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Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Celebrity Animal Stories!
In light of the exposee that came out recently in PETA Monthy regarding Crystal and her fur consumption, we here in The Gomes Group would like to share a story that proves Crystal's love for animals as well as combats the allegations that she is "a heartless Cruella Deville, intent on killing and wearing anything that grows hair."
As anyone knows who’s seen me at the stage door, I love furs. I have twenty-eight fur coats (all Russian hamster), three mink hats, two pairs of Irish Setter booties, and sixteen salmon stoles. Many people get angry at me for my choice of wearing fur. On one horrible occasion in the early 90’s, a patchouli smelling lesbian-type threw paint on me because “she” thought I was wearing a rhino skin trench coat. I was in actuality just wearing my bathing suit at the public pool. It was, needless to say, something of an insult. But let me set the record straight: I love animals. Any fur I wear was collected from an already dead animal. If Geoffrey’s ’92 Geo Prizm happens to be the cause of that animal’s unfortunate death, well then who am I to say anything?
I’m talking about animals because I think that many of you would be curious to know about some of my celebrity pals’ various encounters and dealings with their pets and other, perhaps more exotic animals. So let’s go down a wonderful road through the Showbiz Zoo.
First is a story that many of you are probably already familiar with. I am of course talking about the time that my lover for many years, Pablo Escobar, saved my front teeth. I was down in Colombia rehearsing my show “I Can’t Fake It With You: A Tribute to the 1978 Finnish Olympic Swimming Team” and Pablo and I were enjoying a lovely little fling. Now, I had no knowledge of Pablo’s illegal dealings with druggery, I thought he was a baking soda salesman, so everything was just peachy. Well, there was one night when he and I enjoyed a nice dinner of rice and beans at a little café in Bogota. After dinner and several pitchers of sangria (all mine, by the way; Pablo never drank or smoked or rode escalators,) we decided to go for a nice evening stroll. Well wouldn’t you know it? I innocently tossed my cigarette into the wrong ass’s ass, and before I know it, he’s bucking his back legs like Gloria Steinem at a Wellesley mixer. Now Pablo, ever the gentleman, jumped in front of me, blocking the ass’s kicks from my highly valuable face. Poor Pablo took two right in the kisser, knocking out most of his teeth. Interestingly enough, his subsequent denture use led to his arrest for his various drug associations. (If I told him once, I told him a thousand times: Never leave your dentures at the Burbank Marriot!) Poor Pablo. There’s one animal I’d like to see skinned and mounted in a six by ten at Leavenworth.
Another wonderful animal story is the time that Betty Grable was brutally attacked by her helper monkey, Dr. Ernesto Livingston. Well, on second thought, that story isn’t so much wonderful as it is deeply terrifying. Betty was never able to look at a tennis racquet or a Ming vase again.
Oh let’s see…let’s see. Animal stories… Oh! Me and some of my pals, notably Peter Lorre, Montgomery Cliff, Burt Lancaster, and Glenda Jackson, used to call Johnny Weissmuller “the Animal” because of his strange and interesting sexual habits. Geoffrey? Geoffrey honey? Can I talk about that thing. Oh you know the thing, with the croquet… No? No, I can’t? Oh. Okay. Well then. Moving on
Oh here we go. June Lockhart, that walking brandy distillery, had a cat named Claudio Morales that she used to carry in a brown paper bag. She carried this thing everywhere. There’s a photo, I’m sure you can find it on that interweb thing, on that Gogol thing, of June at the ’68 Governor’s Ball with Claudio in an Yves Saint Laurent brown paper bag. I remember that night so well. I wasn’t drinking that night, because I was trying to change my life (and because, earlier that night, I had taken a small Chinese man’s weight in barbiturates in the ladies’ loo at the Shriner’s Auditorium.) So I very clearly remember Coco Chanel, back when she was in that dangerous romance with Gregory Peck and his sixth wife Donna Dewberry, throwing the brown paper bag, full of Claudio Morales, into a trash can. June Lockhart just about plotzed. She ended up spiking Coco’s drink with No. 5, nearly killing Coco. Luckily, due to a series of painful surgeries, Coco learned to live with her subsequent perfume addiction. Claudio Morales lived to be eighteen years old. He was buried in his favorite brown paper bag, while June played “Nearer My God to Thee” on the left-handed harmonica.
There are celebrities who have imaginary pets. Some examples? Well, there was Annette O’Toole’s “Shar Pei” Dominic who was just molded Gruyere cheese. Julie Newmar’s parakeet Shoe Shiner was actually a pile of dried cranberries (Geoffrey tells me they’re now called “craisins.”) Gomer Pyle thought he had a mastodon named Agatha that later turned out to be a dead hobo by the name of Gill Withers who had curled up and died in Gomer’s backyard. Vanessa Redgrave thought that her beautiful daughter, Natasha Richardson, was a Persian cat named Maliki Haki Mu for thirteen years. And Sergio Mendes’ pet pig Lulu? A drugged Peter Finch wearing a coal miner’s hat.
In the end, all of this animal talk makes me fondly remember my late pet puma, Lady Eleanor Grimlywicke, who at her lowest tried to eat my housecleaner’s four year old daughter, and at her highest held a very important seat in the House of Commons. I first met Ellie in the jungles of the Belgian Congo. I was there on an ill-fated trip to find King Solomon’s mines, but all I ran into was a pack of murderous gray gorillas and one black one that tried to speak to me in sign language, which I promptly shot.
Well on our last day, Ellie came out of the woods and, after devouring my first assistant, Clydesdale, nuzzled herself against my leg and began to purr. We fell instantly in love. Ellie died three winters ago, after I mistakenly tried to feed her a few Beefeater bottles in an effort to hide my (very, very light) drinking from a few Japanese businessmen who were looking to fund my show “One of These Things is Not Like Two Thousand Others: Crystal Live at the Apollo.” Well, I felt terrible, but I resolved to only remember the good times. Oh, and I suppose I miss Clydesdale every now and then. But really, he wasn’t much of an assistant. He was always trying to get me to go out for a walk or donate my hard earned money to some charity. Nah, give me Geoffrey any day. He keeps my gin cold, my elbows waxed, and Ellie’s taxidermied corpse full of fresh Bermuda sand.
Animals and assistants, ain’t they just grand?
Posted by Geoffrey ::
2:43 PM ::
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Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Gayle/Gomes Feud Revealed!
After quite a bit of soul-searching, Crystal has asked that we finally release the details of her ongoing feud with country legend, Crystal Gayle. Come see Crystal recount the painful story in person at her next show in the visitors center at the Hoover Dam. Thanks and enjoy.
"I have always been known for my generous and loving nature, which is why it confuses people when a publicly insult and denigrate Crystal Gayle. The truth is that I haven’t always hated that ratfink bitch. And I would like to set the record straight about our sordid past.
Back in our youth, Crystal and I used to be the best of friends. We did everything together. In fact, it was my idea to grow our hair long and sing country-western music. We were known as a pair; The Nashville Crystal Combo and we were an overnight success. We were singing sold-out shows every night and we regularly opened for Dolly, Loretta and Johnny, whenever they happened back into town. Of course, Jimmy Tunes accompanied and wrote much of our act. We had a knee-slapping “Dueling Banjos” number where Crystal played the Jew-harp and I smoked cigarettes that was one of Jimmy’s favorite bits.
Things couldn’t have been better. We were young, successful and all three of us lived in an apartment that the Nashville elite referred to as The Combo’s Condo. As you can imagine success changes people, and as soon as we were getting some notoriety Crystal started to cop an attitude. She claimed that I cared more about bedding the mayor of Nashville than I cared about our music. She claimed that showing up three hours late for rehearsals was “unprofessional” and that I “was drunk for every performance.” Well, it was clear to me that Crystal was teeming with jealousy. It wasn’t my fault that the mayor was taking a liking to me, and that he gave me a case of Tennessee bourbon for my birthday. What was I going to do? Not drink it? Show up on time? Please. But, I was trying to be the bigger Crystal and not let her bickering get the best of our act.
The final straw came on a blustery day in October. I came home from a long night at the mayor’s mansion, with the heel broken off of my Bob Mackie pumps and my floor length hair in a tangle. I arrived in the condo and was having a struggle unbuckling my shoe and not walking on my hair when I looked up and saw Crystal and Jimmy Tunes in a compromising position that is burned in my memory from now until the end of time. I won’t get into the unsavory details here, but let’s just say that Jimmy was using Gayle’s hair like a horse’s reigns and Crystal found a new way to play the Jew-harp that will never make it to the stage.
I was enraged. I could not believe that the two of them would betray me like that. Sure, I know that I wasn’t involved with Jimmy (at least that’s what I told the mayor) and that I had said to Crystal the previous afternoon, “Gayle, why don’t you get a stiff rodgering? You look like ten miles of bad road.” But she knew full-well that I didn’t mean Jimmy and how I felt and still feel about Mr. Tunes from Tallahassee on.
Well, I hobbled straight into the bathroom and took some gardening shears to my signature locks. I didn’t want to have any association with Gayle or The Nashville Crystal Combo ever again.
I could hear Crystal screaming from the bedroom, “We’re in love, Crystal! You good-for-nothing drunk!” I always knew that Crystal had a thing for Jimmy, but I also knew that she meant nothing to my darling Mr. Tunes. He would never love another woman, especially not another Crystal. I swung open the bathroom door, took my handful of newly shorn hair, and started to strangle Crystal with it (who was still very naked). In order to defend herself, she started strangling me with her attached hair, which was slightly less effective. As we strangled and hurled obscenities at each other, Jimmy managed to break a vase full of geraniums over my head, rendering me immobile. I’m very grateful to Jimmy for this, because I was moments away from completely suffocating that bitch and I’ve never looked good in a neon-orange jumpsuit (I’m a “spring”).
Well, we both woke up the next morning in the Nashville hospital. I never spoke to her directly again, although we’ve had several run-ins since. Jimmy and I moved out of The Combo Condo as soon as I was released from the hospital and we started our second journey to the Big Apple. A few months after the incident, Crystal came out with her hit, “Don’t You Make my Brown Eyes Blue” which was meant as a declaration of love for Jimmy and a jab at my struggle with nearsightedness. "
Posted by Geoffrey ::
3:50 PM ::
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Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Oscar Party of One
We've had a lot of emails and phone calls inquiring after why Ms. Gomes was not seen at the Academy Awards this year. Although Ms. Gomes was invited to the Oscars and had dress and formal turban prepared, she unexpectectedly and due to unforseen circumstances, passed out on her kitchen floor. Crystal is perfectly fine however and even made this remark after she was helped up;
"Geoffrey, did I go to the Oscars? No? Damn it. "
Posted by Geoffrey ::
4:41 PM ::
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