The National Enquirer recently ran a photo of former Aerosmith frontman and current American Idol judge STEVEN TYLER in a skimpy bathing suit with the caption "Dude Looks Like A Lady."
Um, I'm sorry, what's that phrase I am thinking of? Oh yeah... "FUCK OFF!"
Okay, lets get a few things straight about the LEGENDARY Steven Tyler...
1) The man in 63 years old! I hope I look THAT good at 63! Hell, I didn't look that good at 33! He may not be a muscle man, but he is a rock singer in his sixties -- not a male model in his twenties. He looks GREAT!
2) The man is a force to be reckoned with. He is supremely talented and one of the top male rock vocalists and frontmen of all time -- right up there with Jim Morrison of The Doors, Robert Plant of Led Zeppelin, Freddie Mercury of Queen, Steve Perry of Journey and Bon Scott of AC/DC! And despite a few less-than-stellar songs from the Autumn of his career ("Dude Looks Like A Lady," "Love in an Elevator," etc.) the man is a poet!
3) The man is clean & sober. He is also hilarious and, from what I have seen on American Idol, he doesn't seem to have a cruel bone in his body.
4) The man is ALIVE!
So, stop being a nit-picking American ageist asshole and look at this photo and realize that Steven Tyler looks great for his age and everything he has been through. AND God love him for strutting his still-hot stuff on the beach and enjoying his fucking life!
You go, girl!
He and Helen Mirren should remake Chris Isaak's "Wicked Game" music video!
There are two kinds of depression: First there is that general malaise that can only be eased by drugs, whether they be of the expensive prescription variety or the God-only-knows-what-you’re-getting type available on the street. Second, there is an economic Depression -- with a capital d -- like when the stock market crashed in 1929 and people had to get real creative and do things like make a meal out of nothing but a FREE glass of hot water with a generous dollop of FREE ketchup! Well, as far as I am concerned, we are in The New Depression and we have to get creative again. I mean, how is a bitch supposed to escape from the harsh realities of this crazy world when she ain’t got no change clinkin’ around in her pockets? Here are some amazingly crafty ways to get high when you are low -- in spirits AND funds! (PLEASE NOTE: I do not do drugs and I do not condone drug use! This is a tongue-in-cheek look at the lengths to which some people will go to get their buzz on...)
Add a little umbrella and mouthwash becomes BRAINWASH!
I MAY BE DRUNK, BUT AT LEAST I HAVE FRESH BREATH: Drinking mouthwash to get drunk sounds funny, until you go online and read page after page of heartbreaking accounts from people -- mostly friends or family of those who have died from doing it. The average alcohol content for most commercial beers and malt liquors is between three percent and eight percent. Most mouthwash brands contains between 21.6 percent and 26.9 percent alcohol. This stuff will kill you, people. I know times are tough, but when you look up and say, “I am guzzling no-name mouthwash from the 99 Cents Only Store” maybe just maybe something is horribly wrong. I suggest you take a shower, put on some clean clothes, comb your hair, brush your teeth and gargle a little mouthwash (no swallowing!) and get out there and charm the pants off the world! In other words, and this is the beginning of a pattern here, USING AN ITEM FOR ITS INTENDED PURPOSE IS MUCH BETTER THAN TRYING TO GET HIGH WITH IT!
"Hey, wait a minute... This feels really good!"
YOU MUST BE CHOKING: According to one website: “It's a potentially fatal pastime known by many names -- the blackout game, the pass-out game and most commonly the "choking game." The activity, which is gaining popularity among preteens and teenagers across the country, requires that a youngster choke himself or another person to get high. The activity creates an euphoric state as blood rushes back to the brain.” Okay, let’s get this straight, don’t do anything to yourself that a homicidal maniac might do if they abducted you! Certainly there are much better things you can think of doing with your hands, no? How about some good old-fashioned masturbation? It’s free and no one gets hurt.
I've heard of "bathtub gin," but BATHTUB COKE!?
CALGON, TAKE ME AWAY: Names like Ivory Wave, Red Dove and Vanilla High sound so nice! But the news stories associated with the improper use of these legal bath salts are anything but! One user sliced his own face and stomach with a skinning knife and another raped a goat to death. According to reports, snorting, smoking or injecting bath salts can cause an amphetamine-like high. The irony here is that if a person simply sprinkled it into a bathtub filled with hot water (and maybe popped in an Enya CD?), it might help them relax and soak away their troubles. But instead they are opting to snort the aforementioned perfumed powders in order to become a paranoid, tweaking mess who wants to either filet themselves or violate an adorable animal. Quick question: How come it’s always the jobless people with nothing to do but watch Maury who feel the need to stay up for days at a time? The next time you snort some bath salts, come on over to my house and I will pay you a shiny new quarter per hour to clean the entire place with a toothbrush. Deal?
The #2 most poopular way to get high for free!?
YOU CAN’T MAKE THIS SHIT UP: Well, actually you can! According to Wikipedia, “Jenkem is a hallucinogenic recreational drug composed of noxious gas formed from fermented sewage.” Many people think that the Jenkem craze is merely a hoax, but I have seen way too many photos of kids hovering over murky Mountain Dew bottles to believe it isn’t the drug of choice for at least a very small, very poor segment of the poopulation (incorrect spelling AND pun very much intended). Here’s how you make and use Jenkem: Put some of your poop in an empty 2 liter soda bottle, pee into the bottle (just enough to cover that poop!), place a balloon over the top of the bottle and wait for it to fill with precious, mind-numbing methane gas! Inhale the contents of the balloon and breath in the glamour! Now, I suppose it doesn’t have to be your own poop and pee, but if you’re going to essentially eat a manufactured, concentrated fart wouldn’t you want it to at least be from your very own body? I mean, sure you may be getting high from toxic shit vapors, but have a some class, right?
So to recap: Poop in a toilet, take a hot bath, swish some Scope around in your mouth before any social functions and masturbate as much as you want. Follow these simple rules and you will be a healthy, happy person!
I was discussing it with my slusband (straight lady husband), Muffy Bolding, yesterday via text messages -- because we are, after all, teenaged girls -- and we share many of the same reasons for our unbridled hatred of everything Easter...
THE COLOR SCHEME: Except for a very brief oh-so-confusing period in the '80s, pastels are not for me. They are merely watered-down versions of the bold jewel-tones I so adore: Ruby red, onyx black and my all-time favorite, turquoise blue. Pastels are for cat-loving women with frizzy, gray-streaked hair who mix up their own douche solutions, collect hideous Thomas Kinkade "art" and have at least one Cathy comic hanging on their Activia-filled fridge by a sassy magnet that says something like, "I Shaved My Legs For THIS!?"
THE CANDY: While I will admit that Easter candy has come a long way since I was a kid (Reese's Peanut Butter cups and/or Mounds in the shape of an egg), the "classics" are just plain disgusting. Peeps are the foulest (fowlest?) candy on the planet. The only thing worse than the taste -- a combination of toxic old-school insecticide and a sweet perfume a chubby 'tween might wear -- is the consistency. It's like eating slightly soggy styrofoam. Fuck you, Peeps. Along with Jay Leno and Lady Gaga, you are the biggest scam ever foisted upon the American public. And lest we forget cheap gritty jelly beans that come in mere colors (red, yellow and orange) instead of actual flavors (cherry, lemon and orange), and waxy hollow chocolate-adjacent bunnies. If I'm craving something waxy and hollow I'll watch a recent Madonna interview on YouTube, okay?
And don't even get me started on those Cadbury Cream Eggs, the oozing viscous filling of which resembles something a bunch of horny British schoolboys might shoot onto a biscuit while playing the time-honoured and traditional COMING of age game, Ookie Cookie. Sick fucks. I say spend less time jacking off on crackers and more time brushing your Susan Boyle teeth!
THE ACTIVITIES: Decorating eggs is just retarded. And whomever thought hiding hardboiled eggs in the late April sun was a good idea should frankly be crucified. Growing up in Scottsdale, Arizona ("But it's a DRY heat!") I remember how every Easter my mom would hide those eggs in the backyard and around our split-level house -- never bothering to count them or keep track of where she hid them. And, of course, every year we would leave one or two or THREE undiscovered.
Talk about The Resurrection! That sulphuric rotten egg stench would "rise from the dead" and my mom would glare at us kids like it was our fault. First, when the smell was a subtle stink, she would give us that "Did you fart, you horrible little bastards that I never should have had!?" look. And then when the house started to reek like Jeffrey Dahmer's apartment, it became clear this was more than just methane gas escaping from the tiny buttholes of three little kids. Then she gave us that look as if to ask, "Why didn't you find all those eggs I hid 6 weeks ago, you horrible little bastards that I never should have had!?"
THE TRUE MEANING OF THE HOLIDAY: Is total bullshit. Like most of modern Christianity, it is warped and bastardized Paganism.
So, to recap, I hate Easter. This, my friends, is the only basket I want...
Hi! Did you know that I am deformed? No, I am NOT joking... I actually have a "developmental deformation" in both hips. I just assumed that the excruciating pain and the cute little limp was thanks to being overweight for most of my life AND wearing women's shoes for the past twenty years, but no -- it's officlal! -- I am DEFORMED!
I actually need a double hip replacement. This, of course, is the most UNCOOL of any and all surgeries one can have and/or need. My right hip is, according to doctors, "bone on bone" (ironically, this is also the name of Chi Chi LaRue's next dickumentary!) and the left is getting very close to being the same. Yes, it hurts. But, as they say, the show must go on!
Being a vaudevillian clown I have no insurance, and being a homeowner in Southern California, I have no money. So, I researched online and found what I thought was a great place to have the surgery for what I thought was quite the reasonable cash price ($20k per hip!). I even accepted a booking for this Summer in Provincetown so that I could pay back my oh-so-generous ex who had offered to loan me the money for the surgery.
Well, after forwarding all the info on the company and doctor involved to a very well-connected and successful actress friend of mine (no, it's NOT Roseanne!) who recently had the same surgery, I have learned that this is way too expensive and that I could perhaps get it for much less if I agree to allow students to watch while I go under the knife. So the whole thing is on hold yet again while I do even more research and try to find the best possible solution to this problem.
I had hoped to have surgery mid April so I stopped booking gigs starting then -- AND FOR A FULL TWO MONTHS AFTER THAT SO I COULD SAFELY HEAL AND RECUPERATE. Well, now that the surgery is off I have no work until I haul my deformed ass to Provincetown this Summer.
So, if you are a club owner and/or promoter, please book me! I ain't too proud to beg! I am also a writer for everything from magazines and websites to TV! And if you are not in the position to hire me, then by all means feel free to treat yourself to an mp3 download or two (or TEN!) from my website. You get a laugh and I get a dollar -- it's a win/win situation! Just go to:www.MissJackieBeat.com/merch
I am sitting here in my queen-sized bed, feeling all snuggly thanks to my faux mink bedspread, cup of freshly-brewed coffee and my two precious angels, Baby and Lil Sister. And speaking of those adorable creatures, I am, as they say, sick as a dog! Now I am not sure when or where this particular turn-of-phrase came into being, and if we are being completely honest, I have never liked it, but it does immediately express just how awful I am feeling. My head is throbbing, I feel like I have been gargling with broken glass, my nose won't stop running and my entire body aches. I am in Hell, but it's Hell with faux mink and DirecTV, so no need to alert George Clooney of my plight. Although if Sarah McLachlan wanted to sing a sad song over a slide show of me blowing my nose, rubbing my temples and wincing while swallowing -- that would be fine by me. "Please call the number on your screen..."
So, let me tell you how life works. After performing two amazing, sold-out shows in the beautiful city of Boston, I was to return home to my aforementioned fur-balls. After the show Saturday night, I came back to where I was staying and got out of drag, removed my makeup and then had to pack -- which, thanks to a particularly successful day of thrift store shopping, was quite a creative challenge! But I got everything off and in and then finally climbed into bed around 1 AM, knowing that I would be up again by 5 AM for my 7:20 AM flight!
After a few hours of sleep, I woke up and headed to the airport. At 6 AM I swiped my credit card at the American Airlines kiosk and got the following message: YOU CANNOT CHECK IN FOR YOUR FLIGHT BECAUSE IT IS NOT WITHIN THE NEXT 24 HOURS. Huh? I rubbed my bleary eyes and re-read my itinerary and was shocked to discover that my flight was actually for the next day -- Monday! Needless to say, I felt like a complete idiot and I almost burst into tears. Instead, I took a deep breath, decided to face the problem head-on, and got in line to talk to an American Airlines rep. Well, to make a long story short (too late!), the oh-so-helpful agent was no help at all. I don't know how they do it, but American Airlines always seems to find employees with that rare combination of robot and rudeness: "Does not compute... Bitch!" Despite the tears welling up in my middle-aged man eyes, I guess it was pretty damn obvious that I was indeed trying to pull a fast one on the company by showing up a full day before my actual flight and "pretending" I had merely made a mistake. After all, if they put my ass in one of those empty seats on that flight, American Airlines might just go bankrupt, right? So it would cost an additional $535 plus a $150 change fee. Any emotional moisture in my eyes evaporated the moment I heard those numbers and with the bone-dry eyes of a corpse I stared right through that bitter cyborg and said, "Fuck that shit." It felt good -- for about five seconds -- then I was struck with the harsh reality of being at an airport at 6 AM on the opposite coast of my home with no flight.
I ended up buying a one-way ticket to LAX on Virgin America. It cost me $550, but you know what? The people were friendly, the ticket agent waived my checked bag fee (hey, it's SOMETHING!) and the the plane was nice and new and clean and pretty with comfy seats and my own little TV and great snacks. I was back in LA by 11 AM and with my gorgeous girls by noon! And that's when this cold/flu/black plague thing hit me. I puttered around the house all day, took a hot bath, had some soup, watched part 3 of "Mildred Pierce" on HBO, guzzled some NyQuil and passed out.
Imagine my amusement when I woke this morning to find several voicemail updates from American Airlines on my cell phone! Turns out that my flight from Boston to LAX and been cancelled. What!? That would be horrible news... if I wasn't already home, that is. Subsequent messages informed me that I had been re-booked on an 11 AM flight to Miami, and I am still waiting to hear when my flight from Miami to Los Angeles is.
So you see, had I not fucked up yesterday I would be killing 4 hours at Logan airport -- while sick as a motherfucking dog! And then I would just be in Miami and be looking at 6 more hours of travel -- on one of American Airlines old, uncomfortable planes with the previous passenger's wadded up tissues and candy wrappers still in the seat pocket in front of me, a crappy selection of overpriced food and beverages (that they always seem to run out of by the time they reach me!) flung at me by one of their bitter animatronics.
And now, if you will excuse me, I have daytime TV to watch and phlegm to cough up...
Baby enjoying the luxury of mama's faux mink bedspread!
Short wigs, off-the-rack strip-mall fashions, sensible shoes and prescription glasses...
Preparing for the now infamous and wildly popular
"High Fructose Corn Syrup" parody.
"Hag Drag" is nothing new. A queen dressing like a total mess who, if she waltzed in and asked, "Be honest, what does this outfit say to you?" the only reasonable answer would be: "YOU DON'T HAVE A MIRROR IN YOUR BEDROOM!?"
As lead singer of the rock band VAN PALIN. We, of course, rewrote Van Halen songs to make them more wholesome and Republican. "Rock out with your cross out!"
But -- and as you know, mine is a HUGE butt -- can you ride that fine line between hideous creature and haute couture? Can you serve up "Glamour Grandma," "Librarian Looker" or that oh-so-elusive "Cunty Clown?" It's difficult, but not impossible. Here are a few of my favorite looks that could possibly be misconstrued (look it up!) as "boring" but will no-doubt have people "boring" holes in you as they stare, slack-jawed in a trance!
Never underestimate the subtle power of an apron and a home perm. Backstage with the uber-talented Drew Droege
Please do not confuse this with "Hag Drag," or old-fashioned San Fransissy "Gender Fuck" (throwing glitter into one's beard does not constitute "drag"!) or what my dear friend, the incomparable Jimmy James (performing at Casita del Campo on April 8 & 9) lovingly refers to as "Booger Drag." Oh no, darling! These are "EnsemBLAHS" my dear... Cougars and matrons and MILFS, oh my!
MEN DO MAKE PASSES AT WOMEN WHO WEAR GLASSES...
Zaftig Jewess finding her light!
Who cares if it's the interior dome
light of a 2002 Pontiac Grand Am!?
Girl's Night Out! Because teaching "Black
Studies" at the community college
can be stressful and she deserves to blow
off some steam at Happy Hour, goddamnit!
It's a great time to be silver... and gold!
Anyone can rock The '80s...
but can you rock a gal in her eighties!?
Smart is sexy... So go fuck a scientist!
EVERYTHING OLD IS NEW AGAIN!
Giving Bea Arthur realness as Trixie in
"Gingerdead Man 3: Saturday Night Cleaver"
Celebrating my birthday recently at Hamburger Mary's.
Laugh all you want, but I did get a senior discount!
You may think I look ancient, but check it out... I got several "pearl necklaces" that night!
I call this look, "One foot in the grave
and the other on a banana peel!"
PARDON ME, BUT WHAT KIND OF CLOWNDATION DO YOU WEAR?
Serving up Southwestern New-Age White Trash...
You just know she has a dream-catcher air freshener hanging
from the rearview mirror of her teal PT Cruiser!
Tears of a clown: Is the circus is in town?
Nope, it's just me, Bozo Beat!
Honk honk! This is a look most people might
try maybe once in a lifetime, but not me...
Laughter is the best medicine and
I can practically cure cancer, biotch!
Shangela: True talent will always triumph over tarnished tinsel!
I have been doing drag for over twenty years. I am what they call a "legend" -- which sounds rather lofty, but actually just means, "Wow! She's still alive!?" I have been in countless TV, film and theatrical projects -- working with people like Robert DeNiro, Philip Seymour Hoffman and Parker Posey. I have toured this fine country as the opening act for comedy icon Roseanne Barr. I have been lucky enough to have performed in Milan, Berlin and even Saskatoon, Canada! I've wowed unsuspecting audiences on cruise ships, at clothing-optional gay campgrounds in rural Georgia and even at a Sweet 16 party where I opened for T-Pain (seriously!). I also started a rock band, Dirty Sanchez, that landed a record deal, had a song featured on the campiest soap opera of all time ("Passions") and toured with My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult. Oh, and did I mention that I am a card-carrying member of the Writers Guild of America who has written TV, short films, countless magazine articles and/or interviews and material for the likes of Roseanne Barr, Rosie O'Donnell, Ross Mathews, Jennifer Coolidge, Patricia Arquette and more? I'm not quite Bruce Vilanch, but honey, who is?
My point is this: When I give my two cents on anything drag-related, y'all better listen up because this bitch knows a thing or two -- or three!
As you may or may not know, the performer known as Shangela was told to "sashay away" on last night's episode of "RuPaul's Drag Race." I guess "sashay away" sounds better than "Get the fuck out, bitch!" and besides, that doesn't really go with Ru's "everybody say 'love'" shtick. But I digress...
Yes, sassy and spunky Miss Shangela was kindly asked to pack up her wigs and frilly undergarments and hit the road. Now there are many people out there -- and quite a few on the show -- who do not seem to like Shangie (I made that up!) for many reasons. Most are surface-level things like she can't do her makeup very well, she can't style a wig to save her life or she cannot create a one-of-a-kind haute couture masterpiece out of office supplies or some other total bullshit that NEVER happens in real life! All of this may be true, but you know what Shangie (hmmm, does it work or not?) CAN do? She can get on stage and be funny and ENTERTAIN the crowd by doing more than just moving her motherfucking lips! She is a naturally entertaining person who can think on her feet and ENTERTAIN a crowd. Does she look like a supermodel? Perhaps not, but neither do I!
Fellow "Drag Race" contestant, Carmen Carrera aka "The Yawn", claimed that being beautiful was the most important thing about doing drag, and that the rest could be learned. To this I shout, "Bullshit!" It's the opposite, honey! Anyone can learn how to apply makeup. Twenty years ago my makeup was HORRIFIC (we are talking Sharpie eyebrows that could not be washed off -- and no, I am NOT joking!) and now I am famous for my sick motherfucking makeup, thankyouverymuch! And I do not do my own wigs -- no drag queens I know, including RuPaul, do their own wigs! I know it's complicated, but here's what you do: You walk into a wig store, pull out money and hand it to an Asian lady (or old school sistah, if you're lucky!) and they style the wig for you! See how that works?
What you cannot learn is how to be a NATURALLY entertaining person who has a point of view. Models and porn stars should never do interviews -- who cares what they have to say? Just walk the runway while pouting or whip out your impressive manhood and grunt, "Suck it." And I feel the same way about most drag queens. I, on the other hand (and you had better believe there are gorgeous nails on that hand, honey!), am an ENTERTAINER! I am a naturally funny person who is as charming and amusing while grocery shopping as I am on stage. My life is a show! That doesn't mean I am always "on" or bouncing off the walls, mind you. Jackie Beat is the glamorous -- and sometimes really retarded -- heightened version of the real me. I mean, people are paying good money -- give them something they can't get anywhere else, right? But if all you can give them is cunty couture and bitchy beauty then you may as well be a still photograph: Glossy but flat. And who wants to look at that for more than just a few minutes?
If, within the first 30 seconds of my show, the electricity were to go out and there were no lights and no music, I might have a moment of panic, but you know what? After doing this as long as I have I can honestly say that I would take a deep breath, light a candle and do a show! I would do stand-up comedy, tell stories, sing acapella and venture into the audience to humiliate, er uh, I mean to TALK to people! And I honestly believe that Shangela (Shangie never really caught on, sorry) could do the same. The show must go on. Besides, I ain't giving those people their money back... Puh-lease!
So Shangela, keep your head up and please know that the most interesting performers NEVER win these competition reality shows. I have two words for you: Adam Lambert.
