Joy Behar hits the nail on the head in her response to Elisabeth Hasselbeck's meltdown over Rosie O'Donnell negotiating a return to The View. I just wish she'd hit Hasselbeck on the head instead, don't you?

Whoopi's response (prior to the O'Donnell confirmation) was reminsicent of “Elaine Benes” complaining about everyone's excitement over catfights.

GLAAD's Rich Ferraro has consistently invited me to his organization's events and I've consistently declined; I officially cover so many events for my dayjob and unofficially cover so many events on my blog for fun that my thought has been I don't really need to hyperextend myself by marrying the two and officially covering an event for my blog.

Gays & thespians: Honoree Nixon with Prayers for Bobby's Weaver

But The 21st Annual GLAAD Media Awards were honoring Cynthia Nixon and Joy Behar (two of my favorite redheads—the red carpet was truly red/orange...it was a Night of 1,000 Gingers) so I made it my first red carpet, quickly discovering that doing an event with no boss to please and nothing to lose and yet having orchestrated access to the main attractions can wind up being the best of both worlds—officially fun.

From where I stood 

I arrived around 3PM for press check-in. There was a crush of people and the nice lady at the desk wasn't; I asked where to go and she said up the escalator, which isn't really that descriptive considering I was in the Marriott Marquis in Times Square (a place I was at on 9/10/01, and where I discussed going to the World Trade Center the following day to get TKTS tickets for a show...something that never panned out, obviously). I went up, as commanded, but couldn't figure out where to go next. I was pointed in many directions, finally landing on the third floor. (You'll see from the photos that I was much even more disheveled and droopy than usual.)

All my B-roll footage:

Here, I found my spot on the line—right toward the end. Red carpets are like the social caste system made manifest, or like a literal food chain. On the latter, I would be the seeds the birds poop out to keep the plants growing. To make it less metaphorical, I was two slots behind something called Autostraddle.com, which I refuse to look up because it sounds like one of those mechanical dildo sites. (I broke down and looked it up—it's a kinda great lesbian site with lots of traffic.)

But it turns out my spot wasn't so bad (considering I'm just some guy with a blog) because most of the stars were rather available and those who weren't were stopping to my left to do stuff with GLAAD. At first, I was right next to Ben Harvey and Dave Rubin of Ben & Dave's Six Pack (pictured, image from Metrosource). They were also covering for Queerty, though I wondered if they might not get less frozen reactions if they left the Queerty part out (I still link to Queerty, but I think it's fair to describe it as somewhat caustic). They were cute and as nice as can be; I point this out because the act of having a six-pack makes people gushingly nice, but the act of having six-pack abs usually does the opposite. They were professional and hot, the types of guys you wouldn't hate being stuck on a crowded elevator with, so I hoped they'd help attract stars, Suddenly Last Summer-style.

Samara puts the Reichen Lehmkuhls on the spot 

"Nobody knows who Debbie Reynolds is."—Debbie Reynolds

When José suggested we consider seeing Debbie Reynolds at Café Carlyle—apparently her first  Manhattan engagement in over 25 years in spite of a busy schedule of nightclub appearances—it was a no-brainer. It's not as if we have a Debbie poster in our living room and know everything there is to know about her, but she's one of the last of the legends from Hollywood's Golden Era (if she'd never done anything else but Singin' in the Rain, that would have been enough) and one of the last of the vaudeville-type stage stars who's still in good working condition. Plus she was a highlight of Will & Grace—what would have stopped us?

The late Bobby Short is memorialized in the Carlyle's lobby.

We'd never been to the Carlyle, but figured springing for the VIP seats would not break us if we were already committing to a menu  with $25 apps. We arrived at 6:30 and were promptly seated directly next to the teeny-tiny stage. The room is only a 70-seater, so it was quite cozy. This is where Woody Allen still religiously plays, and it definitely has a jazzy air to it, what little air there is in this breakfast nook of a New York institution. 

 

The captain and waiters were as austere as the room, but in a New Yawk way; this is not a place for European royalty, but for guys and dolls who've made their fortunes working hard and then wheeling and dealing. They are facelifted and be-suited, jeweled and jaded, but they know what's what and were not about to blush in spite of Debbie's reputation as a somewhat bawdy old dame.

She's still here!