Your 10th annual "farewell tour" is ending soon, your daughter wants to be a man and your much younger rough trade boyfriend du jour has stopped calling -- what's a diva to do?  SHOOT A SITCOM, OF COURSE!

Join superstar Cher and her little girl -- who grew up to be a big man -- as they romp their way through a laugh track-enhanced series of wacky situations and kooky misunderstandings!  Not since "The Odd Couple" or "The Patty Duke Show" have two seemingly polar opposites made audiences shake their heads in confusion and disbelief!  If only Cher's diminutive ex, Chaz's daddy Sonny, were around to help them figure it all out, right?  Well, just wait for Part Two and  prepare to be underwhelmed by special effects that would put a 35 year-old episode of "Bewitched" to shame!

Executive produced by legendary funny lady ROSEANNE BARR, "Cher & Chaz!" is just the first in an exciting series of pop culture parodies starring world-famous drag superstar JACKIE BEAT and actress/comedians NADYA GINSBURG & SELENE LUNA.  The tongue-in-cheek trio was last seen in director Lawrence Elbert's corn syrup commercial spoofs and he returns once again to guide the shameless shennanigans!  Tune in every week for a new video!  And yes, Roseanne will be making an appearance!

To celebrate the DVD release of the Beyonce thriller “Obsessed”, I thought I would share with you a few things with which I am -- you guessed it! -- currently obsessed.  Um, by the way, you know I’m just joking about celebrating the release of anything by Beyonce, right?  Okay, just checking.  Now onto my obsessions...

THE VELVET RAGE: What does it mean when a friend gives you a book that explains why you are such a needy, damaged queen starving for constant validation?  It means they love you, faggot!  I enjoy nothing more than poring over a good self-help book while soaking in a hot bath, and this one clocked me before the water got tepid, gurl!  We gay men love to think that we’re all so unique and complicated, but it turns out that we are, in fact, classic textbook examples of tragic homosexuality.  Be honest, even while reading that last sentence you thought, “Not me, Jackie!”  Oh yes, YOU!  Trust me, read this book and you will start to understand why you do the crazy shit that you do.  What exactly do I mean by crazy?  Well, let’s just say that there’s this drag queen and she’s supremely talented and funny.  I know, I know -- that is rarely the case with men who dress up like rodeo clown/whores, but just for the sake of this FICTIONAL story, this gal’s really got it, okay?  So, all day, every day, people send her emails, Facebook and MySpace messages and comments telling her how great she is.  At night she does shows and the audience members laugh and clap and tip and sometimes even give her a standing ovation.  After the show they say, “I love you!” and buy her CDs and ask for her autograph and pose for pictures with her.  The pleasure from all of this validation lasts about 3 seconds.  But the one bitter drunk person who says something snotty or mean?  That lasts about 3 days.  And it wrecks her.  Again, this is simply a fabricated, completely made-up story to help illustrate how difficult it is for gay men to grow up in a straight world.  I realize that the last thing you probably read was the ingredients on the wrapper of a meal replacement bar, but If you don’t read this book I will read you to filth!  Uh oh, I’m raging.

GOBI:  When I walk into a new restaurant that is clean and stylish and serves delicious and affordable food, I really want that place to succeed!  I cannot help but think of how much work and money -- not to mention blood, sweat and tears -- must have gone into opening the place and I kind of feel it my responsibility to, through word of mouth, help spread the news.  In this economy, the odds of succeeding certainly seem to be against the entrepreneurs -- especially if the eatery is in what most WeHo queens would call “The Far East”.  That’s right, it’s in Silverlake, so get your passport and your shots and hop in your car, bitch.  Hey, you can listen to Lady Gaga for the entire trip, flirt with rough trade at red lights and before you know it, you’ll be there.  And once you are there you will love it, trust me!  Gobi serves Mongolian BBQ and it’s super yummy and very healthy.  What?  You’re not going to take diet and nutrition tips from a chunky yo-yo dieting crossdresser?  Fair enough, but it is quite tasty!  If you have never had Mongolian BBQ, here’s how it works...  You choose your protein (no, we are not back at the red light with the rough trade, slut!) such as chicken, beef, lamb, pork or tofu.  The meats are thin curled frozen slices and you want to smoosh them down to make room for your veggies.  I do this by literally smashing another bowl on top of my frozen meat and flattening it.  Don’t be shy, everything that goes on the huge communal Mongolian grill is going to shrink like a nervous teenage boy in a cold swimming pool.  Okay, so now your meat is flattened and you can proceed to go hog wild and start piling on your choice of mushrooms, water chestnuts, bamboo shoots, onions, scallions, zucchini, tomatoes, bean sprouts, broccoli, etc.  You can also add some precooked whole wheat noodles if you are not completely carb phobic -- in other words, if you’re a bear.  And, as if that wasn’t enough, you can drizzle your towering bowl of food with flavorful additions such as Asian pesto, lemon mint, fresh garlic, chili oil, chopped ginger, etc.  Then you hand the embarrassingly huge mountain of grub to the chef who throws it on the big hot circular grill and moves it around with a scary stick and then scoops the now-about-half-its-original-size pile of stir-fried goodness back into your bowl where upon you may now opt to add a splash of soy sauce or a sprinkle of sesame seeds.  Add a pomegranate green tea and a basket of complimentary warm sesame rolls and/or rice (again, for bears only!) and you have one hell of a good lunch or dinner that seems custom-made to help soothe your simmering velvet rage.  Gobi Mongolian BBQ House: 2827 W. Sunset Blvd., Tues thru Sun, 11 AM to 11 PM.

(NOTE: THIS IS ANOTHER "OLDIE" I NEVER POSTED!)  You know how life is full of delightfully scatological metaphors -- poopy little pearls of wisdom worthy of little more than maybe a bumper sticker?  Sayings like, “shit happens” and “the shit hit the fan” and “shit storm”?  Well, I have learned that as long as these remain merely metaphors, one should indeed count themselves lucky.  VERY LUCKY!  I am back in Provincetown, selling my soul in $20 increments to tourists and circuit queens, and the phrase “shit storm” just became a reality for moi!  Provincetown, or P-Town as it is often called (because it takes so darn long to say the full name?), is very laid back.  A little too laid back if you ask me -- and I assume if you are reading this then, for all intents and purposes, you are essentially asking me, right?  Perhaps the P stands for Procrastinate -- as in “Let’s take our sweet time dealing with and/or replacing the outdated plumbing in this vacation town filled to capacity with gluttonous Americans eating and drinking like there’s no tomorrow!”  It’s possible, but I am pretty sure the P simply stands for “poop”!  And no, I am not talking about some of the shitty drag that tries to pass for entertainment out here.  I am talking about good old-fashioned, genuine, bona fide human feces.

Listen, you are dealing with a bitter, middle-aged (that is, if I am fortunate enough to live to 90!) drag queen who can cop an attitude when it’s time to do her world-famous makeup in a 4-star hotel suite.  Can you imagine the huffing and puffing and eye-rolling that takes place when I have to do it in the bedroom of an outdated shack the locals lovingly refer to as “the crack house”?  But you know what?  I told myself this year I would not complain -- no mater what happened!  I chose to be here again this summer, based on the obscene amount of money I raked in last year, and as such, I vowed to plaster a smile on my face no matter what!  Little did I know that fake smile would quickly be replaced by a shit-eating grin.  When you announce to God -- or Fate or Whatever -- that you are not going to get upset no matter what, I think He or It or Whatever takes that as a personal challenge.  “Oh really!?  How about I wake you up with the loud, geyser-like eruptions of the toilet in your bathroom?  What if I had it literally explode, sending stomach-turning raw sewage flooding everywhere?  Still smiling, bitch!?”  What I just described is exactly what happened.  Considering this to be an emergency, I quickly called my employers -- who also happen to be the owners of “Case de Crack”.  I was told that the entire town was backed up and that first floor toilets all over Poop Town were overflowing.  Relax.  It’s not just your bathroom, Jackie.  God, what a diva!

This bathroom, although just a toilet and a sink, was my saving grace!  It was the reason I could get in and out of drag without having to climb up the rickety old, super steep stairs to the communal bathroom on the second floor -- the door of which always seems to be closed, signifying that one of my 3 (soon to be FOUR when the cook’s boyfriend arrives in a few days) housemates is inside, doing God knows what!

So, as an enlightened person who is striving to “go with the flow” and “not make waves” -- both very ironic phrases in light of the recent shit storm -- I must stand back and look for the lesson in all of this.  And here is what I have come up with: If I can survive this, I can survive anything!  The next time I am in a 4-star hotel suite with premium cable, a mini bar, coffee maker, spa robe, room service, free wi-fi, comfy King-sized bed, jacuzzi tub, pulsating massage shower and a nice clean toilet that does that feel the need to do an impromptu two-day impersonation of Reagan McNeil from The Exorcist (spitting up Satan’s stinky shit instead of mere pea soup) I shall look around and gratefully say, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

(ANOTHER OLD BLOG - I AM BACK HOME FROM P-TOWN!)

I just saw a commercial featuring everyone’s favorite fast-talking Hetero Bear pitchman extraordinaire, Billy Mays.  Mr. Mays, with his impressive beard and sparkly eyes, was doing what he did best -- selling.  But the burly, beefy Billy was not pushing a citrus-based cleaning product or a miracle putty that can fix broken coffee mug handles or pull an 80,000 pound tractor trailer, he was selling health insurance.  Yes, Billy was waxing poetic about iCan Health, an insurance company that obviously recognized the overwhelming popularity of iPods -- not to mention President Obama.  How could you pass up iCan, with its modern and techy lower-case “i” and its positive “anything-is-possible, even affordable healthcare in America” message?  Well, when a dead man is telling you about it, sadly, all that market research and spin goes flying out the window like the personal belongings of a cheating husband in the lyrics of a country song.

Yes, Michael Jackson’s death was a shock, but mainly because he was so damn famous, not because he was so damn young.  The man was a stick-thin, frail shadow of his former self.  Deep down inside, no one was really shocked when they got that disturbingly excited text message from a friend that read, “Michael Jackson died!”  And everyone’s favorite angel, Farrah Fawcett?  Again, even with that stunning image of her gleeming white teeth, tossled mane of golden hair and those non-threatening nipples burned into our collective pop culture retinas, it was no shock to hear that she had finally crossed over and was at peace.  After all, her courageous battle with cancer was no secret to anyone.  But Billy Mays?  That energetic, uber-positive, healthy-as-a-horse man next door that we welcomed into our homes late at night via those strangely-comforting commercials?  Now THAT was a shock!  It’s that kind of death that really pulls the rug out from under us all, a brutal reminder that life is indeed random and oh-so-fragile.

So what’s my point?  I don’t know.  My birthday is in a few days and I am going to be just a few years shy of that scary number printed following the comma after Michael Jackson and Billy May’s names a few weeks ago in so many newspapers and magazines.  I distinctly remember as a child figuring out how old I would be when the year 2000 rolled around.  I thought for sure I would be dead by then!  Kids.  And here I am, 9 years later, not only still alive but in many ways feeling like I am still but a child.  I can honestly say that I know nothing.  NOTHING!  The only true wisdom that age brings is knowing that everything you thought you knew, you didn’t.  Things you thought mattered, don’t.  Things you thought were important, aren’t.  All that matters is friendship and fun and love.  And keep in mind, you are talking to someone who still stresses out about every little thing.  But in these rare moments of clarity, I must tell the truth.  And the truth is that it could all end five minutes from now, so get the fuck over yourself and enjoy life.

And so even though I am thousands of miles away from my precious dogs and my fabulous friends, I say: Happy birthday to me!

I love coffee! And I find it very hard to start my day without it. It helps clear away all the clouds and lubricates one’s mind for all the things you have to do, like put on socks and answer emails with more than just a “Fuck you!” So if I cannot manage to do these minor tasks without a cup of joe, can you imagine what it’s like trying to write this column without it! No, I am not on some crazy cleanse, nor did I suddenly become Mormon after performing in Salt Lake City for Gay Pride. The truth is, I cannot have coffee this morning because I am going in for an MRI in a few hours. And I am going in for an MRI in a few hours because I may have a brain tumor. I will let you read that again. After all, how often does one get to type that particular sentence? But this is not just any brain tumor, mind you -- oh no! Of course, I may have a brain tumor that -- are you sitting? -- causes breast tissue to grow! If this was a live show and not merely a column in a magazine, this is the exact moment when the drummer would give us a classic rim shot: badump-bump! Okay, now let me explain because, like most episodes of the new Showtime series Nurse Jackie, it’s not quite as good as you think it’s going to be. I mean, it’s good, just not earth-shattering, you know? See, I went to a doctor to have some bloodwork done. A friend of mine recommended this doctor after he put my friend on testosterone therapy and he started feeling great and dropping weight relatively effortlessly. Since I had been back on my 12-step program for overeating and the weight was coming off at an excruciatingly slow pace, I thought, “Hey, I bet I have low testosterone, too!” Well, it turns out I have VERY low testosterone (I hope you enjoyed all those high notes, you selfish assholes!) and VERY high levels of Prolactin. What is Prolactin you ask? Well, it’s just the hormone that makes boobs grow AND helps in the production of breast milk. And before any tranny-chasing perverts out there start drooling and search for me on Facebook... NO, I AM NOT LACTATING. Anyhoo, where was I? Oh yes, I was talking about the possible reason I have moobs (actually I prefer Gentlemen Jugs or Dude Double D’s, thank-you-very-much!). So the doctor assures me that the elevated Prolactin (is it just me or doesn’t that sound like baby formula made by the fine folks at Gatorade specifically for toddler athletes?) is probably due to some medications I am on. I explain that, other than the occasional Alleve for tranma’s rusty old knee, I am not on any meds. “None?” the doctor asks. “None!” I proudly reply. It turns out that the particular medications that may cause this particular hormone to be produced are, in fact, anti-psychotics. Now there are many out there who would argue that I should indeed be on anti-psychotics, but I am not. If I were, my act would be as boring as most other drag queens out there. Imagine it: No moodswings, no violent outbursts, no maniacal laughter. Sing it with me in your best Joanne Worley: “Boring!” So then the doctor -- over the phone, while waiting for the horsey flight attendant on my trip to Winnipeg to bark at me that it’s time to turn off all electronic devices -- blurts out that since I am not on any anti-psychotic meds that I probably just have a brain tumor and that I should really schedule an MRI as soon as possible. Huh? “Sir, please turn your phone off!” cheerfully demands Flicka through clenched teeth. Okay, if I didn’t need anti-psychotic medication BEFORE, I certainly need it now! So, this morning is my MRI and yes, I am nervous. People, I am a big baby and all I can think of is that scene in The Exorcist when they stick the thing in her neck and it shoots out blood and then they take pictures of her brain while the machine clangs really, really, REALLY loudly! And then, to add insult to injury, they don’t even get one single photo of the demon possessing her soul! Look, the good news is that if there is a tumor on or near my pituitary gland at the base of my brain that is causing my tits to grow, chances are it is benign and will respond to medication. And if there ain’t no tumor, I am just a full-blown freak of nature and medical mystery with the most impressive cleavage in the mens locker room. But you know that no matter what happens, this self-centered bitch will milk it for all it’s worth, honey! Yes, I said “milk it!”

Cavern Club Celebrity Theater

1920 Hyperion Avenue, Los Angeles, California 90027 - $20

"Jackie Beat is a master of her craft, and some day in the far future, her wig should be hoisted to the rafters of the drag queen hall of fame and retired in reverence for her contributions to the field. She mixes all the right elements for great drag -- fantastic makeup and costuming, incredible stage presence and natural talent, a fearless sense of humor, and an endearing ’screw you’ attitude." - Provincetown Magazine

Oh the irony! That review came out just ONE DAY after Miss Beat packed her bags and left P-Town, not unlike a tender young Jewess escaping from the Nazis. And now she’s back in Los Angeles and ready to amuse the jaded and cynical seen-it-all, done-it-all Hollywood crowd. Starved for entertainment, even these eye-rolling, lip-curling texters and Tweeters have to admit that...

JACKIE BEAT is... BETTER THAN NOTHING

Hilarious new songs include Jackie’s homage to her favorite bargain emporium ("99 Cent Only Store" sung to Nena’s "99 Luft Balloons), a dire warning about The Apocalypse ("2012" to Prince’s "1999"), a special message to Chaz Bono ("He/She Chasity" to Cher’s "Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves") and some of her most beloved classics.

THREE SHOWS ONLY! BUY YOUR FUCKING TICKETS NOW, IDIOT! 

www.Acteva.com/Go/JackieBeat

JACKIE BEAT in OKLAHOMA CITY, OK!

More info to come!

Santa Monica, California

MORE INFO TO COME!

San Francisco, California

MORE INFO TO COME! www.TrannyShack.com

San Francisco, California

MORE INFO TO COME! www.folsomstreetfair.org

Salt Lake City, Utah

MORE INFO TO COME!

The Cat Club: 1190 Folsom Street, San Francisco, California 94103-3927

With Heklina and all the ghouls!

www.trannyshack.com, www.catclubsf.com, 415-703-8964

Cavern Club Celebrity Theater

1920 Hyperion Avenue, Los Angeles, California 90027 - $30

This is the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups of campy live theater! Let us explain... Imagine TWO of your very favorite things -- late ’70s/early ’80s porn AND Whatever Happened To Baby Jane? -- violently forced together and then drenched in chocolate!

Okay, so there’s no chocolate, but there is JACKIE BEAT as washed-up porn kitten Busty Jane Hardon, MARIO DIAZ as her wheelchair-bound brother and original "power bottom" Branch Hardon, NADYA GINSBURG as the maid of indeterminate ethnicity, SAM PANCAKE as the flaming faggot next door and a different SURPRISE CELEBRITY GUEST for each show as Jane’s prospective new personal assistant! Hiding away in their black lacquer and Nagle-filled West Hollywood condo, Busty Jane and Branch seem to have stopped their Swatch watches at the peak of their fame and success in the high-gloss, day-glo Eighties.

Living in a delusional and dysfunctional world of faded memories and dusty dreams, the two former sex industry superstar siblings now have only each other to turn to -- and ON. When Branch’s plans to sell their condo throws a wrench into Busty Jane’s big comeback, the broken down has-been loses it... and the New Wave shit hits the fan!

TEN SHOWS ONLY! THIS WILL SELL OUT!

www.Acteva.com/Go/JackieBeat

Rrazz Room at Hotel Nikko

222 Mason Street, San Francisco, California 94102 - $30

www.therrazzroom.com

Cavern Club Celebrity Theater

1920 Hyperion Avenue, Los Angeles, 90027 - $20

TIX: www.acteva.com/go/jackiebeat

Laurie Beechman Theatre

407 W. 42nd Street, New York City, New York 10036

More info to come! www.SpinCycleNYC.com

Perhaps you’ve heard the phrase, “Live by the sword, die by the sword”?  Well, it’s been echoing in my head quite a bit recently.  Obviously, I do not run around checking my lipstick in the polished, mirror-like blade of a Samurai sword, so let me explain what the ominous warning means to me: Make your living by being a negative, mean-spirited bitch and people will be negative and mean-spirited towards you.  Yes, even if you are a highly-intelligent negative and mean-spirited bitch whose mutli-layered button-pushing work is steeped in irony.

You know, for all my bravado, my skin can be suprisingly thin -- and let’s be honest, it’s the only thing about me that is.  For some reason I am finding myself feeling ultra-sensitive lately about every little comment flung my way.  Listen, I understand that when you put yourself out there, you have to take the good with the bad, but it’s really hard to be personally attacked when all you’re trying to do is make people forget their troubles and have a giggle or two.  And coming from someone like myself -- who mercilessly makes fun of everyone, especially gay icons like Madonna and Britney Spears -- it’s really hard to understand.  But let me try to explain...

Here are just a few examples of what has happened lately, that has left me feeling attacked, unsettled and insecure.  Perhaps I can chalk them up to some kind of personal growth, but right now they just feel bad.  First, a simple misunderstanding with a fellow performer and good friend of mine spiraled into a full-blown “I am NEVER talking to you again” feud the likes of which I have not been a part of in well over a decade.  I try to have the attitude that you cannot change people, you have to take them as they are.  But the moment I realize that the bad outweighs the good, it is very easy for to cut that cancer out of my life.  And that’s exactly what I did.  But now there remains a scar and a tenderness where the freindship once was, and I keep questioning whether I made the right decision.  All I can do is take a deep breath and know that if and when the time comes, I can always try to re-connect with this person once the storm has blown over.  There is no rush.  If it is meant to be, the relationship will still be there.  If not, I will survive without it.

Then I was accused of stealing not just the name of a weekly party, but also having the audacity to do it on the very same night of the week and at the very same time.  The promoter/performer who does the same-named event on the East coast, for the summer months only, went so far as to send out a mass email pointing out the offense.  First of all, I may be many things, but short of ideas is not one of them.  Secondly, this particular night is not even my creation -- it has been going on for years and I am merely a monthly special guest.  And finally, the name is nothing original -- having been co-opted from the title of a campy movie starring Elizabeth Berkley.  Google it and you will find that there are MANY drag shows with this particular name.

Then I read a Facebook comment about an upcoming show I am doing in Chicago where someone said, “I am not going to this!  Not after what a bitch she was the last time!”  Um, the last time I was in Chicago I sat down the in the sweltering basement of the club for hours waiting to go on.  When I finally went on -- at close to 2:30 AM -- the sound was horrible and there was barely a light on my face (which I had spent 2 hours painting!).  Then I cheerfully posed for picture and signed autographs with people, many of whom were so drunk and/or high that they could barely speak and/or stand.  Meanwhile, one of the biggest blizzards in Chicago history was brewing outside.  It had been all over the news with warnings such as, “If you don’t have to leave your home tomorrow, don’t!”  There were also mentions that the airport would be closed.  I, of course, had to fly to the next city on my holiday tour very early the next morning.  I was getting a little nervous and antsy to say the least.  When a photographer for a local fag rag asked me to pose for what had to be picture number 2,713 I refused and said I really had to leave.  “Then you won’t be in the magazine!” he snapped. “Why? You’ve taken hundreds of photos of me!”  When he explained that he hadn’t yet taken one he liked I kindly suggested he may want to consider another profession.  He called me a bitch, I called him an asshole and we went our separate ways.  I got 2 hours sleep and then had to fly to the next city, plaster a smile on my face and do it all again.

I am not asking you to feel sorry for me.  All I am saying is, you know when you’re having a bad day and things are just not going your way?  Well, if you feel that way in jeans and a t-shirt, imagine what it’s like in full drag when everyone is looking to you to make them laugh.  Add to this all the cruel comments left on MySpace, Facebook, YouTube and a dozen or so more websites by bitter, uncreative people who hate their lives and their jobs and hurl anonymous insults from the safety of their beige cubicles and it can all get to be a bit too much.

So, I am shaking the emotional Etch-A-Sketch and letting it all go.  No more fighting, no more negativity.  I am going to try and be a nicer person, but mark my words -- this will result in some people leaving my show, or my website, complaining that “Jackie wasn’t bitchy enough!”  And to them I say, “Fuck you!”  Oops.