Gay New York

Dear Biddy B by


Our girl Biddy B aka the magnificent photographer, filmmaker and wit James Bidgood – is back this week to tackle two problems, one of etiquette and the other of sexual appetites. Have a problem that needs a-solvin’? Send it in to and we’ll get you an answer!

Hi Biddy B,

My little niece wants to be a movie star badly and wants to move to, of course, Hollywood. I know a bit about the business, but in today’s world of show business even the Disney kids know how to work a stripper pole. I’m worried that her desperation will lead her down a wrong road as, sorry sis, she’s not that bright. What should I tell her and how should I advise her?


A Worried Uncle

Dear Worried Uncle,

Well, Dahling, whatever council you impart, your niece will no doubt do exactly the opposite and so were I you, I would help her make ready for transport and pay her bus fare making sure to caution her that no matter how dire her circumstances she must never join an order of nuns! And much the same as warning the heedless ingénue in a horror film “Do not go down to the basement!”—– she will soon be shaved bald wearing a shapeless frock and taking her vows whilst no doubt being scrutinized by some mustached Hope Emerson type Mother Superior who, Dahling, were she to don a wife beater and lose the hat would make for an excellent bull dyke! I have for some time been made to wonder the following—when exactly did Jesus propose such a union and might I using similarly flimsy justification be married to Tom Cruise? Is Jesus aware he has become a bigamist— many times over—and who pays for the ring!

I see that my personal secretary, Mrs. Hortense Blatourbotum, is signaling spastically for me to move on—unless of course she is suffering an epileptic seizure. I have the tiniest chuckle to share with you Dahling——Mrs. Blatourbotum being only recently in my employ was cause for my dearest and I might add most meddlesome friend, Miss Winifred Scruggs, to favor me with a visit this past afternoon and upon noticing an unfamiliar face inquired “Is this Hortense?” “Every morning” I replied, “until she’s greased to the gills!” Mrs Blatourbotum I have discovered needs no hair of the dog—she requires the hounds entire coat! However, owing to my own penchant for spirituous libation—-I try not to be too judgmental.

And there you are Dahling, in like fashion perhaps you should consider what you would do or did when you were the subject of similar concern—when you first ventured forth to be whatever it is you’ve become. Did you heed the advice of those a generation beyond your own— or generations whichever they admitted to at the time.

With reference to pole or even lap dancing, I see very little different in the gyrations of a Beyoncé or a Jay lo, other than the missing pole or lap. Most popular female vocalists today seem hell bent on sending all those legitimate ecdysiasts to the welfare state. Since the 1940s when bobby-soxers first screamed and became quite moist over the then, young Blue Eyes —-teenyboppers have fashioned themselves after those super stars they idolize and bear in mind that today the Patti Pages teenagers wish to emulate are generally the likes of “Our Lady of the Labia Lips” Miss Britney Spears or Miss Lindsay the Lohah, whose brilliance as an actress has been displayed in such stellar cinematic achievements as Parent Trap the remake (I am told she was every bit as good as Hayley Mills)– soon to be followed by Freaky Friday : Herbie, Fully Loaded: Labor Pains and I Know Who Killed Me! Yes, well Dahling we all know that much. Little Margaret O’Brien and Dahling Peggy Ann Garner must be spinning like Dreidels! A great number of popular actresses and singers talents currently appear to be measured in costume malfunctions, shortness of sentences served and number of drug rehabilitations.

As I see it a professional whore is at least not a hypocrite. They fuck clients for a living—which somehow seems, if less ambitious, certainly more honorable than fucking an audience of thousands all at same time! However, honor appears to have little to do with much of anything in this millennium, certainly anything relating to success in the show business.

Mrs. Blatourbotum—you are careening again and precariously close to my collection of Hummel figurines!

The acceptance of such brazen behavior— no Mrs. Blatourbotum, I am not “chewing you out!” or “giving you a tongue lashing!” either of which I hasten to add would be more the equivalent of self-flagellation! Where was I?— such broadmindedness would seem to indicate that what might have been a very wrong road in the past may presently be a highway to the stars A scandal such as that which destroyed Miss Ingrid Bergman’s career, these days would seem to guarantee you your own television series or at the very least, a best selling novel, which if you are an illiterate, a ghost person will, for a chunk of the action, pen for you.

We are all of us from the day we are born pioneers exploring, finding our way, choosing the paths we will travel that will one day make up our lifetime. No one ever knows, albeit successful, if the path they choose was the right one. The only thing for sure and for certain is there are no absolutes in life, only surprises. The brightest light in a family may quickly burn itself out, while the dimmer one continues to glow softly, illuminating its surround if only as much as a foot candle or two.

The Ziegfeld Girl and Janet Gaynor in A Star is Born determined my journey. Like your niece, Miss Gaynor longed to be a movie star. Granny paid her bus fare to Hollywood. My momsy purchased the greyhound ticket that carried me eastward. I wanted desperately to be on Broadway. Well, Dahling, didn’t we all?

Mrs. Blatourbotum! Would you be kind enough to explain why you are lavishing the Air Wick on so grotesque an area to be in want of air neutralization? I find I have no regrets to speak of, well other than Mrs Blatourbotum, Dahling, and as I have recorded here in previous entries, I was myself a somewhat randy and rakish youngster and yet I have I think turned out if not decently, well enough and I am almost certain I was a pole dancer somewhere along the way. No, Mrs. Blatourbotum, you did not catch my act at a Moroccan Village and furthermore —-the next time you use the loo— bloomers are meant to be worn under the uniform and at no time over it!

Well, dear friends the yearly attempted genocide of the turkey bird has past but despair not—more such gluttonous festivities and animal sacrifices celebrating the birth of a man of abstinence, await you! Good luck with that! Make haste New Year and if it is not asking too much, be somewhat more bountiful than your predecessor? And thank you, whoever you may be for so generously allowing me to bend your ear. What a lovely gift the sharing of time can be. Till next month then, Biddy B.

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