle of a week-long bender and I was in a mean game of no-limit low ball with Charlie Rose, Sam Waterston, Jerry Orbach, the singer from DeeLite, Abe Vigoda and either Judd Nelson or Andrew McCarthy, when on an all-in that sneaky bastard Vigoda pulled a pat 7-5 against my 7-6. I brooded on the rails for the next couple hours drinking straight bourbon and throwing Cheddar Goldfish at Nelson/McCarthy until Charlie loaned me cab fare and sent me on my way. Well, I’m not quite sure what happened next but I somehow ended up at Tuesday Weld’s Chelsea duplex banging on her front door until I passed out. Then I saw her the following year in Falling Down and, boy, was I glad she was not home that night. (O father time, you cruel thief of beauty!) Man, that could have spelled all sorts of trouble for Larry.

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