They laughed their asses off—but will she lose her seat?

Michele Bachmann laughed at by audience during debate.

Huckabee strongly implies: Vote for Obama, go to hell.

The Burtka-Harrises really know how to celebrate Halloween!

Gaga is the "G.U.Y. (Girl Under You)".

UAW: Romney violated ethics, profited from auto bailout.

Patrick Murphy endorsed by Allen West's primary opponent.

New Yorkers Dumpster-diving.

Michigan: Remember what Romney said, what Obama did.

Romney: Disaster relief like cleaning a football field.

Fire Island devastated by Sandy.

Dean Geyer makes love to has sex with the camera.

Making the camera his bitch

He became, he saw, he conquered

As a kid, I discovered a '60s and '70s book series called Whatever Became Of...? by Richard Lamparski. If you've never read them, they each contain about 100 interviews with celebrities of yesteryear, meaning 20 to 50 years prior to their publication. As such, they work as introductions (if you've never heard of Virginia Field or Randolph Scott), reminiscences (if you have) and also, I would argue, as a treatise on the gay man as pop cultural voyeur.

The books sprang from a radio show, and created for Lamparski a long, illustrious career as a connoisseur of has-beens—all of whom could be proud not to have been never-weres.

Lamparski's were seminal books in my life, and influential to the point that I recently found myself asking, "Whatever became of...Richard Lamparski?"

After some Internet sleuthing, I found he was alive and living in Santa Barbara, where I was able to call him for a fascinating if  lengthy (you were warned!) chat the day before his eightieth birthday about his early life, his unforgettable books and his adventures as a fame tourist...

Many thanks to John, a reliable sender of all things Boy Culture-worthy, for sending me a link to an auction on eBay for this original press photo...of me! This was taken at the Madonnathon in Detroit in 1992. It was a truly fun and exciting event that occurred just before the Sex era ushered in more Madonna hatred than you can shake a stick at. Loving my thick, post-Reagan Reagan hair. I'm so flattered that this photo was snapped up by an enthusiastic buyer. (Yes, myself.)

All rise!

Michigan should probably be grateful it has at least one non-obese citizen (I'm from there—I can say it!), but instead there's a big brouhaha brewing over the fact that Wayne County Circuit Judge Wade McCree sent a shirtless self-pic to some co-workers.

Well, probably it was not a good idea to send this to government employees he works with, and his excuse—that he sent it with "no ill will" to people who are impressed with his physique after he ran a half-marathon—is about as credible as a plea of  "I'm innocent!" on Death Row. I mean, that is a hook-up photo.

The judge's pal Bernie Pavone claims they have a "who's fitter?" thing going between them. I'd like to be the judge of that.

But anyway, I hope he'll weather the storm because it's hardly the end of the world and I hate that this came to light only because a jealous hubby found it on his wife's cell. Why not just confront your wife and the judge privately? Did he have to make a federal case of it?

Mitt Romney has all of John Kerry's worst traits and none of his best ones. And not even any of the so-so ones. Here, he claims to remember an event that occurred nine months before he was born.

This is the level at which Republicans think. This racist ad ran during the Super Bowl. Whoever this actress is (she can't even pretend to speak broken English well), she should be ashamed...

Loving these Michigan moms who are lesbians and aren't afraid to "shove it down the throat" (aka, be seen in public and acknowledge that they're married) of Troy's homophobic Mayor Janice Daniels...

Genny (of Genesee Bank) was the mascot for my local bank in the late '70s/early '80s. She was the automatic "teller," but I never realized until now how insanely robotic her likeness was as well! This was from the days when it was supercool that you could put your deposits into cylinders and have them inhaled by gigantic structures and spit out inside the bank—without ever leaving your car!

When I was in first or second grade, a girl who was not the most popular (her last name was the source of much ribbing) asked me to her birthday party. I was not the most popular myself, so I totally would've gone, but she had only given a day's notice so I couldn't.

After the party day, she asked me where I'd been and I told her I just wasn't able to go, to which she replied, "Nobody came."

This has haunted me ever since; it was one of those moments when you feel you understand something new about the human condition (what it is to be rejected), something you won't have to learn again.

Over the years, we went to all the same schools and the same church; we eventually graduated together. She was an optimistic and unfailingly nice person with similarly kind parents.

We reunited, superficially, on Facebook. Over the past year, I noticed she'd had some health issues, but was still surprised to read she died last week. Her last comment on Facebook was something cheerful on someone's picture of their kid.

I really wish I would've been able to go to her birthday party that time.

That's me, nervously chewing my lips, back in '92 at the first—and best—Madonnathon convention, held in Detroit. See the whole original MTV report right here.

I remember this moment—I was wearing a cool T-shirt entitled "Madonna's cat," which was drawn by a quadriplegic artist with his mouth, I believe, and was asked by MTV if they could film it. I had no clue they were filming my face, hence my unguarded, non-smiling status.