I don't even like Harvey Fierstein. How many creepy, gay, self-absorbed Heebs does the world need to fill its quota? I was creeped out by him when I was little, and still am to some extent. I could not sit through the Torch Song Trilogy, and even Celluloid Closet got irritating when he showed up, and I am as much of a sucker for queer cinema as the next lonely, liberal straight chick. He is the kind of Jew I really can't stand ( or one of the myriad), one of those lapsed Jewish types who exists soley on the labels that birth and chromosomes have slapped on him. So talking like Harvey Fierstein all weekend through no choice of my own, but of a virus that seems to be limited to my throat, has not been ideal. Any of my own laughter creeps me out.
But I did find a dress for turnabout that doesn't make me look like a pillow from Pottery Barn Teens. And I always have John Leguizamo to be my Sugar Daddy, my Sugar Pimp. Sugar Daddy, by Yerba Buena is a worthy iTunes purchase.