Well, duh! Carson Kressley, of course.

And what to my wondering (note: not wandering) eye should appear? No, not Regis Philbin, but our own tweeked out Queer. Lord, child. I got up this morning ready to renew my commitment to diet, exercise, and moderately clean living, and WHAM! Regis is taking the day off, and Ms. Carson is sitting there grinning like a… well, not a fool, obviously. Bitch has GOT to be raking it in like nobody’s business these days. At least, I HOPE she’s getting the goods for all of the appearances she’s making anymore. But am I the only one that thinks that maybe the lady she doth protest too much?

I keep seeing every good little gay boy’s bleary godmother Karen Walker looking disdainfully at the overexposure of our beloved queer quintet with one lovely outstretched manicured nail questioning, “Honey, what’s all this about?” I mean, God knows June is Gay Pride month, and I’m LOVING driving through one of the more fashionable neighborhoods of Lansing, Michigan (and yes, oddly enough, there is one of those) with folks watering huge beds of flowers, dogs being walked, kids hauling each other up the sidewalks in big, red wagons, and all of the beautifully coiffed homes with the elegantly manicured lawns and a big, brash rainbow flag hanging front and center off the front porch or pergola (lord, we love our pergola’s don’t we?).

But Carson subbing for Regis? Wait. Let me rephrase that.

What ever happened to being subversive?

What ever happened to edgy?

Dammit, we’re supposed to be the stylish ones!

Oh, wait. We’re also supposed to be the pretty ones, and Carson Kressley’s involved. This could be bad.

All right. I’ll admit that Kelly Ripa isn’t as milquetoast cum diva as former Name That Tune warbler and Third World despot Kathie Lee Johnson Gifford nee Epstein. And even old Reej himself has a sort of kitschy flair that must send the geriatric set into girlish titters. Hell, I even saw an advertisement on the Logo network this weekend for a gay elder living facility that’s sprung up in San Francisco. Lord, wouldn’t that be a hoot? Weather Girls in the dining room jukebox, and Cialis in the vending machine in the lobby… if only Freddy Mercury could have lived to see it.

Ok. Ok. I suppose even I can pull in my claws for one month a year. And I’ve got to admit that seeing Queer culture… even in Carson’s form is a damn site better than those brief moments of secret titillation in those all-too breif scenes of Stephen Carrington back in the Eighties. I can’t imagine growing up gay, now. There are images of gay people living, loving, and just plain being all over the place. And thank God, no one ever has to feel, in mainstream America at least, that they’re the only ones. It has killed untold numbers of gay, lesbian, bi, transgendered, and questioning youth over the years, and that’s not hyperbole or rhetoric. I’ve seen it. I’ve watched friends die, and I’m lucky to be here myself. Despite those who’d prefer that we slide back into obscurity and anonymity, we and our lives are becoming better, more commonplace, and a hell of a lot more healthy.

God bless us. God bless us every one.

Much love, folks.

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