Of course I’m making reference to the small patch of land that became infamous following JFK’s assassination in 1963. It has been speculated that extra gunshots were fired — in synch with Lee Harvey Oswald’s — from the bushes of the knoll, doubly insuring the president’s demise. In a similar conspiratorial spirit I offer you my observations about last night’s big Idol sing-off and why hidden forces worked extra hard to guarantee that Elliott Yamin would not be back for his well-deserved Kodak Theater moment.

It’s a freaky coincidence how the first singer to begin each year’s Final Three show is the Idollette voted off the following evening. This mystery has proven true since Idol debuted four years ago. Elliott, of course, went first last night.

The AI band, lovingly referred to by detractors as Bandzilla, was set on stun and destroy whenever Elliott took the stage. The effect was like watching a small boat negotiate gigantic waves and treacherous tides on its journey home. To stay the course Elliott had to push his voice hard and then compensate for the extra effort by losing some of his natural flair. Even with the extra contorting, he never wavered — despite the higher key he used to churn out the cheese during Count Chocula’s pick for him: Journey’s Open Arms. (more…)

Cory Koons has a humble attitude towards his reputation as one of gay porn’s most insatiable power bottoms.

Instead of reciting all of the industry cliches related to his avid skills he simply refers to himself as a “proud bottom.” And we won’t argue with that.

Especially after watching his crazy pool scene from the vid Party In The Rear. Another fantastic installment from Raging Stallion’s Monster Bang series — a group of films famous for their all-out display of power-asshammering. And Koons doesn’t disappointment in his acrobatic, rough and tumble, takes-it-like-a-man coupling with Stallion’s resident Latino, the monster-sized Rick Gonzales.

But the multi-hued, multi-racial and multi-talented little Cory has a tender side too. (more…)

“I have been perfectly happy the way I am,” wrote renowned gay author Christopher Isherwood. “If my mother was responsible for it, I am grateful.”

“My mother,” countered Gore Vidal , “was a traumatic experience.”

Love them or hate them, mothers are often the only major woman in a gay man’s life — the one female relationship that has any depth to it.

Though Freudians in the past indited mothers as the “cause” of male homosexuality, the modern data suggests sexual preference is a biological orientation. The role mothers play seems mainly biochemical:

According to a landmark study of mothers with adult gay children, conducted in 1988 at Minot State University, pregnant women who suffer great stress during their second trimester are more likely to deliver gay sons. (more…)

Who’da thunk it? Who knew Wonder Woman had such a stud in the family?

Certainly not Wonder Woman, brought up by Amazons, no boys allowed.

And certainly not DC Comics, originator of the most durable female Superhero since … well, since Katy Keene. Okay, Katy Keene was a fashion model but she was always a Supergal in our book — and nobody wore a paper-doll bathing suit in quite the same curvy way.

Wonder Man, at left, is — let us say — something of a long lost brother (how very DC comics!)

Actually the man with the gold lasso is illustrator Glen Hanson’s fantasy homage to the Lynda Carter Wonder Woman TV show he grew up on.

“From the age of 10, I was totally obsessed with Wonder Woman.” Glen told us when we interviewed him a year ago. (more…)

Ah, to be a pole dancer in a strip club! (like Elizabeth Berkley in the fabled pussy extravaganza Showgirls, at right)

That is the simple wish of so many of us! — including a chubby young lady who comes on stage in Jerry Springer — The Opera and tells Jerry that all she ever wanted to be was a whorey stripper swirling around a pole in a glitter G-string.

“I don’t give a fuck no more,” she tells the onstage Springer audience, who are trying to shout her down with chants of “Loser! Loser!” “I’m tired of laughing and I’m tired of crying. I’m tired of feeling and I’m tired of always trying. I want to do some living because I’ve done enough of dying. I just want to dance, I just want to …fucking dance!”

The longing that Alison Jiear expresses in the song is quite touching and one of the opera’s suite of showstoppers (which also includes “Chick with a Dick” and a wife-stealing tranny shaking her stuff in wifey’s face as she brings down the house with “Talk to the Hand, Bitch.”)

Jerry Springer — The Opera comes from — where else, other than Japan, would they get this loopy over American junk TV? — England, home of Masterpiece Theater! The opus is set to land on our Puritan shores any minute now, but if you can’t wait and don’t want to shell out the big bucks for an import CD, staring David Soul (from Starsky and Hutch, yet!) as a very convincing Jerry, then… (more…)

Why has Madonna lasted so long? Even now, in her decline, she is more interesting than the various young blonde updates that were supposed to replace her.

Yvan, a French Canadian writer, looks into his crystal ball at Madonna’s past and discovers her magic charm. Madonna, you see, is an Artist, with a capital A.

Trained and molded by the New York art scene during her scruffy bar-band days, Madonna made herself into an art object, a fiction, a canny, post-Warhol Marilyn Monroe.

“Britney Spears,” lamented Interview magazine editor Ingrid Sischy, “looks like a mall rat when she’s not doing one of her videos.” This prompted culture gadfly Camille Paglia to observe: “It shows the gigantic gap between Britney and Madonna, who has always had a superb instinct for the still photograph. Madonna’s career is much more than dance music and sensational videos. It’s also a phenomenal series of still images.”

Such as the one at left, from Sex, Madonna’s first and mercifully not-for-children foray into publishing. The ass, so the legend goes, belonged to none other than Joey Stefano, whom Nightcharm calls the greatest bottom that ever lived. (UPDATE: Our readers contend the lovely bubble butt belongs to Tony Ward, a Madonna boytoy who appeared in her videos. See comments below.) (more…)

It was one of those ultra supreme American Idol moments last night. So cruel, so surprising, so whacked out — Paula’s face buried in her hands. Simon’s anger clamping his sphincter as tight as a vise. You could almost call it Greek-mythic. “America voted,” and Ryan Seacrest delivered the result in a nonchalant trice: The fatal pronouncement, like a trapdoor deathblow, melted Chris Daugherty’s face right on the spot — so much so my heart actually sank for him.

But then I felt great.

Buh-bye Chris — pictured here with Morticia Addams Priscilla Presley as she welcomes the one-note Creed knockoff to her Hall of Irrelevance. Cue the haunted house sonics. Especially that effect of a large door slamming shut.

When my boyfriend mentioned that Chris shouldn’t have talked about his underwear on Elvis night, I thought he was joking. On second thought, he’s probably right.

I mean, Tuesday night was the first time in a while I was starting to warm to Chris — his performance of Suspicious Minds was understated and believable. Almost charming. But who’da thunk some boxer-brief chitchat would freak out his straight-guy fanbase to such a degree? Was it too “gay” for them? Or maybe it was too vulgar a confession for his Christ-O-Rama constituents? Not to worry. I’m sure Chris will be announced as the new lead singer for Fuel next week. (more…)

Let’s consider some of our favorite things about 70s gay porn. And we’re not talking about the acid-wash jeans, masses of unruly hair or calf-hugging tube socks. No, we want to celebrate the dramatic moments. The surprise epiphanies — those clumsy bits of cinema magic when those oh-so-latent gay boys became full-blown gay men.

70’s porn worked extra hard on the narrative. There was the sports massage, the medical exam — situations that welcomed any excuse for a full body rub down, and someone’s tongue inevitably replacing a hand or stethoscope.

Or you would have the horny tailor who couldn’t control himself while taking that awkward crotch measurement during the groom-to-be’s fitting — and ended up deep-throating his way to a wedding invite. (more…)