I Am Leslie Lange

Shared Brain Detail

So, today I see this headline on yahoo: Gay men, straight women share brain detail: report and I can't help clicking on it. Then I read on....

Mon Jun 16, 1:50 PM ET

LONDON (Reuters) - Gay men and straight women share some characteristics in the area of the brain responsible for emotion, mood and anxiety, researchers said on Monday in a study highlighting the potential biological underpinning of sexuality.

Brain scans also showed the same symmetry among lesbians and straight men, the researchers wrote in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences.

and all I can think is...why do gay men and straight women warrant a headline, while lesbians and straight men are an afterthought?

Is there a global conspiracy to link straight women and gay men? I think, mayhaps, it is so. And I think, mayhaps, that this is because a hyped up link between straight women and gay men SELLS PRODUCTS, LOTS AND LOTS AND LOTS OF PRODUCTS, while a hyped-up link between straight men and lesbians would only sell lots and lots of HOT LEZZIE PORN. And while hot lezzie porn is an important subset of our economy, it doesn't really need to keep up with the latest fashion trends.

Simply rove my hallowed archives for all those "weird search of the week" entries to see the sole link between straight men and lesbians. That's right. We are all girl-crazy, and we are all pervs. We also don't like to throw out our underwear.

By the way, I love the concept of shared brain detail. It sounds like a companionable military chore-duty, like shared kitchen detail or latrine detail--only brain detail is smart. "Wish I could go to the MENSA event with you guys tonight, but my fag-hag and I are sharing brain detail." (says Willy, the grown-up gay wunderkind)

The L Word Season Premiere

As you all know, large parties are not my favorite things. Nonetheless, in the spirit of being a good kept lesbian, this past Sunday, Pontifica and I attended The L Word's season premiere party at The Factory in West Hollywood. Pre-screening, Ilene Chaiken and her show's sexy cast took turns shouting at the top of their lungs into the stage microphone. (You know you're in trouble when you look around and see you're not the only dyke jamming her fingers into her ears.) Loudest shouters were Chaiken herself, Katherine Moennig ("WHO WANTS A SEASON SIX?! WHO WANTS A SEASON SIX?!!"), and Rose Rollins, who--nothing like the self-contained “Tasha” she plays--distinguished herself by bellowing at a few co-stars, “Get up here, BITCHES!” This behavior induced a vivid flashback to the softball parties of my drunken collegiate days.

It was during this stint that the woman sitting behind me, girlfriend ensconced ever so deeply in her lap, began drumming her fingers against my ass. Pure accident? Probably--since drumming one's fingers, even against a buttock, is not exactly seductive. Still, how could she have thought my ass was anything other than my ass? Perhaps I've reached that age where ass-texture approximates seat cushion-texture and should just count my lucky stars she didn't grab a loose thread and absent-mindedly unravel my pants.

During the actual screening of the show, the acoustics were so bad, and our ears so traumatized, it was impossible to hear--so we left early to watch on our comfy sofa at home...my wish come true at last, to snuggle against my girlfriend, watch the pretty people, and soak up the soothing alpha waves.

Mullified

Whoa! Lots of stuff's been going down in Los Angeles lately: Fires, poor air quality, a pending writers' strike (always a writers' strike, never an authors' strike), my favorite Dia de los Muertos celebration at the Hollywood cemetery, and the Murakami exhibit opening at MOCA.

But I'm going to talk about my hair.

I went to my stylist, Viva, in Palm Springs, sipping decaf while enduring the application of numerous highlights, then skimming a whole stack of fluff magazines as my scalp baked in the surround-swelter of 3 discoid radiant heat lamps. Then Viva took up her shears and razor and commenced doing what she always does, which is chop through my thatch of Bushman-like locks, giving it her best shot to produce something akin to "texture" so that I don't look like I'm wearing a brown bike helmet all day.

"I think I'm going to try something new," Viva said, gesturing across the top of my head. "I'm going to cut it short-to-long over here, and long-to-short over here."
"Cool," I said. "Go for it. Make salad."
"Oh, and what about this?" she said, pulling on the wisps at the nape of my neck.
"Um," I said. "I like those."
"Good, because everyone always wants me to cut them off, but they're my favorite."
"OK, leave 'em."

When I got home that night, Pontifica--on her way to kiss me--stopped dead in her tracks.
I found myself unwilling to register her expression. "What?"
Pontifica took me by the shoulders, and made very grave eye contact. "I'm sorry, honey, but that is darn close to a mullet."

I ran to the mirror, turned to look at my profile, and...AAAK! Indeed it was...darn close to a mullet.

But was it still an attractive sort of mullet? Or even better, a subtle, pushing-the-boundaries sort of naughty self-referencing wink, maybe, to the mullet, without actually being one? God, I hoped so.

Help me decide, please! Come visit my table at Palm Springs Pride, November 3rd at 2 p.m., where I'll be signing copies of Dyke Drama: your guide to getting out alive, a book I wrote in my pre-mullet days.

Buy Dyke Drama!

[Rose]Mary Cheney's baby

Right-minded Americans unite! Stop Mary Cheney's immoral procreation! The apocalypse is upon us! Aaaaagh!

(This isn't a gay thing. This is a Cheney thing.)

           READ MY LIPS: NO NEW CHENEYS

Next Top Lesbian Model (part 3)

It turned out The Advocate was not going to pay me $5,000 to model for their upcoming auto issue, but whatever...Anne at least bought dinner for Pontifica and me at The Blue Coyote the night before the big shoot. Also present at this Last Pre-Modeling-Career Supper: the two delightful guys donating their swank Palm Springs home as a backdrop for us posing with our new fantasy BMW. As I was about halfway through my swank chicken taco, Anne--one of the most matter-of-fact women I know-- peered intently at me with her pale gray eyes. "So, I hate to do this to you, but we think the light is going to be best at about eight tomorrow morning, so...can you girls make it that early?"

As iiiiif, Anne! I would be there at 4:30 sharp with a cardboard tray of vanilla soy lattes and a bag of assorted nonfat muffins! Anything, anything, anything--JUST LAUNCH MY CAREER!!! Put me within arm's reach of fabulous Jenny Shimizu! Or the beautiful, intellectual Kim from America's Next Top Model. (Kim, who challenged societal norms with her "gender as/s construct" quandary, yet could still pull off everywoman's heartfelt battlecry: "Hey, are you calling me FAT?") Seriously, though. Could we make it there at eight? Anne, we will give you a freaking foot massage.

The next day, at six a.m., Pontifica and I simultaneously sat up wide awake and looked at each other. We were both about to become "Next Top Lesbian Models" and it was far, far too thrilling to enjoy needless REMs. What happened between six and eight, however, was entirely unexpected...

Leslie Lange's Top Model Author Site

(Pictured above: two of my good very best  top lesbian model friends.)

Baby Suri's Secret Twin

Rumors of Baby Suri's moppy wig were confirmed today as numerous sources disclosed the existence of a tinier conjoined twin brother separated from the top of Suri's head. "The wig was to conceal the surgical site where the wee boy-child was removed," said O.R. nurse Julie O'_____ who asked (but was not granted) that her identity remain anonymous. Baby Uri, as the boy was cruelly named, is reported to be alive and kicking.* His whereabouts are still unknown--though sources claim he is being held somewhere within a Scientology trailer compound in the town of Desert Hot Springs.

*Literally, as he is jealous of his sister's instant celebrity, and leading his team of 39 Thetan wet nurses to sometimes call him "Baby Fury."

Strange Friends

I have a blog through typepad, which enables me--me! a total computer nincompoop! an HTML illiterate! I couldn't find my way out of a chat room!--to see how people came to visit my blog.  

A lot of the time, folks are just searching for me. But more of the time, folks are just seearching for something. It has come to my attention in the last 24-hours that I have some very strange friends visiting my blog. For example the three "searches" below:

"lesbian tits slamming"
"is dog poop good for fruit trees"
(and the deeply disturbing) "lesbian little girls playing together drink pee"

Apparently my blog entries contain enough of these words to make my blog one of the top sites to pop up for folks looking for stuff like that.

Hence, my new "Weird Search of the Week" column, which shall appear every Friday (God willing) in this blog. This week's weird search of the week has to be the dog poop one. I will attempt to research this question and get back to the searcher (who, I assume, is by now an ardent fan and won't miss an entry).

Peace out. Leslie

I was one of those millions who sought solace in someone's arms.

I WAS GOING TO POST TONIGHT about September 11th--a significant day not only because of the World Trade Center attacks, but because this was the day Lovey and I first "hooked up." That's right, I was one of those millions who sought solace in someone's arms. I was going to post how my psycho roommate Freddy came bleary-eyed out of his room that morning to watch the second plane fly into the second tower and how he said, "Cool," and laughed like Butthead.

(Though Freddy's comment creeped me out, he was probably just in denial. Minutes later I caught myself marvelling that these were some of the "best special effects" I had ever seen.)

I was going to post on how I called in sick, or whatever...traumatized, and how I then called up Lovey and went out to her house in the Pacific Palisades for the first time, and how I transported my little Peke puppy there in a turquoise kitty crate.

I was going to post about how strange it all was--how just as those towering buildings were brought down, so were some towering barriers between people-- but I cannot. It's far too late and I have a splitting headache. So, let's save it, eh? Maybe tomorrow.

Prayers for the victims --both then and now in Iraq.

L.L.

Vicious Cycle

NOTHING TO SAY about my first visit to the laundromat except that I almost died when I opened up a certain double-loader and was hit head-on by a killer smell. Twas as if an elephantitic homeless person had curled up inside for the night. The next one I opened was coated with dog hair. Emulating Goldilocks, I finally settled on the third one: sparkling clean, with six shiny nails at the bottom (pointing--like tea leaves--in all directions). Before dumping in my clothes, I scooped the nails into my pocket, intending to use them for hanging pictures later, but they poked my ovaries so hard in the car on the way home, I found myself pulling over to chuck them into the sand. Nothing's free, eh?

During my laundry's spin cycle, I was recognized by a friend's housekeeper: "Leslie...is that YOU????"  I got to meet her daughter, Deborah, who showed me how to eat a hot dog "the right way"...and really mess up your T-shirt. Do try this at home. It is most satisfying...and you can always use the T-shirt as a dust rag from then on.

Announcement

We interrupt this program to bring you a special—no, an earthshaking —announcement. Lovey and I BROKE UP!

Hence, my absence lately from the blogosphere.

Here I am, right in the middle of telling you all—well, all five of you, but five very important people in my eyes—about how I confronted my roommate Freddie about the smell coming from his room on the very same day that I met Lovey, and how I always felt that confronting Freddie was a turning point in my life because I was standing up finally for my own right to breath fresh air in my own living room…and all this was going to be revealed in the most beautiful and romantic way anyone could imagine, leading up to my first night with Lovey—and now (NOW!) it has all been tainted.

I am no longer a kept lesbian, but a KEPT OUT lesbian.

(Actually, she’s letting me stay at the Palm Springs estate for the summer, all bills paid, plus our lovely girl-factotum will still cook, shop, and do dishes, BUT STILL!!!! What am I supposed to do when summer’s finally over? Work? Sigh.)

Oh, Lovey! How could you do this to me? How could we have done this to each other?

The truth: Lovey and I have had our problems, reconcilable differences have turned irreconcilable. Now I’m sharing my bed with two pitbulls. The platinum "magic bullet" credit card is gone, flung across our table at Hunter’s restaurant in Los Angeles, flung right at Lovey, oh, yes, flung like an angry Frisbee (Yes, a Frisbee can be angry if—just as you fling it--you transfer your own anger into it.)
Lovey is staying in Los Angeles these days.

At Hunter’s, I had the halibut and it was delicious.

I miss her one hell of a lot.

Ruined is my column “Kept Woman” in the prestigious Absolute Palm Springs magazine. (Just because Issue II has been stuck at the Canadian border for three months now and I still haven’t been paid for column I (which I really REALLY NEED right now Jeremy, if you’re reading this, which isn’t likely) doesn’t mean the magazine is kaput, does it?

Does it?

Ha ha ha (maniacal laugh)!

Stay tuned.

Leslie's Web Site (visit her, she's lonely)