As a child of the ‘70s and a young gay adult of the ‘80s, towering character actress Bea Arthur made an enormous impact on me.  As the title character in the groundbreaking Norman Lear sitcom “Maude”, she was an easily-annoyed feminist in floor-dusting vests, always ready to cock one of her owl-like eyebrows and dryly croak her signature catchphrase, in her signature baritone: “God’ll get you for that!”   Later, as the most no-nonsense and logical of all “The Golden Girls”, Dorothy Zbornak, she helped ditzy Rose and libidinous Blanche solve their problems, while rocking the strangest futuristic new wave tunics the small screen had seen since “Star Trek.”  All this while keeping an owl-like eye on her lilliputian spitfire of a mother, Sophia.  I suppose in a way, Bea Arthur was like a surrogate mother to me.  She was very similar to my real mom in the fact that they both had dry, caustic wits; both enjoyed a cocktail or two or three; both seemed more than happy to be surrounded by a gaggle of gays;  and both looked down their noses at, and recoiled from the touch of, children.  Of course, as far as Bea is concerned, this was all an assumption on my part, based on her body language and the dialogue of her TV personas.  She may, in fact, have loved children, but she always gave off the vibe that -- since she may want to tell a filthy joke at any moment -- having to always scan the room for kids was an aggravating and spontaneity-killing waste of time.  While my biological mother was upstairs “resting” (back then we didn’t know about clinical depression the way we do now), my technological mother was rolling up her 100% polyester sleeves and taking care of business.  Upon seeing that shock of steely gray hair, I immediately knew that Maude or Dorothy would fix everything.  In that way, Bea resembled a suburban superhero -- those crazily-draped outfits (what exactly was she trying to hide!?) serving as makeshift capes.  But I am writing this for a gay men’s publication, not as my thesis for a Womyn’s Studies course at Portland Community College, so let’s get back on track.  Let’s get to The Bitch Factor.

I think the reason that Bea Arthur was adored by so many fags is the fact that, let’s face it, she seemed like a bit of a bitch.  And God knows, we all love a bitch, right?  But unlike modern day neo-bitches like Paris and/or Perez Hilton, Bea’s bitchiness was balanced with intelligence, warmth and wit.  If part of your schtick is an attitude of superiority, then, damn it, you had better actually be superior to most people!  Whether it’s true or not, I think that most people assume that Bea would kick their ass in Scrabble and make mincemeat out of them while casually watching an episode of “Jeopardy” during dinner.  And can we please talk about her timing?  As far as I am concerned, when one looks up the phrase “Comic Timing” in the dictionary, legally there ought to be a photo of the undeniable champion, Ms. Arthur, who seemed to have been blessed with a one-of-a-kind, God-given internal stopwatch.  And this clock never stopped.  Well into her eighties, it ran like a Swiss watch.  Like when she read a God-awful passage from Pamela Anderson’s novel at the bimbo’s Comedy Central roast and stole the show from “comedians” less than one third her age.  I was lucky enough to see her a few years ago in her one-woman show, Bea Arthur: Just Between Friends.  Dressed in black slacks, a glittery black top and no shoes, she commanded the stage for well over an hour by simply telling stories and singing the occasional song.  No special effects, no orchestra, just born-to-entertain Bea and her trusty gay piano player.  The show’s title was perfect because one really felt as if they were sitting with her at a party, listening as she regaled the room with stories both sweet and scandalous, from her rich life.  A life that made so many people happy.

We will miss you, Bea.

Go to ebay right now and enter JACKIE BEAT NAILS into a search!

If there's one thing that drag superstar JACKIE BEAT cannot stand, it's a queen who doesn't rock nails! What's the point of spending hours on your hair & makeup & jewelry & shoes & outfit, only to ruin the entire effect with boring, short, MAN nails!? Come on gurl, get with the program! This mega pack of SIX nail kits features 6 different styles of 12 large-sized (perfect for drag queens!) pre-glued, self-stick glamour nails. The photo does not do them justice, honey! You get

Clear plastic with frosty WHITE tips, featuring a silver glitter criss-cross design and tiny white crystal on each nail. An icy, space-age look!

HOT PINK with diagonal silver glitter floral stencil. Lady-like, but oh-so glamorous!

An irridescent BARBIE PINK with bold, off-center silvery blue glitter crosses. Perfect for holding a martini, darling!

The perfect PURPLE with tiny diagonal petal-like design topped with mutli-colored glitter. So regal they're fit for a queen!

High-gloss BLACK with tiny adorable glitter-outlined metallic purple butterflies. A whimsical goth moth?

High-gloss electro BLACK with graphic white stripe "French tips" and just a touch of silvery glitter. For bitches only!

Again, these are high-quality self-stick, pre-glued nails that do not require glue of any kind, but stay on all night long! They easily pop on and off and are the actual nails that JACKIE BEAT wears for all her live shows and music videos! Similar sets by Kiss brand sell for up to $7.99 a set at drugstores, but you get Jackie's bulk discount! (NO BULK JOKES!)

Lying on the couch in the middle of a weekday feeling sorry for yourself. Lethargic and hopeless, you mindlessly change channels, unable to find anything to hold your attention: Judge Judy, Tyra, Dr. Phil. Not even almighty Oprah, with her new flat-ironed silky ‘do, can penetrate your what’s-the-point, apathetic mood. This, my friend, is called “depression”. The President begging European leaders not to give up on the U.S. economy, homes being foreclosed upon in record numbers, unemployment rates in the double digits, people desperately holding onto each and every penny. This, my friend, is called “The New Depression”. And just like the old Depression back in the 1930’s, this one has left people scared and hungry -- hungry for entertainment, that is!

Yes, just like back in the days of vaudeville and that adorably optimistic moppet Shirley Temple, Americans are once again starving for something -- anything -- to help them escape from the misery and heartache of real life. I don’t know about you, but I am sick and tired of reality shows featuring bloated middle-aged rockers making out with grizzled and leathery attention whore cougars, gaggles of boring white twentysomething morons standing around and mumbling about their fabricated problems, bunches of sweaty fat-asses trying to lose weight while bitter and angry personal trainers who haven’t eaten since 1996 scream hateful and humiliating “motivation” at them. And don’t even get me started on scripted TV! Gee, I can’t wait to see Amy Poehler in “Parks and Recreation”. After seeing the commercials, it really should be called “The Outside Office” because she’s essentially giving us Steve Carrell with a vagina: “My job is pathetic and unimportant, but I take it way too seriously!” Hardy har har. And movies? Oh yeah, here’s my $12 so I can watch the latest shitty remake of a ‘70s or ‘80s classic horror film while the tweens ‘n’ teens around me Twitter ‘n’ text! No thanks. So where, pray tell, are we depressed Americans to get our much-needed entertainment? Where, you ask, will we find the new vaudeville? Who, you cry out in the night, shall be our new Shirley Temple?

Just like they will never invent a robot that can properly nurture and love a human baby, there shan’t ever be a substitute for the magic that is live entertainment. Sure, times are tough, but you can buy rice and beans and eat Ramen noodles and car pool and collect and redeem recyclables -- whatever it takes to treat yourself to the occasional live show. I just renewed my annual membership to the Ahmanson Theater and I am going to pay for it by selling Jackie Beat Glamour Kits on ebay! I went out and bought (you have to spend money to make it, right?) fake fingernails, false eyelashes, chunky earrings, bejeweled headbands and glitter eye shadow palettes at bulk discount prices and I am slapping my picture on each kit and selling them for $20 a pop on the internet! Sure, I’m a shameless whore, but guess who’s going to be enjoying “Dreamgirls” and “South Pacific” LIVE ON STAGE later in the year!? That’s right, ME -- and my best pal, Mario, and the guest of our choice.

There are wonderful shows out there to be seen, people! We live in Los Angeles -- the entertainment capital of the world! Go see a show! Trust me, it’s good for your soul. It reminds you that people are capable of creating beauty and excitement just to bring smiles to the faces of other less-talented people! Here are a few upcoming shows that I suggest. You may notice that one of them features me -- but what else would you expect from the “new Shirley Temple”?

THE RETURN OF HOT DOG: Okay, this is a raunchy club night, BUT it does feature a performance by one of my all-time favorite dance groups, Sir Heffington’s Fingered Dancers (who tonight are being billed as “The Hot Dog Dancers!”) So go get some campy choreographed culture and maybe get laid to boot! SATURDAY, APRIL 25 @ 10 PM at THE PALMS, 8572 SANTA MONICA BLVD. $7

SWEATY SUNDAYS: Speaking of the supremely talented Sir Heffington, perhaps sitting in the audience merely WATCHING other people dance is not your idea of fun. Well, guess what? Now you can join in! I’ve heard rumors that this wildly popular event may be moving to bigger and better digs, so just check out SirHeffington.com for all the latest info. $10

LUNA & GINSBURG: Selene Luna (from VH1’s “The Cho Show”) and Nadya Ginsburg (YouTube’s most popular and mean-spirited Madonna, Britney and Cher impersonatrix) join forces to bring you an evening of scathing sketch comedy. I will be their special guest and, trust me, you do not want to miss my Chastity Bono drag! WEDNESDAY & THURSDAY, APRIL 29 & 30 @ 8 PM at CASITA DEL CAMPO, 1920 HYPERION AVE. $15

Is it just me, or is the world coming to an end?

I am still in beautiful, sunny Puerto Vallarta but, frankly, I couldn’t possibly feel any more pessimistic or paranoid. It might be the fact that I have so much time on my hands. I mean, there are only so many crossword puzzles I can do (I read an article saying they keep the brain from becoming lazy or addled!) and bootleg films on DVD I can watch (you know you’re bored when you actually enjoy an Eddie Murphy double feature of Norbit and Meet Dave!). As I mentioned in my last column, I have only one English-language TV channel here and it’s CNN Headline News. People, if you want to get real depressed, real fast, watch nothing but sensational, alarmist, fear-based, tabloidy, if-it-bleeds-it-leads news all day! I not only sit through Nancy Grace (I swear she’s a crossdresser with mild Down’s Syndrome from Ft. Lauderdale!), but often watch her horrible show THREE or FOUR times a day! Right now I can hear Lou Dobbs in the background rambling on and on about how European leaders at the G-20 Summit are going to chew up popular-and-charming-but-inexperienced President Obama and spit him out. As he does this a ticker scrolls at the bottom of the screen, silently informing me of all sorts of delightful things such as: TWO ITALIAN TOURISTS ABDUCTED IN YEMEN, CHICAGO SUN-TIMES FILES FOR BANKRUPTCY, HOMEOWNER WHO SHOT HERSELF AMID HOME EVICTION DIES, RESTORER RUINS PRIZED SHAKESPEARE PORTRAIT, CALIFORNIA LAWMAKER SUGGESTS PUTTING SAN QUENTIN PRISON UP FOR SALE, FDA ANNOUNCES RECALL OF PISTACHIOS, IDENTITY THEFT ON RISE IN U.S., MAN DECAPITATES 5 YEAR-OLD SISTER IN FRONT OF OFFICER... It just goes on and on and I cannot help feel a certain sense of hopelessness and dread -- especially after reading that one chilling sentence in particular -- I mean, I love pistachios!

And for some reason there are no commercials. Where slick and colorful commercials would normally be -- featuring good-looking people who are paid to act happy -- HLN instead simply cuts to graphics of world weather while a weird song plays. Add to this the fact that the forecasts are in celsius and, I swear, I feel like I’m in Iraq! Oh, what I would give to see an ad making Diet Coke and/or McDonald’s look like delicious, nutritious food and beverage options as opposed to the poison they really are! Then it’s an HLN News Break featuring such feel-good stories as the man who shot 8 people in a nursing home; the man who opened fire in a church, killing the preacher; the middle school that is banning all touching including high-fives, hand shakes and hugs; the 2 total strangers who noticed a baby dangling out of a third-story window and ran over just in time to catch it (okay, I guess this one is actually GOOD news!); Madonna trying to adopt yet another child from Malawi (honey, she can adopt 100 kids, just as long as she promises NEVER to make another movie!); the Phoenix man who, as a joke, struck a match right next to his friend who was pumping gas, igniting an SUV -- with a baby inside, of course. Don’t worry, the baby’s fine. He’ll no doubt grow up to eventually go on a shooting rampage at either his middle school where they outlawed touching, the nursing home where his ex-wife works or a church. After all, this is what "disgruntled former employees" do, right? We really need to figure out a way to make sure that people like this somehow remain "gruntled"!

A few years ago I got a tattoo down the pale, fish-like inside of my left forearm that reads, “Beautiful” in big letters. Sure, this is sometimes my nickname when I'm all dolled-up and some drunken tranny chaser is the mood for a proper BJ, but I really got it to remind me that, despite so much evidence to the contrary, this world really is a generally lovely place. It’s hard to remember that when you are faced with scary sound bites, horrible headlines and blood splashed across one’s TV screen like a masterpiece by Jackson Pollock reincarnated as an enraged chimp.

Yes, there are a lot of supremely stupid people in this world who think it's a real knee-slapper to light matches at gas pumps or are too busy or preoccupied to keep their toddlers from falling out of windows. Yes, there are evil people who have no other choice than to savagely behead their five year-old sisters or helpless shoot senior citizens right in their beds. Yes, there are pop stars who, after losing their hunky younger trophy husbands, crave the unconditional love of young African children who will not make fun of their new mommy’s gnarled, veiny, tree limb-like arms and fake British accent. But there are also people like myself, who paint their middle-aged faces and sing songs about freakishly large male sex organs and feces for no other reason that to make people laugh. (Okay, and to pay my bills.) So the next time you are overwhelmed by the economy, random violence, human stupidity and/or greed run amok -- just picture my gorgeous, colorful face. Imagine my expertly made-up eyes popping open and my overdrawn lips seductively parting to happily chirp, “Poop!”

Yes, it is indeed a beautiful world.

Dearest Amigos,

As I gaze out my window, I can not only see the beautiful Pacific ocean, but brightly-colored tropical birds flitting from tree branch to tree branch. I am performing for three weeks here in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico and I am loving every minute of it! Sure I was a bit nervous as I packed my bags the night before my flight -- while watching television reports that the US State Department was offically warning Americans not to travel to Mexico in light of recent violence (okay, beheadings!), but mama has a mortgage to pay and times are tough, honey. I remember when using the words “Mexico” and “head” in the same sentence sent erotic tingles to one’s private parts, not a shiver of fear up one’s spine, but that was then and this is now. Lea DeLaria just left and I figure if no one killed that loudmouthed bitch, then I’m safe!

Actually, it turns out that those warnings were mostly about border towns such as Tijuana and Rosarita Beach, popular destinations for prostitute-lovin’, drug-cravin’ white trash touristas and Spring Break revelers. Since I shan’t be walking down any dark alleys looking for either meat or marijuana, I feel about as safe as I do back home in Highland Park -- where, ironically, they speak the same language as they do here! Look, why would anyone want to behead a drag queen? Think about it... A large part of cutting off someone’s head is displaying it and, granted, my gorgeously painted puss would be quite a showy and unique crowd-pleaser, but it’s simply not that practical when you really consider the gritty reality of it. For instance, you can’t dramatically hold my head up by the hair because my hair, of course, is a wig. Try to hold your drag queen “trophy” aloft by the hair and it’s going to slip from your clutches and comically bounce right down the stairs: bonk, bonk, bonk! So if you cannot hold it by the hair, exactly where do you get a good grip on a tranny’s severed head? There’s a thick coat of cheap cosmetics covering the entire face and neck, so you know you’re going to be wrestling with it like a greased pig. Then the makeup gets all smeared and people are all like, “Um, what’s up with that weird messy head you’ve got there? Is that a clown? The lead-singer of a Kiss tribute band? A castmember of Blue Man Group? Que pasa?” And don’t even get me started on the glitter -- you know that shit gets EVERYWHERE! No, drag queens are not the best targets if you’re looking to cut off someone’s head. I just wish that hitmen for the Mexican drug cartel read my column!

Speaking of fear mongering, the TV in my delightfully rustic apartment has only one channel in English and that is HLN (CNN’s Headline News -- um, is it just me or doesn’t the fact that Headline is one word kinda’ mean that the word Line within it shouldn’t get its own letter in the acronym? I guess HN doesn’t sound as good as HLN) Needless to say, I am sooooo sick of hearing the same damn stories (in Nancy Grace’s Southern cunt voice, no less!): OctoMom’s every boring move, the Rihanna & Chris Brown saga, and the missing and/or murdered hillbilly tot du jour. Thank God a friend of friend has a condo here and had the manager bring me his collection of DVD’s. I have watched The Beales of Grey Gardens, Ratatouille, The Celluloid Closet and Chinatown -- which, believe it or not, I had never sat down and watched in its entirety. Can I just say right here and now that Faye Dunaway is a genius and a goddess and making fun of her is hereby wholly unacceptable. I don’t know about you, but I like my leading ladies just like Faye: Gorgeous, supremely talented, difficult to work with, egotistical and just plain bonkers.

Well, it’s time to send this off to America via the internet. I only get a wireless signal down in the outdoor lobby that features an “on your honor” lending library of books in English. Amongst the countless romance paperbacks I was fascinated to find a copy of The Koran sitting on a shelf right next to The Atkins Diet -- one proudly promoting the consumption of bacon while the other clearly condemns it. If they can sit side by side without any trouble, why-oh-why can’t The United States and Mexico?

Adios!

I wake up and sign onto the internet only to see on The MySpace splash page that "Dancing With The Stars" um, "star" Jewel -- you know, the folk singer with the bad teeth who is most famous for living in her car in Alaska -- has posted an exclusive video blog in which she reveals: "I am recovering from a slight injury."

Um, slow news day!?

Can't wait to watch Lisa Rinna's vlog tomorrow: "Holy fuck, I ran out of Chapstik!"

"Entertainment" has reached a new low, people.

Roseanne Barr once called me “the Lenny Bruce of drag”. Thanks to his big mouth Lenny ended up in jail, and thanks to mine I almost ended up in the hospital last night. Let me explain...

When I was first asked to be a part of the Gay Marriage benefit “Love Today, Come What May” at Numbers with fellow performers Selene Luna, Jer Ber Jones, Tammie Brown, Barbie Q and Phyllis Navidad, I immediately said yes. Even though I think there are far more pressing and important issues (like letting young people know that they STILL need to use condoms!), I believe that all people deserve the choice to marry if they want to.

So last night was the big event and there we were, the clowns and modern day vaudevillains, in all our frills and finery, going over our jokes and warming up our voices and touching up our makeup in the makeshift “backstage” area,. The turn-out was respectable (times are tough and tickets ranged from $25 to $75) and one by one we entertained the appreciative crowd with comedy and song.

After my introduction, as I walked to the stage, I noticed a young Asian man in a booth rudely reading a magazine -- not even a REAL magazine, but Odyssey. I stopped near him, rolled my eyes and said, “Um, could you please stop reading that magazine?” The crowd laughed and I proceeded to the stage and then added, “Damn Asians!” Again, the room laughed. I then went on my stand-up routine, which consisted mostly of self-deprecating jokes about my weight. Anyone watching would quickly notice that I make fun of myself more than anyone else and then move on to everyone: The Gays, African Americans, Latinos and yes, even Madonna! The crowd was loving it. Except for the aforementioned magazine reader. He was huffing and puffing and at one point threw a fabric dinner napkin at me. When he stood up and blocked the spotlight, leaving me standing in darkness in the middle of my act, I calmly told him, “If you need a creative outlet then take a fucking pottery class at community college.” He and his “date”, an older white gentleman whom I assumes pays for everything and I do mean EVERYTHING, got up and stormed out, but not before I could add “Have a nice night. Oh, and wear TWO condoms, honey!”

I completed my set and joined Jer Ber in the now empty booth that the Gaysian concubine and his paramour had just vacated. “Oh look, there’s a booth available!” I chirped to the crowd’s delight. Well, to make a long story short (too late!), after the show the owner of Numbers approached me and, fuming and wild-eyed, told me through clenched teeth, “I want you to leave right now or I will have you escorted from the premises!” I seriously thought he was kidding, but no. He repeated himself and I told him I would indeed like an escort out. Numbers, of course, is infamous for its “escorts” so I cheerfully asked, “Who’s going to do it?” “The sherrif’s department!” he informed me. “Sounds good to me, get ‘em on the phone!” I said. Then I thought, this poor guy has no sense of humor and God only knows why he’s so mad -- the racial jokes, my jabs at his uncool nightclub most famous for its tragic May/December prostitution deals -- so I decided to just get my shit and leave.

I grabbed my purse from the “backstage” area and as I left I stopped and loudly told him, “Dont take your lack of intelligence out on me. I’m sorry you have no fucking sense of humor, asshole!” I walked towards the front door and added, “I am being kicked out of here by the owner, everyone! I guess it’s okay for old men to pay for sex here, but it’s not okay to tell certain jokes!” With that, I saw him completely lose it! He picked up the metal microphone stand and came running towards me like an animal. I was terrified and ran out the front door as I saw Jer Ber and my best friend Mario block his way. Mario told me later that the guy was waving the mike stand around and screaming, “DON’T FUCK WITH ME!”

So, I guess it’s more acceptable to beat someone with a metal pipe than to tell jokes that, to unsophisticated politically-correct minds, are considered racist. What a great way to end the Gay Marriage benefit, huh?

I am not a fucking racist. I am, however, a performer that pushes the boundaries. People are different. There are certain stereotypes in place. People have different skin colors, eye shapes, speech patterns and cultural mannerisms. Why is it that all my jokes and judgments about straight people and hetero marriage were considered acceptable and funny, but not a comment or joke about a particular ethnicity. Why is it okay for a black comic to make fun of my lack of dancing skills and even mock my metered, “uptight” way of speaking or for Margaret Cho or Sarah Silverman to make jokes about everyone and everything, but not okay for me to do essentially the same thing? First of all, the laugh almost always comes from the fact that I am playing the part of a clueless, self-centered white person who doesn’t know better. Would it make any difference to learn that I was part Asian, part Black or part Latino? You don’t know my fucking ethnic background, so who’s being prejudice here? I guess being Gay isn’t enough of a minority, huh? Being a white male overrides everything. News flash: A sequined dress and 2 hours of rodeo clown/whore makeup is not the new uniform of a white supremist!

The sad truth is that many members of today’s audience lack critical thinking skills. They do not know how to step back, look at the big picture and ask themselves, “What is this performance really about?” The definition of “irony” is expressing a particular point by saying the complete opposite. But no, all certain people hear is one or two “offensive” words and then they have a knee-jerk reaction.

Yep, it’s easier to beat the supposed racism out of the drag queen with a metal bar than to stop and use your fucking brain.