When it comes to following hot Broadway performers, Off-Broadway actors and chorus boys, I wouldn't say I'm the most dedicated, but I'm one of the most literal—in fact, I tend to run into them on the street and say hello. [Most of the time, they're thrilled to be recognized and briefly chatted up by a fan, though one luscious blond(ish) boy has looked at me like I'm wearing a vest littered with bubonic plague-laced needles.]
My own Instagram is filled with sexy men about town, and probably a decent number of them are buff theater boys, sure to please all you theater buffs.
With innovations like Instagram, Facebook and Twitter, you don't even have to leave your home to ogle men who were—let's face it—born to be ogled.
Without further adieu, and in no particular order, here are just a few of the nonsensically beautiful, occasionally ecstatically exhibitionistic men of the theater who you may want to get social with real fast...
I went to one of the most riotously mismanaged press events ever Monday night—and that's saying a lot, considering I've been to hundreds over the past 15+ years, from rinky-dink teen parties to massive, mainstream clusterfucks. But oddly, as horrible as the press part was, the event it preceded went off without a hitch. In fact, the event—Lady Gaga's much-ballyhooed artRave—was really a blast, and would've been even more so had I not been having a bad age day and if I were more in love than in hate with her new record, ARTPOP.
I don't want anyone's "fucking throne" any more than Gaga, but I do expect to be treated respectfully, which was not on the menu.
Hear me out, Monsters, before sending me GRID-infected needles in the mail—and then if you're still not satisfied, hold your venom and just use me for the great pictures.
First, all press needed to arrive by 4:15PM at E. 35th and FDR to board a ferry, which would take us to the secret location, the Brooklyn Navy Yard. This meant it would be a torturously long evening, considering the party was starting at 9PM and rumor had it Gaga was going on around 1AM. But I showed up on time, only to find a gaggle of creatively attired Little Monsters cheerfully lined up on the pier, all hoping their chic sassiness would get them into the party, even without invitations. They were pretty adorable, but like gremlins, do not add water or all hell breaks loose. (I later heard zero fans were allowed into the event, only those with tickets, so it seems inhumane not to have rewarded at least the ones camped out and dressed up.)
The first harrumph came when I checked in, only to be told the PRs had no idea I was going to cover the red carpet, so they couldn't accommodate me. Uh, the event was structured as a press conference, tour of the space, red carpet and then party. Why on earth would I cover everything but the carpet? "I'll try to accommodate you, but it's very full," my contact said, unconcerned. Okay.
Gaga is the first woman with a case of blue balls.
Ferried over, having to listen to some of the photographers being assholes (they're not all assholes, far from it, but they're like the dwarves in Lord of the Rings—very clannish). One woman always acts like Queen of the Event Photogs, relaying info to us like she's our union rep. Unnecessary and presumptuous.
I'm so glad this is not my living. I give much respect to my sweet pal, who was with me but who shall remain nameless so as not to jeopardize his standing in said clan, who manages to do his job without being a jerk and without letting it drive him nuts. (He's nuts for different reasons.)
Tuesday, February 14, is LGBT night at Priscilla Queen of the Desert on Broadway. You can purchase tickets at special prizes ($77 orch/front mezz, $60 rear mezz, $43 balcony—regularly $52-$127) and you'll get a comped drink at the Ritz Bar (369 W. 46th St.) between 5:30PM and 6:45PM on the day of the show. You can get tix at Ticketmaster.com or at (877) 250-2929 using the code PQDVDAY or by printing this page and taking it to The Palace Theatre b.o. at 1564 Broadway (between W. 46th and W. 47th).
On top of all that (hopefully, right???) there's Nick Adams...and as you can see from the image above, you can get a shot at being his Valentine. Good luck!
As of midnight last night, it was exactly six years since my first post. It's been a tough thing to keep up with a dayjob and outside activities, and just when I think I might walk away, a valuable connection or interesting opportunity or a kind word comes my way. Thank you all for reading me.
***PLEASE CLUE ME IN ON NAMES OF ANY UNIDENTIFIED DANCERS***
Last night was the twenty-first annual edition of Broadway Bares and the fourth one in a row I've attended. Broadway Bares XXI: Masterpiece! snuck up on me; as I was watching it, I was thinking it wasn't my favorite. However, looking back at pictures and videos, it's obvious that there were some stunning numbers in spite of some pretty cringe-worthy humor interludes. In fact, the full-length musicals in which the night's dancers are currently performing should take notes.
The David? How about The Brandon! (Rubendall)
We arrived at Roseland to get in line around 9:30PM, so would have our pick of spots once the show let us in two hours later. Jason and I ran into a bunch of his friends, including Clark Kent, "Hey, Jude," and someone who once dated with Truth Wins Out good-fighter Wayne Besen (I guess his ex-, just not an ex-gay). There was a Bares virgin among us (sounds like a Treasure Media title), but the rest of us knew what to expect inside—skin, bawdy humor and opportunities to slip green into pink and/or brown. (Sidebar: Not just saying that—this year's Bares felt remarkably more racially diverse than past installments.)
Let's just look at Rotation here instead of at the end
Just past 11:30PM and after the 9:30PM show's patrons had spilled into the streets looking keyed up and, well, drunk, we filed in and beelined to the far side of the middle runway. I was pleased to be right at the stage, yet I'd later realize my "less good" position in previous years had actually been more desirable—I was so close it was tougher to take pictures and, at times, see thanks to the very sweet but confoundingly non-transparent guy in front of me. Making conversation as a go-go boy doled out ones in exchange for twenties, he asked me if I liked that the dancer was wearing a cock ring.
The sea of horny homos looked like Grindr come to life; I didn't check it inside, but I imagine the first 50 guys on my screen would have been 0 feet away.
Keegan Albrecht paints "Come back to Broadway Bares, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean"
The place was teeming with celebrities along with testosterone, including Wilson Cruz (in my group yet too far for me to chat with), John Benjamin Hickey, Nick Adams, BearCity's Joe Conti, entertainer nonpareil Scott Nevins, Jack Plotnick, Jonathan D. Lovitz and probably more.
While waiting for things to begin, we were treated to watching a cute artiste (Keegan Albrecht) painting an image of James Dean, but it was just as fun watching the pre-show T-shirt vendors attempting to steal the dancers' thunder by baring their buns for a determinedly devoted crew at the end of the middle runway.
With thanks to Donald: Nick Adams, Jacqueline B. Arnold, Anastacia McCleskey and Ashley Spencer belt out "Like a Prayer" at the Barnes & Noble signing for the original cast recording of Priscilla Queen of the Desert...
I finally saw Priscilla Queen of the Desert, and while I am tempted to say it's a good thing it's got such a big cast 'cuz it's broken, I decided to approach my post on it in a different way. I think of this show as more of a Vegas-style revue than a Broadway musical, very much in the style of the far worse Mamma Mia!, so instead of "reviewing" it in a highly structured way and going all guns blazing, I'm just going to "revue" it:
Probably Tony nominee Tony Sheldon has just the right mix of ladylike allure and hardened showbiz trouperism as Bernadette, so memorably played in the film by Terence Stamp.
As uberflouncy Adam/Felicia, Nick Adams has a body that would make all those "no femmes!" guys think twice, and is indefatigable in his efforts to wring laughs out of every line he's given.
Luke Mannikus as Tick/Mitzi's son Benji is adorable! The show is bogged down by cheap sentiment, but still...there is no beating an aw-shucks cute kid.
Madonna should make some money from the use of some of her songs, as should some other cool artists, like Cyndi Lauper and Pat Benatar.
And best of all, Keala Settle as grizzled Shirley (in a scene that more than passingly reminded me of "Mr. Cellophane" from Chicago) and J. Elaine Marcos as "mail-order bride" Cynthia are phenomenally funny, taking tiny roles and making them not only entertaining but fresh. To put this into perspective—two real women managed to upstage a posse of men in drag.