But my sadness this week has felt…global? Dare I say patriotic? Dolly just felt like the last thing we could all agree on. The left and right both claim her, and while laws of logic dictate someone must be deluded (it’s them), I’m going to be vulnerable and choose to believe in a commonality of decency. Whatever the reality, the loss of Dolly Parton, the Great American Concurrence, has hit me hard.

Anyway.

To make lemonade, I, like many, watched a Dolly movie this past weekend. My crew picked 9 to 5 (1980), the story of Violet (Lily Tomlin), Judy (Jane Fonda) and Doralee (Dolly Parton) seeking revenge on their “sexist, egotistical, lying, hypocritical bigot!” boss, Franklin Hart Jr. (Dabney Colman). This was somehow my first viewing of 9 to 5, despite it being pop feminist canon, involving one of America’s most treasured dykes poisoning her pig boss. And so to you I present The Gaytrix: 9 to 5.

The opening sequence: Instantly iconic. Instantly forces the viewer to submit to the film. On the whole, 9 to 5 sits squarely in the femme-top quadrant.

Having a job: The workplace is a masculine plane of existence, which is perhaps why employment is inherently hell. But don’t let showboating bigshots fool you! The toppiest thing one can pull off is being unemployed (and unbothered).

Acrylic nails as percussion: This tidbit of Dolly lore is now ubiquitous, but the typewriter sound on her theme song, “9 to 5,” is in fact the sound of her nails rhythmically clacking together. I can’t linger here too long or I will legitimately be moved to tears by the beauty of womanhood.

Typewriters: Receivers, loudmouths.

Jane Fonda holding a gun: Jane’s character, Judy, represented a newly growing demographic in the ‘70s and ‘80s: women who’d left their shithead husbands thanks to new no-fault divorce laws, but then had to figure out how the hell to enter the workforce. Judy is uncharacteristically mousy for a Jane Fonda character, but not when she’s packing heat.

Lily Tomlin fixing a garage door: Something the people are not talking about enough in the wake of Dolly Parton’s death is how sexy Lily Tomlin is in 9 to 5. Violet Newstead, widow and mother of four, exhibits such a range of competencies — Fixing the garage door! Hauling a dead body into her trunk! Queen bee of the clerical pool! — that I have no choice but to infer that the character is canonically a dyke.

⅓ of a joint: Violet, Judy and Doralee split exactly one (1) joint and their brains explode. Ribs are consumed; murder fantasies are shared; lols, even lmfaos, are shared. I know my brain is completely pickled because it reminded me of that RHONY episode where they all black out at Blue Stone Manor and Bethenny is dressed like an elf? Women are amazing.

That green tile backsplash: Really found myself coveting Hart’s kitchen. I totally get why they kept him tied up that long.

Poison: Perhaps the most elegant way to kill someone? It’s quiet, it’s demure, it blends seamlessly into your victim’s daily beverage. You know, some guys just can’t hold their arsenic.

Dangling over your marital bed in a harness and a BUTCH brand dog collar: Look, we’ve all been there.

Flexible work hours: 9 to 5 is a film that celebrates femme tophood, dramatized by our trio’s fantasies of in-office homicide, then epitomized by their eventual workplace wins for women. And you know what? Saying you’re going to get to work at 9 a.m. and rolling in 45 minutes later gripping an iced americano is feminism, thank you very much.

Playing yourself in a movie: Dolly Parton pretty much just played Dolly Parton in 9 to 5, and everyone was like, “Yay!” This is perhaps its greatest gender-bending trick of all.

For the uninitiated: Stassi Schroeder was a Vanderpump O.G., known for her tumultuous relationship with Jax Taylor, her iron-fisted rule as the queen bee of SUR, and her tyrannical insistence on the sanctity of her birthday (June 24). She was fired from the show in 2020, when it came out that she (and cast mate Kristen Doute) had reported a Black cast member, Faith Stowers, to the police for a crime she had nothing to do with. Vile shit! Since then, she’s been off having kids and rebuilding her public image (podcasting, playing a ham-fisted role on Vanderpump Villa). And now, six years post-firing, Disney has given Stassi her very own reality show.

When we catch up with Stassi six years post-firing, we see that like most “canceled” people, she’s doing just fine. Her career is bustling along. She has reflected and grown from the actions that led to her cancelation, which is harkened back to consistently as a point of trauma for her. Okay. She doesn’t spiral into rage blackout tirades at the first whispers of conflict like 2012 VPR Stassi did. She sits down and talks about how she’s feeling (often rageful).

I’m just three episodes in, but as far as I can tell, House of Stassi is a show about Stassi and the people who live in her house. Alongside the matriarch is her affable husband, Beau, who’s living in misery as a stay-at-home dad, desperate to get back to his career in [checks notes] commercial casting(?). There’s Beau’s Italian half-sister, Georgia, whose infatuation with her brother does not veer, but hurtles like a Ferrari into “siblings or dating?” territory. Not to be confused with Georgia is Georgie, Stassi’s recently divorced sister who refuses to change diapers.

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Not technically in the house but nearby: Taylor, a lesbian who speaks about vaginas with palpable discomfort; Rob, Beau’s middle-aged bachelor friend with SRS (Shep Rose Syndrome) and loves the Philadelphia Eagles; original SUR mean girl Kristina Kelly who appears to find reality television beneath her but keeps showing up; and Stassi’s ex-bestie and Vanderpump cast member, Katie Maloney, with whom she makes up in the pilot episode.

In her opening confessional, Stassi walks us through a fight with her tight-knit group. But she doesn’t describe it as a “hangout,” or a party with some thinly-veiled raison d’etre, or even a conversation — it’s the “test shoot.” It’s made abundantly clear to us, the audience of House of Stassi, that Hulu shot this scene to see if there was there there for House of Stassi. And, to meta the meta, the argument is a debrief of a fight between Stassi and her husband on another Hulu show with a Bravo-turned-Disney reality star, Vanderpump Villa.

This is the whole deal with House of Stassi: It’s a reality TV show about being a reality TV star. It projects a sense that Stassi is holding the reins on this show — that you either die a hero, or you live long enough to become the Lisa Vanderpump.

Stassi Schroeder Kool-Aid Mans through the fourth wall from the jump, and the gaping hole remains throughout the show. She repeatedly name-checks Disney and Hulu (saying “Bravo” is famously a no-no on that network’s shows). When Stassi and Katie meet up, they discuss their Vanderpump-induced trauma. The whole cast openly discusses the “convenient” timing of Stassi and Katie’s reunion, given filming. Stassi clearly doesn’t want to talk about Katie’s weird behavior at her and Beau’s wedding in Italy — I know this because, when Kristina Kelly brings it up, Stassi looks to camera, laughs, and says, “Let’s not even air it!” In episode three, she throws a dinner party to openly force several simmering confrontations to come to a head: “You know what happens at dinner parties on reality shows like this.”

It goes on like this. She tells us, in one confessional, that she needs Beau to make up with his friend, Rob, because Rob is a cast member and the show needs to work. Indeed, those are the stakes of the reality TV show, House of Stassi: The reality TV show, House of Stassi, needs to work, because I, Stassi, really want it to.

But the question remains: Why? Does peeling back the veil reveal something new and interesting? Is this Hulu’s attempt to differentiate its reality brand and tone from Bravo? Or is it simply because Stassi’s entire life — her personal traumas, image, aspirations — centers on reality TV? Does Stassi Schroeder know anything other than reality TV?

And it’s true, Stassi knows reality TV. Stassi was just 23 when she started on season one of Vanderump Rules. In the context of the rest of the Vanderpump Rules cast, Stassi came off like a MacArthur Genius Grant recipient. Her run on the show proves that on reality TV, you can be as cruel and wretched as you’d like, so long as you’re funny. To a point.

So Stassi’s aching to get back on reality television, because Stassi gets reality television. On House of Stassi, her success and self-worth hinge on the success of House of Stassi. She sums it up as such in the final moments of episode one, after her reunion with Katie:

“Coming back to reality TV, I’m like, ‘Are you being a dumb bitch?’ I’m scared of reality TV. But it’s all I know. And I love it. But I’m also traumatized by it. But I can’t stay away from it. But I was not going to let Vanderpump Rules be my legacy. I had to make this happen. I had to.”

This is the central thesis of the show. Okay. If getting fired from Vanderpump is positioned as Stassi’s personal and career low, the success of House of Stassi is positioned as her “phoenix rising from the ashes” moment. Potentially, at least — that’s where the audience has to play ball.

On reality TV, a fourth wall break can work when it’s wielded precisely and occasionally. There was “Bravo, Bravo, fucking Bravo!” on RHOBH; there was the producers jumping in to stop a sexual assault in real-time on Below Deck Down Under; there was the entire Lala-Ariana breakdown in the Vanderpump season 11 finale. While exciting, the risk of breaking the fourth wall is that it reminds the audience that they’re watching a television show. Stassi’s wink-nudges are often charming, because Stassi is funny and charming. But when used too often, meta-ness makes the whole project feel (or reveals that it is) fake and dishonest. And without even a thin guise of reality (“My entire future depends on this lip balm launch!”), the whole thing can feel icky. Or worse: boring.

And when the reality show becomes about making a reality show, the audience is exposed to a distasteful truth: being on a reality show is a fucking grind. Obviously, we love to watch reality shows where people are in distress. I much prefer the old-school Survivor seasons where contestants were actually starving, and love nothing more than a fight between a chef and a chief stew over plating timing on Below Deck. I’m not talking about a show bearing witness to a grind. I’m talking about the show itself being the grind.

And by pulling back the curtain, House of Stassi makes us, the viewer, complicit in creating the grind for them. We’re supporting Stassi’s career, which is the thing keeping (I guess) Beau miserable at home (sorry to this man). We’re the reason Katie is back in the mix. We’re (probably) the reason Georgie and Georgia are living in their house. We’re the reason Rob and Beau are talking. We’re the reason this dinner party is a shit-show.

By leaning hard into this gimmick, House of Stassi revokes the experience of fantasy, which is both pleasurable and necessary to the form. I resent this! I don’t want to know this is a show. I don’t want to see you creating content for brand deals. Let me bathe in the delusion that these cameras just happen to be capturing the crew of a Mediterranean superyacht! Let me imagine a world where two 43-year-old dudes in a Hamptons sharehouse with 20-somethings is a natural and unmanufactured truth! Tell me you just stumbled upon a magical land called Cranston, Rhode Island, where the women are orange and the bitches love a summer!

Don’t remind me I’m watching reality TV. Don’t tell me this is their job. Let me cynically text that to my friends as I watch a woman shill for her utterly unfindable tequila brand, thank you very much!

They say write what you know. Which, sure. But if you only know about writing, your writing is boring and you need to learn about something different. Perhaps the same could be said about reality TV: Only make reality TV about what you know, and if you only know reality TV, learn about something different. In making House of Stassi this semi-unbearable meta-loop of wink-nudge fourth wall breaking, Stassi Schroeder only reality TV-ing what she knows. She’s behaving like a Substacker who only writes about writing. Except funnier, and also snatched.

All this, and I haven’t even gotten to Katie’s Lesbian Night yet.

The Odyssey is a story that’s been told and retold and translated and retranslated. There are infinite themes and lessons and interpretations within the text of the poem. Each era looks back to The Odyssey in its own context, and pulls from the poem resonant motifs aligned with said context. And it is so rich with permutations, it would be impossible for any three-hour movie to encapsulate every nook and cranny of the epic.

So when adapting the poem, Christopher Nolan had to choose the themes on which to pull. They are not the themes I would pull. I am interested in Odysseus as a wily little shit who fucks his way across the ancient Mediterranean; Nolan is interested in Odysseus as a war hero who Makes Hard Choices and Loves His Wife. I am interested in the Gods as active meddlers in human endeavors, especially in an Athena who saves Odysseus’ useless ass over and over again; Nolan is interested in men with post-traumatic stress disorder. I am interested in the interior lives of women; Nolan is interested in wives that are dead. Fortunately, Nolan could not wipe female characters entirely from The Odyssey — but he’d be damned if he didn’t try!

Luckily, unlike any woman written by Christopher Nolan, I contain multitudes. And for all my quibbles and shit-talking and gagging for Emily Wilson, I also must say: The Odyssey fucking ripped. I get full-body chills recalling Agamemnon at the gates of Troy. The dying dog gimmick absolutely worked on me. I am wondering if it’s possible to tithe my income to Samantha Morton. I am desperate to see The Odyssey again, this time in 70mm IMAX, like some fucking simp film bro. And so, I’m choosing a path and light and love that compels me to say: Christopher Nolan and I are not interested in the same things, and that’s okay.

Despite this hyper-masculine/Christian values interpretation of The Odyssey, there is ample queerness to be wrung from it. Just as Nolan interprets the epic poem in his film, I interpret his film in Gaytrix, another loop in the infinite cycle of interpretation since Homer.

The Suitors: On the one hand, Robert Pattinson in that little leather skirt. On the other hand, I find committing to the bit a masculine quality, one exercised in people of many genders, and no one has committed harder to a bit than these goddamn suitors.

Agamemnon: So demure.

Shooting Polyphemus in the Eye: A rare moment where Nolan embraced the “petulant little shit” characterization of Odysseus that I know and love. Shooting a cyclops in his one eye is technically top behavior, as he’s the one stringing the bow, but only just — and not coming from a true place of power or control.

Helping Yourself to Cheese: Just, like, unbelievably fucking rude behavior. How dare they! Those little shitheads deserved to get eaten for that. Imagine how long it takes to make enough cheese to feed you when you’re a 60-foot cyclops.

The Masculinization of Puppetry: Oh, so when it was the Bob Baker Marionettes performing to Ben Platt’s cover of “Diet Pepsi” puppetry was some kind of joke, but now it’s a generational feat of filmmaking? Okay…

James Remar: I love you too, Tiresias. But I love me more.

Odysseus On The Pole: “Ahahah no no just tie me up, I’m doing it as like, a joke, I promise…”

Scylla: Is Scylla feminine, per se? Well, no. But there’s something so elegant and nimble (yet…aggressive…) about the way she snagged those boys up for dinner. A true nonbinary monarch.

Calypso, LMFT: In any therapist-client dynamic, the therapist is inherently in the power position. The Calypso-Odysseus scenes, where the daughter of Atlas blandly listens to the bedraggled hero monologue, are no exception to this rule. Also, the suspended disbelief that a person of any orientation would spend seven years on an island with Charlize Theron only if thoroughly drugged? A big ask.

“I WANT ODYSSEUS:” I’ve been punching in at Stanne Hathaway, Inc. every day for 25 years, rain (Havoc) or shine (Rachel Getting Married), and let me just say: The payoff feels good.

Zendaya / Tom: It has to be said.

It is I think fair (even generous) to say that as is, In The City is not terribly compelling. Central points of drama include: a debate whether a dress was pink or white; allegations of playing “the mom card;” a deteriorating marriage where no party appears genuinely inclined to make it work and we know how it ends anyway; a woman’s thwarted pursuit of closet space in her boyfriend’s apartment. Amanda and West’s romance and the ensuing Summer House scandal got Frankensteined onto a season already in the can, making In The City feel like two separate, yet equally uninteresting shows playing a lazy game of catch. And, on top of all this, to see Kyle Cooke and Lindsay Lindsay, at this point Bravo tentpoles, all stacked up in front of Andy Cohen’s St. Louis-related knickknacks in their forthcoming clubhouse reunion…a smell, yet potent humiliation for us all.

But In The City has some compelling wisps. It makes gestures at compelling television. I don’t know if it “deserves” to get there eventually, but I think it could.

New York City is a place of suspended adolescence, even for straight people. To get married under 30 there is, to paraphrase Ilana Wexler, akin to child trafficking. Because of this, a TV show about people in their early 40s in Manhattan becomes a show about people making their first real, meaningful steps into adulthood. In The City is a show about rich, graying city slickers doing what most Americans do in their 20s. (Remember, the In The City cast are generational peers of The Real Housewives of Rhode Island — yet miles behind in terms of marriage, kids, settling down, and fraternization with men facing up to 88 years in federal prison for drug-related felonies. And even over on The Valley, In The City’s closest 1:1, most couples are young parents long enough into their marriage for the love to curdle into a deep and terrifying resentment.)

After kicking the can down the road like New Yorkers are wont to do, Big Life Moments are finally upon this cast: Lindsay (39) has a baby daughter. Kenny (age unknown; smack-dab to elder millennial) has a new, serious, planning-a-life-with-you girlfriend. Kyle (43) and Amanda (34) hurdle towards divorce, a far more adult decision than getting married while crossing one’s fingers and toes that your beloved will soon adopt a fresh and unrecognizable personality. Yvonne (39), has successfully guilted her reproduction-ambivalent husband into trying for a baby. To quote Scheana Shay’s right forearm, it’s all happening.

These forward steps are nominally interesting. But the most interesting conflicts are, I think, only just emerging, and each asks the same question: As one person steps into a new phase of life, what happens to their friends who haven’t done the same?

First, there’s Kenny and Gavin. Kenny and Gavin are bros. Historically, Gavin has routinely shown up at Kenny’s apartment unannounced and drunk. They allegedly also share clothes, which, given their height difference, thwarts the time-space continuum. Gavin shows no signs of slowing down: he’s a bald yapper, bar owner, and shit-sirrer. He is single and bald, apparently used to toxic relationships, and down to ki and talk shit with Lindsay, while bald.

But now Kenny has a girlfriend, Whitney. Whitney insists she is not boring, just like a person who is not boring would do (...). So for Gavin, this means no more daydrinking with Kenny. No more showing up at his apartment sans invite. No more publicly razzing Kenny for being a whore. Tale as old as time. Gavin clearly resents this, and exorcises his hurt by publicly needling at his friend’s new relationship, ostensibly to be a good friend, but more likely to humiliate them and/or force a breakup so he can get his bro back. (Occum’s razor: Gavin is in love with Kenny. Fanfic forthcoming.)

In the finale, Kenny calls Gavin out on all the public needling; Gavin cries; they reaffirm their commitment to shared bro-dom. Phew.

Next, Lindsay and Yvonne. Yvonne is introduced to us as Lindsay’s bestie of…a long time, lots of years, I’m not going to look it up. Their friendship is predicated on their commitment to “being real with each other” and an apparent shared addiction to playing oversize board games in astroturfed venues across the Financial District.

But this friendship gets rocky in episode seven, when Lindsay scream-fights (Lindsay villain) through what was supposed to be Yvonne and Nick’s third wedding celebration (Yvonne villain). They hash it out on their “fall getaway weekend to Connecticut,” something we all of course look forward to with our 12 closest coworkers every autumn. Lindsay, may the good lord bless and protect her at all costs, approaches conflict in love and friendship as discrete battles to be won or lost — she always wins. But Yvonne, in a talking head, zooms out to give context that would’ve made the entire season far more interesting had we known it up front:

Ever since she had a baby, my relationship with Lindsay has changed. I think Lindsay finds me to be a little annoying, and I kind of find her to be a little annoying sometimes, because I think she thinks that all of her stuff is more important than mine. We’ve always been on the same page, so it’s a huge adjustment. And like, I think we’re trying to figure out how we fit into each others’ lives like, in this moment.

Interesting! Relatable! Taking a swing to characterize your relationship with the person who put this entire cast together as kind of fraught!

Our third example: Kyle and Carl, which is Summer House, but allow me to cheat/argue for why Carl should be on In The City. As we watched Kyle and Amanda’s relationship devolve in tedious detail last summer — the audience has now suffered two seasons of Amanda’s limp grasps at narrative control — we saw Kyle reaffirm Carl Radke as a central figure in his emotional life. And Amanda did the same with Ciara but, well, we know how that went. As their marriage is no longer an emotional core for either party, Kyle and Amanda both open themselves up for friendship again.

This gets at, fucking finally, something actually interesting about rich people in New York City finally deciding to grow up. Kenny gets a live-in Pilates bunny; Lindsay gets a baby that can show her face on Bravo; Kyle gets a divorce. These aren’t just Life Moments, but shifts in priority — and, in their cases, away from best friendship and onto something, someone new. These new loves understandably call for a reassessment of priorities.

In these three friendships — and we see it borne out throughout the cast in less pronounced ways, too, I think — In The City asks: What is the state of the millennial friendship? Is it possible, or even desirable, to maintain pre-responsibilities friendships as a central part of our lives as we age? Once babies and marriage enter the picture, is there space for friendships as whole and fulfilling and natural as they were before? For some, the question might be: How do I maintain friendship if we can’t party together all the time? For others, it’s more like, How can someone without a kid possibly relate to my life right now? If life is about career and family and friends, and you can only pick two — well, fuck.

And in truth, this shift isn’t all about husbands and babies. It’s about aging in and of itself, too. I am not engaged nor family planning, but still, I’ve felt my social circles shrink in my 30s. I find I need more time to rest and exist in my own thoughts, and prioritizing that eats into friend time. I better understand my body’s need for weeknight routine — gym, dog walk, air fry salmon while silently catching up on Bravo, write, read, Jeopardy! — and that can feel more nourishing than filling my schedule with other people. It’s curmudgeonly. It’s so boring. My eyes are drying just reading that back. Yet these boring rhythms make me feel more myself, more embodied.

Whatever the cause of the life change, these inflection points often dredge up an uncomfortable question: Which friends are for a season of life, and which are for keeps? To even wonder it evokes a specific kind of heartbreak.

I’m drawn to these questions because my anxiety has been digging at them lately. So of course, I hope the answer is yes, that people in different life phases can maintain emotional intimacy. The friendships must evolve or go the way of the Irish Elk. Yet they can’t be altogether unrecognizable — they must retain some kernel of why two friends buddied up in the first place. It’s a delicate balance.

I am, unfortunately, not in charge of what show gets another season and who gets axed. I don’t think In The City season one was good, but I also just wrote 1,500 words about it, so what the fuck am I even saying? If cameras pick up again in the fall, I’d say this:

• Keep Kyle and Lindsay. Axe everyone else from Summer House, plus SOs. I don’t need Danielle and Lindsay to work it out. I feel Amanda has been dishonest and manipulative on this season of In The City and has no natural friendship with anyone on the show post-Kyle. I keep forgetting Andrea is there.

• Keep all of the new crew. (Except Katie Arundel née DeLuca (“KATIE DELUCA!”), obviously, who I guess was entirely edited out of the season despite being a main cast member?)

• Get Carl’s little marathoner ass on here!!! He’s too old and too sober for the Hamptons share house and I’d like to see him and Lindsay queen out together.

• Give Georgina more airtime. That woman’s a freak (complimentary).

Yet, once again, no one asked me. Xo!

In my estimation based on vibes alone, the Age of Enlightenment feels aesthetically feminine. Think: wigs, stockings, salons, penning heated exchanges of ideas with feather quills, those gay little buckled shoes. But it was also the age of the rise of science, rationality, a move away from reliance on the divine; boy things. By coincidence, this Gaytrix ended up fairly lopsided towards the femme-top quadrant. Much to consider.

It is my hope and expectation that this chart forces you to rethink everything you ever thought you knew about American history.

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Philadelphia, 1776: Gaggles of men convening to argue over semantics. The neoclassical architectural revival. A huge bell. 18th century Philly was a high-minded place where shit got done.

Philadelphia, 2026: Eagles culture. Cheesesteaks. M. Night Shyamalan. 21st century Philly is, lovingly, not the bastion of thought it was 250 years ago.

13, the number: Due to its luckiness (Taylor Swift) or unluckiness (Fridays), 13 wields an undue amount of power for a number, hence, top. Regarding presentation: even numbers are boys, odd numbers are girls.

The concept of a truth being self-evident: “Because I said so”? Whatever you say, queen!*

Jefferson locking himself away to write for 17 days: An attempt to masculinize the inherently passive act of letting creative spirit embody you. The method acting of writing.

John Adams: Perhaps America’s fussiest bottom.

Being endowed by your creator with certain unalienable rights: Well it is in the passive voice.

John Hancock’s John Hancock: That is one curvaceous J, my friend.

High treason, as friends: When you think about it, the Continental Congress was kind of the original Ocean’s 11.

Life: Its fluidity and fundamental unknowability make life femme, and life is always the one in control.

Liberty: Brings to mind riding a horse with one’s hair down in the style of Felicity, the American Girl Doll.

The pursuit of happiness: Is there anything girlier than prioritizing smiling? Please.

*Thomas Jefferson

Why?

No really, why? You have $2 billion. You could have your wedding anywhere in the entire world. You don’t need to build a fake castle; you could buy a real castle. Why (allegedly) construct a castle inside Madison Square Garden?

What is your definition of “tacky”?

How did you come to terms with having no natural light at your wedding? Does that concept not activate your flight or flight response in any way?

Is this a control thing? Is forking over some complete control of the structure and environment in exchange for authenticity not worth it? Castles, real ones, have that irreproducible scent of cold, thick, ancient stone. Have you ever smelled a really old castle?

Him?

Or is it about acoustics? Are you prioritizing the sound quality of your (rumored) wedding performers? That, I kind of respect. But was there no way to make sure Stevie Nicks sounds good that doesn’t involve Jim Dolan?

Who made this 1,000-person guest list? Did you review it?

How are you able to discern whether someone is a real friend to you or just wants a piece of you? What variables determined whether a person (or couple) made your wedding invite list?

Really, have you ever considered purchasing a castle? Here, look at all these castles for sale. And these are the shitty ones. Don’t you think you could find a really nice castle off-market?

What role did Travis play in the planning process? Did you guys spitball ideas? Get a whiteboard out, say, “No judgment in brainstorming!” and then take that mantra way too seriously? Is whatever hellscape you’re constructing inside a 22,000-person basketball arena in Midtown in part the brainchild of a Kansas City Chiefs tight end? I am naive and hopeless and have to believe, for my own peace of mind, that part of whatever monstrosity this wedding will unveil itself to be is Travis’ doing. But I know better. I know who the creative director is. Am I wrong?

Will Travis be reprising his Michigan J. Frog-esque look from his appearance on the Eras Tour?

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What’s your idea of a good party?

What’s a sign you’re looking for, at the end of your 1,000-person wedding in a fake castle in a basketball arena, that this whole thing was a success?

Why on a Friday? Did another couple have MSG booked for Saturday?

What is it like to have immense talent and terrible taste all at once?

Will Tree Paine be there working or celebrating? Do you actually think it’s possible for a person to do both?

Is this all a ruse to distract the public and sneak off to have a tiny, chic wedding in peace? Am I delusional?

Is this all a ruse to get Matty Healy, the only interesting man in which you’ve ever shown romantic interest, to speak now or forever hold his peace? Are you delusional?

Why, after all this time and all these mid albums and all this cringe posturing, do I even care about your wedding plans? Why do I take this personally? Is it my Stockholm Syndrome — or rather, my Folklore Syndrome? Is it an ingrained allegiance after 20 years of knowing about you? Is it that we’re both baked in the same millennial soup? Do I see myself in your cornball optimism? Is it that we’re both 5’10” and fall ‘89 babies? Or, is it that you make me feel connected to the version of myself who had boundless, expendable emotional energy, a version of myself I’m unable and unwilling to let go?

Did you hear that guy who went on a stabbing spree in Penn Station last month?

If you overheard a guest gabbing about your wedding to a friend the next day, what would you hope they’d say?

What do you think (or hope) will feel different about your life when you wake up on Saturday morning?

No Gaylor, but could you please provide me with a thorough breakdown of how “Dress” could possibly be about a man?

Could you provide me with the contact information for whatever middle school English teacher made you this way?

We’re back to season eight of Love Island USA, which, I’m told, is the most forwardly sexual season of any Love Island franchise to date. The show established episode one that every new person gets to lock lips with every other existing Islander of the opposite gender and, unfortunately, can’t stop now. And it certainly didn’t stop on Sunday’s episode, when the boys got to Casa Amor and met six new ladies positively frothing for their attention.

For the uninitiated, Casa Amor is a second location nearly identical to the Villa (apparently outfitted by IKEA’s Güünner collection, too). Crucially, Casa Amor contains a suite of hot new girls to tempt the boys and put their Villa connections to the test.

Here’s how the boys meet the Casa Amor girls this season: The six boys sit in a row on a long bench. Each Casa Girl presents herself to instant, uproarious applause. The girls (and the boys too, for that matter) are each dressed to perform an occupation found in The Busy World of Richard Scarry: firefighter, nurse, construction worker, etc. I’m not entirely sure why; don’t ask such questions about Love Island. Each Casa Girl then goes down the line of boys and gives each a lap dance of sorts, ranging from delicately kissing his neck to laying him on the ground and bouncing on his face.

It goes without boys are absolute fucking dogs in Casa Amor. They look like Ed, the nonverbal/cross-eyed hyena from The Lion King, drooling and gnawing on a zebra femur. You can all but hear the blood rushing to their loins. Little do they know that, in a twist particular to season eight, the girls they’re coupled up with are back home in the Villa, watching this all go down in real time by means of a large television concealed in a massive gift box.

The boys truly and literally see Casa as a gift. When they [Corbin voice] GOT THE TEEEEEXT that they’d be heading over to the second location, they’re like little boys on Christmas morning. They hug, they jump on each other, they shriek in silence so the girls they’ve (mostly) been pretending to like don’t hear. They all but fall to their knees and weep: We’re about to meet hot, horny girls.

As someone who’s been on planet earth for [REDACTED] years, none of this behavior is surprising. This is how young men are together. They love to bark at women in packs. To plop in front of a conveyor belt of gorgeous girls determined to impress you is the hetero-masculine dream.

But thinking about sex, talking about sex, and watching sexual acts is a normative part of straight male friendship from a young age. Every guy I know has a story about watching porn with their friend, at least as kids. One guy in my eighth grade class famously “tea-bagged” another at a sleepover — which, fine, that guy turned out to be gay, but still. A little later, they’ll go to strip clubs together. And we’ve all spent ten years unwillingly understanding the executive branch of the U.S. government’s definition of “locker room talk.”

What I’m talking about here is homosocial behavior. The sexuality-neutral term refers to the same-sex camaraderie — for men, it’s the kind of behavior one exhibits when no women are present. (Or, maybe they’re technically present, but only as objects half-naked on stage.) This is a whole field of research unto itself, and understanding homosocial relationships is a key piece of the gender studies puzzle. What do men get out of all-male environments? What do women get out of girls’ nights — socially, emotionally, physically? The answers can help us better understand our society and politics.

A recent, preliminary study out of Stanford found affinity for men and concern with male reputation as motivators for male bonding time. But a third top factor stood out to me: a desire for status and approval from other men.

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That’s all I could think about watching Casa Amor. Not about queer theory — watching Love Island, my brain is functioning at the same wavelength as when I awake in the night to pee. But these boys as Casa Amor, out here hooting and hollering for every girl that struts down their row, they’re not responding to the girls. Not really. They’re hamming it up for each other.

To the boys as Casa, in this homosocial context (where the girls are props), outwardly expressing their sexual fervor is to gain status with each other. It’s alpha behavior. It’s masculine. It’s straight.

But, also. How is sitting on a bench with your five bros who you’re trying to impress while you’re all hard and/or trying not to get hard…not kinda gay?

Sure, they’re looking at the girls. It’s not like they’re looking at each oth— oh, wait, yes they are.

I understand that I am not in the demographic in which Love Island USA casts its nets. I’m a mid-30s lesbian with an SSRI prescription and a Substack. I would be terrible on Love Island. I’d be too busy reapplying sunscreen to go for chats. When called upon to perform a lap dance, I would offer a tepid gyration “as a joke” and compulsively blurt out a 30 Rock quote as a flirtation offering.

Still, it must be said: I cannot imagine exhibiting to my friends the kind of outward raunchiness that straight men experience together. Sure, girls get male strippers for bachelorette parties and LA dykes loooooove Jumbo’s Clown Room. But the centrality of arousal in straight male friendships has long fascinated me. Part of me (the gay part) is a little jealous. There’s a playful openness about lust that I find sort of charming and funny in roving bands of young men. But the other part (the woman part) is, uh, scared.

…And then there’s these two.

Zach and Bryce are the will-they-won’t-they of Love Island USA, season eight. Both men are ostensibly straight, but have formed a genuine bond during their three-plus weeks in the Villa. The exact nature of that bond is…up for debate.

The two talk through their girl-related feelings together with ease. They listen to each other without judgment. They exhibit a comfort and joy in each others’ presence that I don’t see in any hetero pairings on the show. But things ramp up in episode 15, when Bryce asks Zach for the now-infamous “girth check,” pictured above.

Minutes later, the two chat under a neon sign that reads, All The Feels in loopy pink script, and the exchange somehow gets even more explicitly sexual. Bryce asks Zach for a girth check review. “Long,” says Zach. “It’s nearly fucking my boner, that was.” Bryce clarifies that Zach only saw his “semi.” Okay.

It is…tough…to read this interaction as totally heterosexual. And clearly, production is playing into the online chatter that’d been brewing about Zach and Bryce’s close friendship prior to this episode — since the show is filmed and cut in real time, the fandom and the edit are in conversation. Which is all to say, I don’t know what’s actually going on with these guys.

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I do know that Zach and Bryce are well aware they’re mic’d and being recorded 24/7. I do know that they know they’re on a straight dating show. And so I must conclude one of two things:

1) they’re fucking with us, or

2) Zach and Bryce understand this behavior as locker room talk, as “boys will be boys,” as just a hair more explicit than watching your bro get a lap dance. They understand there’s a playful horniness in (straight) male friendships, that the lines can be blurry. They understand that it’s acceptable — even masculine! — to be kinda gay with your bros.

Straight or closeted or DL, bromance or romance, Zach and Bryce seem to believe that is behavior they can play off to the masses as homosocial camaraderie. Whether or not the masses believe that, too, is a different story.

Is this genuine bro-dom, or real desire masked as bro-dom, or somehow both? I genuinely don’t fucking know. Obviously, I go to bed every night praying on my knees to God that these are two gay guys in Fiji low-key falling in love. But I don’t know how locker room talk actually works. I’ve never been inside these all-male spaces, by definition. I can’t say with any authority whether a 100% straight guy might girth check another. (Robby Pettit, however, has lots of good stuff to say on the topic!)

I don’t know what happens in men’s locker rooms. But I have enough guy friends to understand that a men’s locker room full of straight guys is far gayer than a locker room full of straight girls. And probably gayer than most lesbian locker rooms, too, for that matter. And I just think that’s interesting!

Perhaps for that last reason, Olivia Rodrigo has had me nostalgic for being 23 all week.

Olivia’s new album, you seem pretty sad for a girl so in love, is holistic and fully formed and her best work yet. It charts her two-year relationship with a vampire-looking British man who I only Googled for the first time last Friday: the buzz of first attraction, the coziness of newfangled love, the immediacy and infiniteness of every feeling all at once. And, of course, it documents what happens when a love you thought would last forever comes to an end.

Love is a swirl of contradictions. It embodies the feminine and masculine; it begs us to both top and bottom, sometimes, impossibly, all at once. So let’s throw you seem pretty sad for a girl so in love onto the Gaytrix, shall we?

Notes

Being a Pisces: Olivia is a Pisces, a Pisces’ Pisces. Not only that, but her birthday is February 20 (…2003…), where alien-brained Aquarius meets the dreamy intuition of Pisces. Or, what my friend Anna Dorn and I refer to as The Genius Cusp. Other Genius Cuspers include Kurt Cobain, Rihanna, Kristen Doute, and many more.

Purple (the color): This is perhaps the most straightforward data point I’ve ever Gatricized.

Having maggots for brains: This track was apparently inspired by Miranda and Steve on Sex and the City. We all knew who the butch top was in that relationship. And having ones brain colonized by legless larvae is deeply masc behavior.

Mini-dress and a vodka cran: The most clear-cut example of high femininity on the album. But it’s the “open heart” that throws this line into the bottom-right quadrant.

Honeybee (the animal): While wasps and yellowjackets read masculine, the fuzzy exterior of a honeybee gives it a literal softness that reads feminine. Despite this, the honeybee’s sheer presence routinely causes panic amongst picnic-goers — top behavior.

Sucking toxins: The healer: an ancient profession of femmes.

Robert Smith: To be a fan of Olivia Rodrigo is to be intimate in touch with the feminine divine. Also, this is the man who wrote “Boys Don’t Cry” — no chance my eyeliner-wearing king is ever seeing the left side of this chart.

I’ll be transparent: I’m new to Love Island USA. I watched 11 episodes over four days and now I’m all in on the current season. Why is a 36-year-old lesbian suddenly interested in a livestream of 22-year-old hets sucking face? Perhaps it’s the scientific scrutiny of this petri dish of heteronormativity. Perhaps it’s the apparently seismic music budget. Perhaps I simply can’t resist the sculpted, tattooed, swimsuit-clad bodies of nursing home assistants and elevator maintenance guys.

Love Island is a show full of horny, sweaty, twenty-somethings making out, ostensibly in search of true love. They kiss constantly. In games, in bed (they all sleep in the same room, each couple to a bed), and splayed across neon daybeds in the villa, these kids are sucking face 24/7.

And we’re not talking about polite pecks here. The Islanders make out like all have lollipops for uvulas: big, sloppy, full-mouth kissing. They look like my dog on a peanut butter mat. They look like two loofa holders that found each other instead of a shower wall. They kiss, as Americans do, like they’re hungry. And when Islanders kiss, the audience gets it all. The cameras go tight. The mics catch every slurp. To incinerate those lav mics post-production would be a great service to humanity.

All of this face-eating is, I suppose, the point of Love Island. I personally have to look away in these moments. (I am old, gay, worried for the well-being of these mentally ill adolescents.) But perhaps viewers are titillated by all this tonsil-hockey. Love that for you!

The hookups are certainly the point of Love Island to the contestants and to production. The show wants, even needs the Islanders to keep swapping spit with each other. Even (especially!) with people who aren’t their partners. The show needs them to get tempted. It needs them to make their partners jealous. It needs them to second- and third-guess whether maybe, actually true love is as simple and legible as a really good kiss.

And without booze to fan those flames, the show requires a mascot hooting and hollering at every tongue-shove. The show requires Ariana Madix, horndog extraordinaire.

This is Ariana’s third season hosting Love Island USA, and she’s very good at it: charming, hot, a compelling big sister/therapist/camp counselor figure to the Islanders. A lot can change in three years. Then, she was known best as the scorned ex-girlfriend of Tom Sandoval on Vanderpump Rules. Now, she’s Miss Love Island, her face plastered across Peacock and Los Angeles bus shelters. Then, her future seemed to hedge on a rom-com themed(?) sandwich shop in West Hollywood. Now, she seems unaware that said sandwich shop still exists. Then, she was blonde. Now, she’s brunette. Everything’s different.

Scores of Love Island fans only know the current Ariana. But for me, a late-in-life disciple of Vanderpump Rules, watching her whole Love Island persona is a total mindfuck.

Ariana was often described as a “fan favorite” throughout Scandoval, and I guess that’s true. She was brought on in season two as the Villa Blanca bartender with whom Tom would flirt (and possibly cheat on Doute) and eventually date. She was always a chill girl, a reprieve from the near-constant adderall-induced tirades of the other SUR girls. Here was her vibe in season two:

While she emerged as the clear winner of Scandoval, Ariana isn’t a terribly interesting figure on Vanderpump Rules. Watching her, one gets the distinct impression that she would not have sought a career in reality television were she not dating a guy on a reality television show. She seems disengaged and above it. She takes sketch comedy very seriously. Towards the end of her run, Ariana is open about her desire to binge Love Island rather than party with Tom. And while I love that for her, it’s unfortunately not very interesting to watch a reality star watch reality television on reality television, unless it’s Scheana Shay in a trailer 100 yards away.

On Vanderpump, Ariana played herself. And “herself” was “had a braid across her forehead” and “low on serotonin for several consecutive years.” On Love Island, Ariana plays a character: the horned-up goddess of heterosexual lust and coupledom.

When present, it’s the task of Ariana Madix, a 40-year-old bisexual, to ensure the Islanders kiss as much as possible. She has to egg them on. She has to perform the smouldering horniness of Vicky in accounts payable watching Heated Rivalry. And she does. When they kiss, she bites her lower lip, coyly, intrigued. She stares, her mouth slightly agape, a stand-in for viewers. During a game in episode one, Islander Aniya opens a door to find both KC and Sincere in front of her. Ariana girlishly purrs, “She gets two boys…”

To do anything less than to moan and hoot at frat basement exhibitionism of people half her age could jeopardize the show. To respectfully look away could result in self-conscious kissing, and thus, boner-killing — a veritable sin on Love Island.

And so, it is the duty and responsibility of Ariana Madix, Queen of the Villa, to goon out.

Coming from Vanderpump, this version of Ariana is amusing and strange to behold. She’s a longtime Love Island fan, but Ariana was never too open about her sexuality on Vanderpump Rules. She dated Sandoval for eight seasons, then once they broke up, immediately got together with her current boyfriend, Daniel Wai, who seems hot and nice and boring (complimentary), much needed post-Scandoval.

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In season eight, Ariana came out as bisexual. We’ve never seen her date a woman publicly, though. This is NOT me doing “bi girls dating men” discourse on Substack dot com — not this pride month!!! It is just to say, we don’t know how Ariana moves with women. With one exception: the time, in season seven of Vanderpump, when Lala went down on Ariana in the back of a car for a while while Sandoval drove them around. Okay! But we only know that because Tom blabbed on-camera, which made Ariana livid. But still, the whole seemed less about desire and more about Lala wanting to cure Ariana’s vagina insecurities? I don’t know.

dyke drop

The Vanderpump Rules Pride Episodes, Ranked

It’s June in Los Angeles, which means my anxiety is buzzing along at a steady, throbbing hum for 30 consecutive days…

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3 months ago · 33 likes · 7 comments · grace perry

What I do know is that after only knowing Ariana as catatonically depressed in Valley Village with her trumpeter not-husband, Ariana’s performance of heterosexuality on Love Island feels like a fever dream.

I don’t hold any of this against Ariana. Far from it! Honestly, this seems like the first job she’s ever had that she actually liked — I’d probably performatively horned out for the face-suckers if I were here, too. And it’s a job she’s very good at.

Rather, the goonification of Ariana Madix is just one example of how Love Island blows heteronormativity up to its most extreme version, to the point of complete clownery. It’s goofy. Love Island is a sort of funhouse mirror for heterosexuality, stretching and contorting the customs of straight attraction until we’re trapped in the uncanny valley of sexual desire. And that’s why it’s so fucking fun to watch.

There is not a shred of queerness on Love Island. Not in the intent or the structure of the show, at least. Sure, contestants have been bi, and girls have coupled up on other seasons, but those have been (happy) accidents that likely sent line producers spiraling. Ariana herself recently said the show is “very gendered, very binary,” and that she’d love to see more queer couples on the show.

But you know what? I don’t need that. I think I prefer the petri dish of heterosexuality. And now that I’m (finally) here, I’ll make like Ariana and simply gawk.

As you can see, this was a fairly femme-toppy episode. What does that mean, exactly? Your guess is as good as mine!

your bravo group chat will love this.

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Notes

Jesse Solomon: It’s not about Jesse Solomon, but it’s not not about Jesse Solomon. The timeline Jesse laid out on Instagram shows he got lied to and gaslit a whole lot. According to Andy on Watch What Happens Live post-reunion, the Michael Bublé knockoff had been stifling tears for half an hour before Andy called on him — the poor, big, 6’5” lug. Femme bottom behavior, needless to say <3.

Kyle as Emma Thompson: See here.

Talking about feelings instead of feeling feelings: This goes for both West and Amanda. Masc behavior, top behavior, something-I-personally-have-been-working-to-undo-in-therapy-for-several-years behavior.

Lindsay’s Venus tattoo: This is some real ‘90s dyke shit. I tremble to imagine the power Lindsay will wield should she ever ascend to her final form.

West’s “Cheating” rebrand: Manipulating syntax is as feminine a tool as eyelash curlers.

Feelings that “flood in:” The way Amanda describes her feelings with West — that she not only didn’t cheat with him, but that she didn’t even feel anything for him until after she separated from Kyle — does not align with human behavior. Attraction is not a light switch, not fully. I have to imagine her insistence on this version of events is for legal cover during her and Kyle’s eventual divorce proceedings.

“BEN WANTS TO SAY SOMETHING!”: BEN WANTS TO SAY SOMETHING!

That’s all for now — until the Episode Of Conversations.

The sight of a rainbow-ified corporate logo sends me into fight-or-flight mode. Not out of cynicism, really, not in Trump 2.0. Rather, with respect to Pride, the score my body keeps is a series of booby-trapped events through which the gay gods compel us to survive. June in LA is a Home Alone house full of ex-girlfriends and ex-situationships and ex-matches and ex-said-we’d-just-be-friends-and-now-we-just-watch-each-others’-close-friends-stories. Los Angeles is massive, yet not at all.

But you know who doesn’t have weird hang-ups about Pride Month in Los Angeles? The (original, canonical) cast of Vanderpump Rules. There’s got to be something I can gain from their collective seven brain cells. And so, I turn to them for guidance on surviving — or even celebrating! — Pride Month in L.A.

Let us learn by the sexual misadventures and binge-drinking fueled psychoses of our rag-tag group of SURvers. Here are all eight of the Vanderpump Rules Pride episodes, ranked.

8. Season 8, Episode 6: “Your Pride’s Showing”

You know we had to start out with season 8. This season is sort of the trenches — not quite season 9 trenches, but it’s still giving French-Belgium border c. 1916. Half the cast has bought matching farmhouse-style new builds in Valley Village. TomTom is open and the Toms have those horrible matching white suits and the motorcycle. Lala got sober. Ariana’s so depressed and also publicly bisexual. Raquel is with James, and works at SUR and gets confessionals now. James is DJing at TomTom for Pride under the conditions of sobriety, though he’s obviously wasted.

Also here is a whole slate of cast members who only last one season, working at SUR and TomTom. Scheana, impossibly, still works at SUR, and is terrorizing the new girls in some attempt at psychological reclamation of the years Stassi spent bullying her. One of those season eight girlies is gay now; slay.

Celebrate Pride like you’re watching Season 8 of Vanderpump Rules: Hang out with a bunch of people you don’t know and you’ll never see again.

7. Season 7, Episode 2: “Hope and Pride”

SUR is back with another Pride party, this one 80s themed — Scheana loves it and I’m just happy when Scheana’s happy. DJ James Kennedy is spinning beats, including an original track (“White Kanye” era) and “Good as Gold,” which Scheana “performs.” That is, she scream-sings it on the bar like it’s karaoke. Again: I’m happy when Scheana’s happy.

By season 7, Doute has honed her Douteness. She and a girl named Hope sneak into SUR by scaling a chain-link fence to Raquel face-to-face that Hope has been fucking James for three years — the entirety of James and Raquel’s relationship. Hope is ostensibly coming clean, of course, in the name of honesty and girl code. Certainly not so Doute can publicly humiliate her ex-boyfriend.

The episode goes downhill from there. The fallout is unfun to watch. Raquel “doesn’t know what to think” and confronts James, who goes ballistic. James has been caught, and is Tazmanian Deviling-his way through the SUR back alley to defend himself. “EVERYONE’S OBSESSED WITH ME!” James screams, as an explanation for why Hope, Doute, and everyone else they’ve ever met says James cheats on Raquel indiscriminately.

James rips cigs with frantic desperation. Katie Maloney catches body-negative strays. Beau is wearing a shirt that says “GAY FOR PLAY” (???). It all kind of sucks.

Celebrate Pride like James: Terrorize your loved ones indiscriminately and avoid introspection AT ALL COSTS.

6. Season 3, Episode 7: “New Girl, Old Grudges”

Frankly, the Pride Parade portion of this episode is kind of a snooze. Lisa is only throwing a party at her new baby, PUMP, right down the block, so SUR is completely dead. Everyone gripes about the lack of tips. “Vail” is being inorganically thrust upon viewers. Scheana is in wedding planning mode and wearing pink eyelashes; Stassi says they look like “two butterflies landed on her eyelashes and shit a crayon.”

But! The season three Pride episode is also Kristen Doute’s infamous green dress episode. We watch as Kristen straightens her hair and puts on her face and slips into a mini-dress with a plunging neckline to pick up mail from her ex-boyfriend, Tom Sandoval, for what we’re told is the third time since their breakup. “I’m totally gonna have a nip slip today,” Doute, full of hope, tells her new boyfriend, a 23-year-old twink/obvious revenge prop named James Kennedy.

Despite this canonical scene, the Pride Parade segment is lacking. Hence the low ranking on this list for an all-time great Vanderpump episode.

Celebrate Pride like Kristen Doute: Let a toxic cocktail of delusion, insecurity and vengeance guide what you wear, who you fuck, and when to register for mail forwarding with the U.S. Postal Service.

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5. Season Six, Episode 7: “It’s Not About The Pasta”

It’s admittedly difficult to track when James Kennedy is on or off the wagon, but at Pride 2017, he’s decisively off. James is plastered at SUR with his femme-for-femme-for-femme polycule: his new, bobble-headed beauty queen girlfriend, Raquel, and a gay guy named Logan. In a confessional, James explains that Raquel fills his emotional needs, and Logan fills his party-boy needs. Okay.

But — there’s no getting around it. The vibe is very much that James and Logan have hooked up. And unfortunately, James’ nonstop machismo bluster only shines a brighter spotlight on his utter twinkdom. Throughout the party, they grab each others’ heads and whisper in each others’ ears. At one point, James and Logan share a chair, with their arms around each others’ shoulders, each making accusations that the other is in love with him.

“Me and James, we have a very deep relationship,” Logan explains to Raquel, who is also, against all odds, present. “So, for me, it’s like, I just always look out for him.”

“Yeah, but there’s something going on,” says Raquel. The James-Logan allegations aren’t quashed in this episode, and then Raquel spends three more years in a miserable relationship with James before agreeing to marry him.

As often happens, Jax puts it best: “Watching James and Logan for like two seconds, I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know, it’s weird. I just don’t know who’s the top and who’s the bottom.” Is it homophobic if it’s true?

Celebrate Pride like Raquel: Immerse yourself in the most uncomfortable threeway of all time.

4. Season 5, Episode 6: “Pride”

Ah, the famous post-Pulse shooting Pride episode. It’s Sunday morning and the SUR staff is reeling upon learning about the tragic massacre at the Pulse nightclub in Orlando the night prior. Katie, Stassi, Schwartz and Sandoval gather under Tom and Katie’s BUBBA art to discuss whether they’re going to go into work. (Neither Stassi nor Schwartz has worked at SUR/Pump in years.) They’re scared and frightened. Sandoval ugly-cries. “As if they haven’t been oppressed enough!” says Tom Schwartz of the gays.

Ultimately, Sandoval bravely decides to go into work to pour shots into gays’ mouths. Ariana does too, as do Jax and Brittany (Jax sent Peter a “good luck” text, but Britt made him go). Peter, who is dressed like a mortician in his confessional look, of course cannot breach the electric fence Lisa installed around the SUR perimeter for him. Lisa is riding in the parade with a bunch of British people on a red double-decker bus with a sign reading, “LOVE IS GREAT!” Okay.

The episode turns into an uplifting story of how Pride is a time for the community to come together under the generous pours of Tom Sandoval’s tequila bottles . The deaths in Orlando even inspires Tom to tell Ariana how jealous he is that she’s writing a cocktail book without him. And that’s what Pride’s all about!

But this is why pre-Scandoval Tom was so endearing: his earnestness and his progressive(-ish) politics. (Though he did vote for Spencer Pratt earlier this month!) Tom’s support for the queer community feels authentic because Tom is deeply simple. He appears unable to or uninterested in grappling with anything more complex than Pumptini-shaking. He is a one-dimensional creature, most comfortable in the presence of other one-dimensional creatures.

But that sensibility, especially coming from a straight guy, really works at Pride. If straight men are simple creatures who only understand drinking and fucking, then what’s not to understand about Pride? Tom’s full-throated allyship, if limited and perhaps self-serving, works because it strips all the politics and bullshit aside. None of this stuff — gender and sexuality — is all that complicated, actually. Because we’re actually all just sweaty, horny sacks of meat trying to survive on a burning planet. If this dumb bitch gets it, why can’t everyone?

Celebrate Pride like Sandoval: Above all else, center allyship.

3. Season 4, Episode 6: “Love Bites”

Something…happened…to Jax Taylor between seasons three and four of Vanderpump Rules. By some ungodly confluence of steroids, filler, a couple nose jobs, losing Stassi for good, the high of newfangled Bravolebrity, booze and cocaine, Jax has acquired a new face.

Likely due to the final two on that list, Jax is on the fucking moon during the season 4 Pride episode. No matter — Jax has a job to phone in.

This episode represents Jax at his SUR bartending finest, by which I, of course, mean worst. The bar is packed for Pride. A woman orders a strawberry mojito from Jax. “No. I don’t wanna make hard drinks,” says Jax. This man is completely unfamiliar with the concept of enjoying a cocktail. No, for him, alcohol is simply a void-filler which pours shot by shot into the vacuous, gaping hole inside himself. Also, he’s a very lazy and bad bartender, and seemingly blackout drunk in this scene.

“I’m not gonna muddle shit. You’re here to get wasted.” Jax decides this woman will have a tequila shot instead of a mojito. He picks up the bottle of Patron, then drops the entire bottle directly into the ice well. It shatters. All the ice is covered in glass and needs to be changed out. Jax is too drunk to do it.

Celebrate Pride like Jax: Never let your “job” get in the way of your various festering addictions.

2. Season 1, Episode 2: “This Is A Break-Up”

It’s season one, episode two, and Lisa Vanderpump is all in on Pride — sorry, Gay Pride, as it was written in the ancient texts of 2012. It was a different time.

Lisa has wrangled a friend, Kevin Lee, to art direct (?) the two SUR parade floats. The vibe is very, Look, I found a gay guy to tell us what to do. Great! But seriously, who is Kevin Lee? Who is this middle-aged gay who refuses to remove his sunglasses indoors? This man, ostensibly Lisa Vanderpump’s friend, crops up intermittently throughout the first few seasons of Vanderpump Rules — typically at the West Hollywood Gay Pride Parade.

No matter. The two brainchildren of Kevin Lee each drip in radioactive pink fuzz, donning signs reading SUR & BP MAJOR, and amble down Santa Monica. (The latter is, apparently, a DJ.) The SUR gang is strewn across the two floats: Stassi, Kristen and Katie on one, and Scheana (“whore”) and Jax (“manwhore”) banished to the other.

The primary drama of the episode occurs when Scheana, at Jax’s request, applies sunscreen to his back in a categorically non-sexual fashion. Stassi witnesses, goes apoplectic.

Back at SUR, Doute, of all people, calls Scheana “classless and inappropriate.” Stassi sobs in the SUR back alley. Lance Bass makes his first of many Vanderpump appearances. A terrible time is had by all. A tone is set.

Celebrate Pride like Lisa: Let some gay guy, any gay guy, dictate your outfit, behavior, and business strategy.

1. Season 2, Episode 6: “Lisa’s Angels”

For me, no VPR Pride episode could possibly beat season 2. Kevin Lee is once again helming the SUR Gay Pride moodboard. This year, the theme is White, and it involves the male employees wearing gigantic angel wings à la Victoria’s Secret models. They hate it, but agree to the costume, along with having SUR airbrushed to their chests in hot pink.

The pièce de résistance (sorry for all the French), of course, comes from one Scheana Marie Jancan Shay-to-be. (We need to invent an inverse of née, because who the absolute fuck is Scheana Jancan?) Lisa has invited Scheana to perform on the SUR floats for the duration of the WeHo Pride Parade.

The thing is, Scheana has released one (1) song into the world, a truly terrible dance track titled, “What I Like.” Sandoval calls it, “Can You Freak, Bitch?” — it’s a line from the bridge and is, I think, a much better title. So she makes a playlist that’s composed of her one (1) song 44 times in a row, and puts the playlist on loop. Why not just put the song on loop? We’ll never know. But this tidbit gives us a peek into the creative genius behind the lyric, “Cause you got what I like / You got me going out of my mind.”

The physical, emotional and psychological pain that 88 consecutive listens of Scheana’s One Song conflicts on Stassi makes this episode (good as) television gold. But, mentioned, I’m just happy when Scheana’s happy .

Also of note: Jax has the Stassi tattoo on his bicep and is fresh off his breast cancer scare self-imposed non-FDA-approved supplement cocktail induced cyst; Scheana’s ankle has healed but she’s keeping it wrapped just so she’s, “like, aware of it;” Doute sliding into full Tom-Ariana psychosis.

Celebrate Pride like Scheana: Never, ever let anyone tell you to shut the fuck up.

If you made it this far, god bless you. If you think I got the order wrong, please fight me.

Kenny is a self-described “work hard, play hard” venture capitalist who lives in NoHo. He’s the kind of guy who offers to help the moving guys carry boxes, but once they leave, won’t help his girlfriend unpack. Kenny’s current dilemma — apart from being a Loverboy financier — is that his avian-boned girlfriend, Whitney, just moved to New York and doesn’t have friends.

This relates to his other drama: his beef with co-star Lindsay Hubbard. Lindsay, lest you need reminding, is a 10-season veteran of Summer House and the reason the spin-off In The City exists. The latter follows Hubbard and her friends, some from Summer House (Kyle, Amanda, Danielle, Andrea) and others from real life (Georgina, Yvonne, Gavin) as they talk about each other over salads at various outdoor lunch venues across Lower Manhattan.

But to Kenny, the women in Lindsay’s life aren’t her friends. They’re her minions. He’s dropped that word every episode so far: e.g., “Lindsay and her minions,” by which he means Yvonne, Georgina and Amanda. This seems to come from his insecurity that Whitney has no friends in New York, and hasn’t slid seamlessly into the girl group, and if Whitney doesn’t have friends then there’s more pressure on him as a partner. Still: minions. Kenny sees Lindsay as a domineering tyrant of the group, puppeteering the women to do her evil biddings.

Allow me, for a moment, to revolt against every instinct in my nervous system and take Kenny’s allegations seriously. Perhaps Lindsay Hubbard does have minions. And if that’s true — that she manipulates Georgina, Yvonne, Amanda and now Danielle to execute her attempts at domination — then does that make Lindsay Hubbard Felonious Gru, a.k.a. Gru from Illumination’s Despicable Me franchise?

Let’s dive in.

Both Lindsay and Gru toggle between villainry and heroism.

Felonious Gru enters Despicable Me as a supervillain, only to learn that lifestyle is incompatible with his true calling: parenthood. He later works as a spy for the Anti-Villain League. Gru is ultimately a Good Guy, but he’s always tempted to return to the thrill of villainry.

Similarly, Lindsay’s newfangled parenthood interrupts her villain arc. But was she ever really a villain? To many, sure. HubbHouse is undeniably a pitbull, always on her haunches. And especially when pitted against the Paiges, Hannahs and Ciaras of the house, Lindsay has rarely been positioned as the protagonist of Summer House.

But throughout her eras — Everett, Everett fall-out, singledom, “Stravy,” Carl psychosis, all the way to single momdom — I’ve always felt so strangely loving towards her. Maybe it’s her commitment to the bit. Maybe it’s that she’s so clearly a hurt little girl fighting for her life out here in Montauk. Whatever it is, Lindsay, like Gru, is always a hero in my book.

Both Lindsay and Gru are addicted to hatching plans.

The most unshakeable quality shared by Lindsay Hubbard and Felonious Gru is their sheer delight in hatching a master plan. Gru, for example, famously stole the moon. Similarly, in season five of Summer House, Lindsay famously laid out a two-year “Timeline 4 LIFE,” from dating in March of 2020 to married and pregnant by July 2022. While her itinerary didn’t pan out as such, surely Gru would commend Lindsay’s commitment to plan-hatching.

I realize these two plans aren’t quite on the same tier of difficulty; shrinking and pocketing the moon is far more feasible than convincing Stravy to marry Lindsay.

Both Lindsay and Gru have inscrutable accents of unclear origin.

Lindsay is a white woman from Florida, and speaks with a voice unlike any other I’ve heard come from the mouth of a human being. Her voice is, in a word, loud. Not like a foghorn, but a car horn, one being laid upon in standstill traffic. Her voice is brash and broad and quacking. She speaks not with a southern lilt but with a vague lisp? I would be delighted to welcome slumber with a Lindsay Hubbard sleep story.

Similarly, Gru speaks with a vaguely eastern European accent of intentionally unspecified origin.

Both Lindsay and Gru exercise suboptimal conflict resolution styles.

Lindsay, a Leo’s Leo, is infamous for her belligerent fits of rage. Her tirades, which are typically directed at romantic partners, are the stuff of her most meme-able moments (e.g., “How many sandwiches have you made for me?”). Yet after ten seasons on Summer House, the audience has, by some work of magic, become endeared to Lindsay’s bellicose tantrums. Lindsay is not a verbally abusive, fame-hungry operator; she is merely activated.

Gru, for his part, often settles conflict using a Freeze Ray. Created by his in-home inventor, Dr. Nefario (he’s sort of the Danielle Olivera of the Despicable Me franchise), this gadget can freeze opponents in place. Just like screaming at a loved one unflinchingly for minutes on end in the kitchen of your Hamptons sharehouse, deploying a Freeze Ray fails to facilitate clear, honest, open communication, yet has its charms.

Both Lindsay and Gru have undeniable star power.

I think we can all agree that both Gru and Lindsay Hubbard know how to wow a room. Gru, for his part, is about four minions tall, which puts him around 14 feet. It’s impossible to ignore that kind of physical presence, especially when combined with his topheavy, V-shaped physique.

But we can’t all have a body like Gru. The internet puts Lindsay at 5’8”, but no matter — she more than makes up for it in presence. Take, for instance, the Summer House season 10 reunion, where she wore a red, asymmetrical draped gown that screamed revenge, even though the drama at hand (the West-Amanda of it all) actually had nothing to do with her. Very Gru of her, in a spiritual sense.

Both Lindsay and Gru exercise unwavering commitment to their personal brands.

When it comes to personal branding, no one can out-do Lindsay Hubbard. As a longtime publicist, she deeply understands her on-camera character. Case in point: the T-Mobile commercial which featured a Lindsay Hubbard pull-string doll that, when yanked, asked, “How many sandwiches have you made for me?” Deeply unclear how this relates to wireless provider coverage.

No one can out-do Lindsay except, that is, Gru. The retired villain extraordinaire is rarely spotted without his signature look: black slim fit dress pants, chic black boots, a stone grey turtle neck under a black wool blend zip-up, and of course, his gray-black striped scarf. Can Gru grow head hair? It doesn’t matter — even if he could, he’d shave it, as he understands his shiny white skull is everything to his public persona.

Both Lindsay and Gru created mini-mes.

Not only do both Lindsay and Gru’s character arcs bend towards parenthood, but both created tiny clones of themselves. In addition to his three adopted daughters, Gru is father to Gru Jr., a baby boy with a wispy flame of red hair and Gru’s signature striped scarf fastened around his neck. Lindsay unfortunately did name her daughter Lindsay Jr., but Gemma, who, according to Hubbard, can deploy a vicious death stare just like mommy.

Interestingly, both Gemma and Gru Jr. are babies whose names begin with G, a fabulous letter with which to begin a name.

Both Lindsay and Gru have loyal sidekicks named Kyle.

Gru’s Kyle is a spiky-toothed, dog-like monster with a penchant for gnawing on human limbs. Lindsay’s Kyle is a blonde-haired, dog-like creature with a penchant for blacking out and falling asleep in common spaces.

Both Kyles are deeply loyal to Gru/Lindsay. Only one Kyle has cursed out his wife on national television.

Conclusion: Lindsay Hubbard is not Gru. Gru is Lindsay Hubbard.

Could Gru wear shoulderpads to the beach and pretend to be surprised by an engagement? No. Could Gru bring an ultrasound of Gru Jr. to a sharehouse full of childless adults experiencing various ages of arrested development? Of course not. Could Gru strike fear in the heart of his lover/nemesis by threatening to sleep in a bed, with a guy — then later tell that same person to “bow to her fucking feet?” with convincing delivery? Absolutely not.

But could Lindsay punch a shark in the face? Given the opportunity, I think yes. Could Lindsay command an army of 3.5-foot-tall, banana-obsessed mischief-makers to do her bidding? Easily. Could Lindsay shrink and pocket the moon? She probably already has.

Lindsay could do everything Gru has done, sure. But Gru could never successfully maneuver even one summer of a Hamptons sharehouse.

The second installment of the Summer House reunion aired this week, and the people have been clamoring for me to Gatricize it.1 So here you go, sickos.

Notes

Taking A Moment at work: Taking a little break at work — that is, the art of carving out pockets of leisure where one can — is the divine feminine. And stretching that break out to the point where all your coworkers are sitting around, asking where you are? That’s what I call taking the reins. Of course, the situation I’m referencing is Amanda leaving the Summer House reunion stage. Amanda scampered off to her dressing room to elude confrontation and/or discussing her feelings, a level of emotional avoidance often observable in tops.

“Pathy:” Lindsay wielded this dainty, whimsical shorthand for pathological liar (no context or explanation necessary) with precise violence. Pathy would make a beautiful name for a baby girl, wouldn’t it?

KJ’s aversion to womanizers: Protect KJ at all costs (which unfortunately means get him off reality TV).

Levi’s polite departure: I’m just proud of her for getting invited.

Massages with Ciara and Mia: Leisure, as mentioned above, is a feminine pursuit; making vague plans with your best friend that you may or may not follow through on is an even more feminine pursuit.

Carl’s low squat: My man has been working those hip openers.

“I agree” – West Wilson: Dara showed up rehearsed, blocked, and off-book. After reading West for filth — “You like people to think of you as a good guy, but you treat the women who give themselves to you like they’re expendable” — all he could do was agree. Which, ultimately, is in itself an example of West wanting people to think he’s a good guy.

Amanda’s fuck ass bun: Much has been said about Amanda’s fuck ass bun, and now, dyke drop dares to weigh into the discourse. While I do think the ‘do technically skews slightly femme (long hair), Amanda’s fuck ass bun emits zero sexual aura of any kind. It thus reads as neither top nor bottom. Thank you.

Kyle’s shitty behavior: Collective amnesia has been completely domme-ing the Summer House fandom ever since the West-Amanda scandal dropped.

Meija’s waiver: Legal documents exude strong butch energy: boring language; no pictures or imagery; exude strength; ultimately serious and unfun. That they are binding/unyielding places them in the butch top quadrant.

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I, like so many, cannot stop thinking about part 1 of the Summer House reunion, and am left with no choice but to Gaytrix-cise it. Let’s dig in, shall we?

The Gaytrix: Summer House Reunion, Part 1

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Notes

#TheStatement reaction: That ntroduction was some of the most riveting media I’ve consumed of late. The fact that Kyle and Lindsay just happened to be taping In The City confessionals when it dropped? Getting Mia and Jesse and Carl on the horn? Gorgeous.

Amanda re: West’s nudes: Kyle noted how strange it was to see Amanda and West sharing a dressing room on reunion day — true. But the real pearl-clutch, for me, was Amanda peeking over West’s shoulder as he was viewing his own leaked nude photos. Looking at a photo of West’s dick! In front of Ciara and Kyle! And then (jokingly? I guess?) asking why she’d never received one! Some of the most gay guy-coded behavior I’ve seen from a woman on Summer House.

Amanda and West’s (alleged!) drug cocktail: Benzos and beta blockers are some of the most high femme drugs out there, and they utterly dominated Amanda and West on reunion day. Femme top down.

Lindsay’s dress: On the one hand, succumbing to the desire to make yourself the center of attention is bottoming. On the other hand, Lindsay understood that she has been honing her power for ten years to be unleashed for a reunion like this one. While the WestManda scandal wasn’t technically about Lindsay Hubbard, it, like everything, actually was about Lindsay Hubbard. To so confidently stand in one’s truth is, to me, toppy.

Ciara’s texts: I have to imagine all 488 unread text messages are from Ciara’s ICU patients, seeking updates on their health status. In any case, the most toxically toppy move to pull in the modern world is to not reply to a text.

Amanda’s Memoji: I had to pause and wipe tears from my eyes.

“Ear stuff”: An inherently masculine phrase. The unspecificity of “stuff” could not be further from the divine feminine. Toppy, but only in the most technical sense.

West’s pick-up line: Both Amanda and West seem to believe that attraction is its own entity that showed up in their lives unannounced, and that they have no choice but to yield to it. Even in this pick-up line, West refuses to accept desire as something he owns and wields. Rather, it is a force beyond him, that he is merely acknowledging. This is not how I understand attraction, but go off, I guess.

Bailey’s “JACKASS” moment: West and Amanda are, of course, the major villains of this reunion, but I’m very pleased to see Ben getting heat, too. This exchange had me ascending this mortal plane.

KJ’s mental health: BPD is for the girls. Be well, my sweet prince.

It’s season two, episode seven of The Traitors. Twelve players remain. By this point in the season, Pilot Pete has accrued a band of unyielding devotées — “the most faithful of the faithful” — including a former Member of Parliament and Trishelle from Real World: Las Vegas. But moments ago, MJ from Shahs of Sunset was swiftly dismissed from Pilot Pete’s closed-door planning session. It’s possible you missed this pool table scene; it’s possible the sight of MJ timidly bunching her oversized jeans could’ve scrambled your brain cells, rendering you unable to process what came next.

Sandra, the first two-time Survivor winner (it should’ve been Parv, but whatever), knows reality show gameplay. “He has an alliance of five people,” Sandra tells us in a talking head. “So it’s a numbers game.”

On the billiards table, Sandra amasses a blob of five, mixed-colored balls: that’s Pilot Pete’s alliance, she explains. Next to it, she lines up seven red pool balls: that’s the rest of them. They don’t yet have a natural seven-person alliance. But now, Sandra argues, they need to have one. The only way for them to stay alive is to vote in a seven-person bloc — or else, Pilot Pete’s gang will pick them off one by one.

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It doesn’t matter that some of them are on Bravo and some of them are on Survivor. It doesn’t matter that Sheree has had zero clue what’s happening since the moment she stepped foot in Scotland. It doesn’t even matter if one of the seven of them are a traitor, since Alan will replenish the turret the second they successfully vote one out anyway. It’s Survivor logic: The longer you stay in the majority, the further you make it on the show.

It’s all about maintaining the numbers in your alliance.

When it comes to The Traitors, Sandra Diaz-Twine Pool Ball Theory is ingenious. But now, they’re doing Sandra Diaz-Twine Pool Ball Theory on The Valley, and it fucking sucks.

The alliances of The Valley

The Valley is ostensibly a show about a millennial friend group in the San Fernando Valley, figuring out how to retain binge drinking-oriented lifestyles while raising toddlers. In reality, it’s a show about two warring alliances of millennials, figuring out how to retain binge drinking-oriented lifestyles while raising toddlers.

It might not be a vote-to-eliminate show like The Traitors. But regardless of format, the longer you stay on a show — whether that’s the closer you get to the altar in Love Is Blind, or the number of seasons you tuck corners on Below Deck — the more cultural staying power you accrue, and the more brands that come knocking. The cast of The Valley knows this. And considering Jason is the only one with any tangible skills (how is his still a working lawyer while on a Bravo show??), they all need to outwit, outplay, and outlast.

The teams are as follows:

In Alliance #1, we have Danny and Nia, Doute and Luke, Zack (and Benji by default), Jasmine (and Melissa by default) and Jesse (and Lacy by, it goes without saying, default). Opposing them is Alliance #1: Janet and Jason, Michelle, Lala, and Brittany. Schwartz is floating around saying nothing of interest, which is where Britt would like to be, too.

Upon further analysis, I’m forced to conclude that the two tribes are in fact, Creeps And Creep Apologists and The Leftovers.

The lefthand column is a precarious house of cards, comprised of the following:

Creeps And Creep Apologists

Core Alliance #1: Danny and Nia

I’m constantly baffled by how hard the Bravo fandom appears to ride for Danny and Nia. Nia is an apparently nice and very pretty ex-beauty queen. Her husband, Danny, is a mid-transition werewolf who, it bears repeating, trafficked his wife to Santa Clarita to breed her.

Personalities aside, Danny and Nia are very upfront about not wanting to air their dirty laundry on camera. One issue, though: They are being paid to appear on a reality television show where their job is to air their dirty laundry on camera.

The two are committed, above all else, ensuring they look good on TV. Or, rather: Danny and Nia are committed to ensuring Danny looks good on the show, which is often difficult. When Danny drinks, he gropes his friend’s girlfriend’s ass, mocks friends (coworkers, at least) for being “triggered,” and embarrasses his wife by acting like a jackass.

Still, their North Star is the same: Always make our relationship look good on camera. How do they still have this job?

Core Alliance #2: Doute and Zack

Ah, the twisted union foraged by the hellish fires of not getting invited to Janet’s group babymoon in Big Bear. I love these two agents of chaos as compatriots in the war against irrelevance. Mostly because their fights tend to be tedious and incomprehensible, as neither is particularly articulate.

Rosy-cheeked fisherdad and Mr. Doute to-be, Luke, is looped into the Zack alliance by inertia. Luke has no agency here. Theoretically, he and Kristen are an alliance unto themselves, but mostly he is a whimless outdoorsman utterly baffled as to how he ended up on reality television. The same goes for Benji, Zack’s darling, if mute, Canadian beau.

These two core alliances merged in season two, when Kristen and Nia bonded over their fertility journey. Fine; believable. Also, I believe Kristen is in love with Nia and fantasizes about running away to raise their five children together as one blended family on a lemon grove outside the city (Kristen tells people it’s Ojai, but it’s actually more like Ventura-adjacent), but I digress.

Secondary Alliance #1: Doute and Jesse

These two went from enemies to friends in season two, episode one, when Jesse apologized to Kristen and told her she was right all along: His (now) ex-wife, Michelle, was a whore.

This pairing has always struck me as weird. On the one hand, Jesse is a strange, mercurial man, who might genuinely flip-flop and want to queen out with Doute and Zack. On the other hand, I think it’s possible that upon splitting with Michelle, Jesse realized he was a floater and sought to align himself with a load-bearing reality veteran and antagonist of his ex-wife, who he remains committed to terrorizing to this day.

With Jesse comes Lacy, who I’m coming around on.

Secondary Alliance #2: Zack and Jasmine

Or: The Gays. These two are allegedly actually friends (and former roommates?); citation needed. Jasmine, I fear, has established permanent residency in the plotless asylum. To pay for her black tie lesbian wedding, she needs to stay in with Zack — he’s a buy-one, get-eight deal these days, The more Jasmine can ingratiate herself with Team Creep, and the safer she is.

The Leftovers

While Team Creep is a Jenga tower of haphazard coalitions, their opposing cohort exists as exactly that: in opposition to them.

Janet and Jason vs. Danny and Nia

This couple-on-couple rivalry shows no sign of cooling anytime soon. After feuding all of season two, Janet eventually characterized Danny’s drunkenly groping Jasmine’s girlfriend as “sexual assault.” Danny and Nia seem to regard a sexual assault accusation as more harmful than sexual assault itself. Janet (and Jason) are dead to them. Irredeemable vibes.

Michelle vs. Jesse

I do need to see Jesse Lally and Dr. Dre interact.

More VPR alums: Brittany, Lala and Schwartz

They’re also here. Brittany is a bit of a floater, like Schwartz, but her wishy-washiness in friendship with Zack and Doute disallows her from joining Team Creep. Brittany is currently the “MJ wearing a sheer top and anxiously bunching her baggy jeans getting dismissed from the room” of the group. Lala is tight with Michelle, and perhaps introduced her to Dr. Dre via 50 Cent, but that’s all wildly unclear to me.

Why Sandra Diaz-Twine Pool Ball Theory Sucks on The Valley

Enough Charlie Day-ing in front of the whiteboard. Who cares if there are feuding groups on a TV show? Isn’t that what reality TV is all about?

Well, sure. But The Valley is a show about shit-talking your friends, then eventually confronting them, and then, ideally, moving past the issue and then binge-drinking together, in a fun way.

But being part of an alliance on this kind of show means that you don’t shit-talk or confront any of the people within your alliance. Which, for Team Creep, is a lot of people. The Valley is a show about a boisterous friend group full of big personalities and even bigger personality disorders. But when the cast assembles itself into placing two discrete and inflexible buckets, it flattens the entire show. It traps the plot in the same repetitive fights. It renders their friendships inauthentic. It makes the show…well, boring.

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Specifically:

Everyone is afraid to call Danny out on his weird drunk behavior. This came up in episode eight of season three, after Lala called Danny out for being drunk and mean to Nia while wearing a wig that made him resemble Astrid from How to Train Your Dragon. If you come for Danny, you’re met with the shrieking wall of Doute, Zack, Jesse, and Jasmine.

Janet becomes the scapegoat for everything. I get it. Janet is annoying and random and way too excited about being on reality television. But the amount that Team Creep blames her for is tedious and unearned. It feels like the easiest way to make friends on The Valley is to shit-talk Janet, which feels disingenuous and is, ultimately, uncompelling television. (I say this, yet here I am writing an 1800-word dissertation on it.)

The gays are, I guess, cool with Danny’s freaky Christian misogyny? Ultimately, I just don’t believe that Zack and Jasmine even like Danny and Nia. Nia is pretty and nice, which, to be fair, goes a long way in Los Angeles — though I can’t speak for Santa Clarita culture. But Zack, you clawed your gay ass out of Kentucky just to suck up to this posessive patriarchal creep in LA? I just don’t buy it.

The leftovers can’t confront each other. Their numbers are too small! They need each other! Janet, in particular, can’t do anything this season but intermittently beg for Nia’s forgiveness.

Michelle is trapped in Lala Land. Not that I’m like, clamoring for more Michelle Saniei on my television, but we only ever see her when she’s a) in a screaming/crying match with Jesse, or b) talking to Lala about her screaming/crying match with Jesse.

I’m now forced to stan Lala Kent. The feeling I experienced watching Lala eviscerate Danny on the group trip to San Diego must have been what audiences felt when seeing film in color for the first time. And to top it all off, Lala later characterized Kristen’s relationship with Danny and Nia as what is it: an alliance. And now, here I am, grateful that at least one person on this cast isn’t afraid to genuinely rock the boat.

Give They/Them Lala.

One moment, I’m in my kitchen in Los Angeles, hunched over a bowl of air-fried salmon and staring dead-eyed at Peacock on my iPad, like the well-adjusted adult woman I am. Two little words emerge from Rosie Woods DiMare’s mouth and in the next moment, I’m in a filthy Boston-area frat basement, surrounded by a sea of girls in identical two-tone American Apparel minidresses throwing themselves at Division III baseball players with Picasso paintings for faces. The jungle juice is flowing; “Low” by Flo Rida pulses through the subwoofers.

Those words, of course, are slam pig.

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Welcome back to The Real Housewives of Rhode Island. It’s episode eight, and Rosie and Kelsey are still beefing. Or, given the terminology du jour, let’s say they’re Boston Butting heads. (I’m so sorry.) Here’s how we got here:

• In the pilot, Rosie, a (former) local news reporter and certified shit-stirrer, inquires behind Kelsey’s back whether Kelsey is a “polygamist.” She means polyamorist, I think. Kelsey is and never has been married. She was, though, a kept woman to a wealthy older man from age 20 until season one, episode six of The Real Housewives of Rhode Island. She and her ex both had multiple partners. So!

• At an undetermined date pre-filming, Kelsey (preparing for her new, sugar daddy-free life as a…glam girl?) gave Rosie a haircut. Rosie did not post a picture of the haircut on Instagram; Kelsey still feels slighted into the summer. Rosie maintains it is not her job to take a picture of the back of her head. In her defense, Kelsey has not worked in a decade, and probably hadn’t the slightest idea what any of her job might entail.

  

• In February (also pre-filming), Rosie said she and her husband “Rick” (I think? Not gonna check) were building an 8,000-square-foot addition to their home. By July, that number dwindled to a paltry 5,000 square feet. Rosie says their plans changed; Kelsey maintains Rosie lied to sound richer or something.

• On a group trip to Newport in episode five, Kelsey gives a backhanded compliment to Rosie, praising her for finally acting genuine. Rosie, understandably, doesn’t like this. They decide to move past it and try to be friends. In an attempted olive branch, Rosie invites Kelsey over to give her another haircut, with the promise of a post in return.

Which brings us, finally, to slam pig.

First: It must be said that Kelsey is a former beauty queen, and was thus never forced to develop a sense of humor as a coat of armor. This is unfortunate now, as she’s on a television show and lacks any/all comedic intuition. This particular dearth becomes clear when Kelsey rolls up to Rosie’s home/gargantuan construction pit blaring a siren and yelling from a megaphone:

“Rosie Woods, this is the house police!” (...House police…girl…I know you can do better…) “Suspect says 8,000 square feet. More like…8,000 inches.”

It’s an inscrutable joke, yes. But also, it’s too soon. Rosie does not laugh. They go inside, where niceties quickly disintegrate. Kelsey maintains her megaphone bit was 1) a joke (I believe her!!!) and b) funny (I do not believe her). Voices rise, and within minutes of Kelsey’s arrival, Rosie screams at her to leave.

Rosie appears to be in a sheer blind rage, now listing everything she dislikes about Kelsey at the decibel of a jet engine. Her performance background comes in handy, because this girl can project. Rosie’s diaphragm rips at full capacity, and Kelsey can’t keep up. Rosie claims Kelsey’s sugar daddy paid off the judges to secure her Miss Rhode Island victory. A producer holds Rosie back. She is a woman possessed. Rosie’s dog, Clemmy, looks on, despondent.

Rosie is a woman possessed. And then, something guttural emerges from her, something primordial and ancient, and she delivers the regional slur heard ‘round the world:

“ACTUALLY, KELSEY? EVERYONE IN RHODE ISLAND KNOWS YOU FUCK MARRIED MEN. EVERY SINGLE FUCKING PERSON. YOU’RE A FUCKING SLAM PIG.”

And just like that, I am nineteen again.

Slam pig is an oldie. For the pure of mind, a slam pig is a derogatory term for a promiscuous woman, unattractiveness inferred. It is…not an empowering phrase. There’s something so specific and violent and cruel about it — slam pig. It sounds like it slaps you. Woof.

Slam pig also sounds like a term gay guys would have adopted, reclaimed, and celebrated by this point. “Will I see you at the slam pig afters?” Slam pig sounds like it should’ve been one of the gay niches from that one episode of Happy Endings.

However, it’s not a gay term — not yet, anyway. Slam pig is a New England term, which checks out from my personal experience. I first encountered the phrase via a friend at Boston College, who shared that when BC bros of the late-aughts referred to taking certain girls home as “taking a slam pig to the slam farm.” Rosie verifies slam pig as an artifact of the region as well. On The Real Housewives of Rhode Island After Show Podcast (if a show is only streamable on Peacock and not on any audio platforms, is it a podcast?), she reports, “A slam pig is a very New England term. And I don’t know why I used that term — I think I was just like, so tired of her shit.” Okay!

For what it’s worth, fellow housewife Alicia Carmody insinuated slam pig is her phrase. Citation needed.

The Real Housewives of Rhode Island is a cast of millennial women. Kelsey (Miss Slam Pig), Rosie, Ashley and Jo-Ellen are all in their 30s, and Alicia is 41. The Gen X outlier is weed queen and throuple-haver Liz, who is — well, Liz is developing menopause gummies with Dolores Catania. By and large, these are women in my cohort. Rosie and I were both in college in Boston together at the same time. They’re not the first predominantly millennial Housewives cast (that’d be new RHONY), but they are the first good millennial Housewives cast.

I can’t speak to its specific etymology, but according to The Internet, slam pig emerged in early-2000s Boston-area. It’s a relic of a pre-SlutWalk, pre-MeToo millennial adolescence. It comes from an era when it was acceptable — encouraged! — to be abjectly terrible about/to any woman who had sex. See: the relentless public dehumanization of Britney Spears; Janet Jackson getting blacklisted for her Super Bowl “wardrobe malfunction;” tabloid/paparazzi culture; Girls Gone Wild; all MTV content, 1998-2008. See: Girl on Girl: How Pop Culture Turned a Generation of Women Against Each Other by Sophie Gilbert for more horrors.

This isn’t to say kids aren’t terrible to each other now, or they’re not absorbing violent misogyny via YouTube and manosphere podcasts and Sam Levinson TV shows. But unlike today, the slam pig era featured no mainstream feminist counter-narrative of equal measure to combat the dominant slut-shamey culture. Most young girls didn’t have the language to articulate why such outlandish misogyny was so awful. It’s just the way it was. Sally the Slam Pig was a whore.

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Despite all the political and social change since the 2000s, the mainstreaming of feminism and queer politics, we can’t undo the fact that millennials came of age in this sexist sludge. We were fighting for our goddamn lives back there! That fucked up self-image and worldview, those defense mechanisms steeped in abject cruelty, they’re all still in us. And when pushed to our limits — for example, when our frenemy who we clearly fucking loathe shows up to our home screeching via megaphone in a Strict No Siren Ordinance community, which simply cannot be a thing re: emergencies — that sludge can unleash itself unto anyone within screaming radius.

Perhaps, for veterans of a 2000s adolescence, all that fetid aughts misogyny is still curdling within each of us, ready to be deployed at the next bitch to question the size of our home addition. Perhaps there’s some version of slam pig within more of us than would like to admit.

Or, perhaps, Rosie Woods DiMare is just the kind of girl who calls women slam pigs left and right.

For what it’s worth, I wouldn’t say I like Rosie, per se. I was not rooting for her in this interaction. But I do think she’s an essential worker on The Real Housewives of Rhode Island. Please join me tonight at 8pm as I step outside and bang pots and pans for Rosie Woods DiMare.

The Gaytrix: May 15, 2026

Notes

May 13, 1986: A day that sent seismic ripples through the universe. Rob Pattinson is well acquainted with the divine feminine, unafraid to sublimate himself to serve a role. See Famesick re: Lena’s sexual exploits. Happy 40th to them both.

Olivia Rodrigo: Regarding the outrage over the pop-rock star sporting bloomers: Open The Schools. Alternately, read Brittany Spanos in The Cut.

Mick Jagger: To be a Zara Larsson fan is to be, spiritually speaking, in a place of bottoming. Especially you, Brenda.

Ryan Lochte: …………..Oh! Well then.

Luann’s Nurse Day post: To nurse is to top. To nurse with this this haircut is to top butchly.

Drake’s triple album drop: [Millennial who was 22 when Take Care came out voice:] Let’s hope one of these three albums gives “my girlfriend is mad at me and it’s nighttime.”

Carlos Alcaraz: God love a man who isn’t afraid to be objectified! Carlito might be benched for clay season with a wrist injury, but here he is covered in the stuff for the cover of Vanity Fair. (And here’s his butt.) I wish I were a gay guy so I could fully appreciate this shoot.

Pope Leo in Nikes: I’m choosing to assume this is a nod to him dunking on JD Vance re: Catholic social teaching. More Vatican fanfic forthcoming.

West Wilson making a lesbian joke on this week’s Summer House: Well, goddamnit.

The Devil Wears Prada 2 was never going to be as good as The Devil Wears Prada. For many reasons, chief among them: I am no longer the same age as I was when The Devil Wears Prada came out.

The Devil Wears Prada came out in the summer of 2006, in-between my sophomore and junior years of high school. I saw it with my two best friends, Jack and Jack, at the 600 North Michigan theater downtown. None of us were out at the time, (2006, Catholic school, please see The 2000s Made Me Gay for more information), but we all knew, in our bones, we were all gay. But — no! We just coincidentally all happened to love movies like Election and Saved! and Cruel Intentions.

And, it turned out, The Devil Wears Prada. Ever the opinion-haver, within seconds of stepping out of the theater, I gave my take:

“I…don’t understand fashion.”

Jack and Jack burst into laughter. And I did too, surprised by my own bluntness. These were two closeted gay boys who bathed in the escapist fantasia of high fashion The Devil Wears Prada delivered so well. What was (in part) the draw of the film for them was just a big, strange, question mark to me. I watched Andy Sachs get excoriated in her frumpy cerulean sweater and plaid knee-length skirt and thought, I wear that exact outfit to school three times a week. I watched Miranda Priestly purse her lips at James Holt’s red dress with a big front bow and could not articulate a reason it was ugly.

I don’t understand fashion. This is perhaps the most honest movie review I’ve ever given, bravely deployed minutes after The Devil Wears Prada ended. I really bore a part of my little soul in those four words.

But, seriously. Was runway fashion something other 16-year-olds instinctively understood? Is personal style an innate sense for others? I think I was expecting Jack and Jack to get what I was saying, at least a bit: Isn’t all this kind of bullshit? Does anyone actually know what they’re talking about? At a certain level, they’re all totally faking it, right?

I did not receive the affirmation I’d hoped for.

It was clear upon viewing The Devil Wears Prada that I knew nothing about anything, especially fashion. In search of guidance, I turned, naturally, to television. Specifically, I turned to these two emotional terrorists:

TLC would run marathon reruns of What Not to Wear during the mornings that summer. I’d park my nose inches from the 55-inch TV in my basement. I hoped, I suppose, that my closet would be born anew by sheer act of bingeing.

What Not to Wear (2003 - 2013) was hosted by Clinton Kelly and Stacy London, two “fashionistas” in New York City. Each episode, a new Sad Sack — some tragically schlubby soul, often cursed with a psychosomatic attachment to garish patterns — would come to New York for a makeover week with Clinton and Stacy. The Sad Sack was nominated by a friend, a coworker, a relative, who knew the real Sack was in there somewhere, and she wasn’t so sad. This nomination was presented by the show (and ingested by me) as an act of selflessness on par with kidney donation.

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Clinton (gay guy, obviously) and Stacy (now a dyke, slay) would peruse Sad Sack’s closet and recommend every item for immediate incineration. Then: Shopping!!! The gays gave Sad Sack what I perceived as a bottomless budget (it was $5,000) to spend at Manhattan’s most elegant boutiques (H&M). Sad Sack would try on outfits, and Clinton and Stacy would give their two cents:

“It’s either loose top with tight pants, or tight top with loose pants. Never loose-loose or tight-tight.”

“You’re 5’7” — That’s just about the height where an A-frame can really come into play.”

“Now, with your skin’s grey undertones and your yellowing eyes, you’re really going to want to lean greens and browns. When you’re shopping, think: Could I realistically camouflage in a bog in this? If the answer is yes, then go for it, girlfriend!”

This sort of thing. Clinton and Stacy spoke with such terrifying confidence — I had to assume these rules of fashion were etched into stone tables and handed to them from on high. Personal style, I gathered, is not actually about wearing what you like. It is about decoding your weird body using a guidebook written by two catty and overbearing gay people.

As a 16-year-old, the stakes of Not Getting The Rules of Style Right felt dire. The rules, per Clinton and Stacy, were not something that fluctuated with time and trends and bodies, but a list that could be learned via rote memorization. Once I learned those rules, I could express my optimized personal style, and understand fashion. If I couldn’t, it probably meant I was gay, which was of course terrible.

Sad Sack went on to get a haircut from some guy, and a makeup tutorial from a woman named Carmindy. (Love Carmindy, great vibes.) And then, about 26 minutes later, the makeover was complete. But the most harrowing scene was saved for the final minutes, when all of Sad Sack’s loved ones would gather in a nondescript bar for The Big Reveal.

Sad Sack would enter, and the room would erupt in cheers and applause. Sad Sack was no longer thus, but Sack Who Has Figured Out What Cuts And Colors Best Suit Her. Upon beholding New Sack — fresh cut, dyke job, a high-waisted skirt that flattered her tummy with a tucked blouse and kitten heels — loved ones would even cry.

“She has such a beautiful soul,” an older sister would say, “And I’m so relieved that her outward appearance finally matches her interior.”

“She’s an ICU nurse and gives everything to her patients — I’m just glad she’s finally giving herself that same care and attention, too.”

“I always knew this version of her was in there, somewhere.”

That sort of thing.

After my post-Devil Wears Prada confession, I was terrified that Jack and Jack would submit me for What Not To Wear. I imagined what they might say about me in my Big Reveal.

“She wore this hideous cerulean blue sweater and a frumpy knee-length skirt to school three times a week,” one Jack would say through misty eyes.

“She really did. That’s so true,” the other Jack would nod solemnly. “I’m glad the world can finally see the beautiful spirit we’ve always known is in there, hiding under all those hideous sweaters.”

I was relieved to recall that I was a minor and that my mother would never, ever allow for me to be the subject of a TLC makeover show.

But the message of What Not To Wear was clear: There is an idealized version of yourself within that can, and should, be expressed externally. Your fashion is an expression of your soul. No big deal.

Luckily, I went into The Devil Wears Prada 2 long free of closet brain. Not that the much-anticipated follow-up film had much to nothing to say about fashion. The first one did — my understanding of the art form begins and ends with the cerulean monologue. The Devil Wears Prada 2 is instead about journalism, billionaires, and AI. It comes down on the right side of all three issues, though no character’s worldview is tested in earnest, even momentarily. Andy has an emotional arc, I suppose, in the form of the chinless Australian contractor. But that whole plot line could’ve been snipped with zero consequences.

But who cares! It had Miranda Priestly being mean! Tucci speaking Italiano like a little cunt! Lucy Liu (in Vermont??)! Emily Blunt back in what remains the best role of her career! Andy Sachs not knowing how to shut her fucking mouth and just be like, COOL for fucking once! New York, City of Dreams, baby! Lady Gaga! Milan! Fashion!!! I, for one, thoroughly enjoyed the film. I would recommend The Devil Wears Prada 2 to anyone scrolling an in-flight entertainment menu.

Twenty years later, I can’t confidently say I understand fashion. Certainly not in any articulate way. But I can scroll through Met Gala round-ups and say, “Ugly. Ugly. Hideous. Cute. OOH, love that. Ugly. Ugly. Hudson Williams, that’s quite enough out of you.”

And you know what? I don’t even care if those takes are right or wrong. And that’s called freedom, baby.

The Gaytrix is comprised of two spectrums: top to bottom, and butch to femme. You get it. The following is determined by 1) vibes, 2) energy, and 3) my feelings.

Here’s what happened this week, in the life of me, pop culture, and the internet.

The Gaytrix: May 10, 2026

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Notes

• The Devil Wears Prada 2: Too many “remember the first movie??” wink-nudges, unclear whether there was a single character arc, but very fun! I went in with low expectations and they were exceeded. While I loved seeing the band back together — Emily Blunt is still the funniest of the bunch! — this iteration of Miranda Priestly feels goofy and toothless. I wanted to be afraid of her, at least at first, and I was not. Miranda Priestly drunkenly pouring herself rosé while wearing Keds and capris, even in the Hamptons? Please. She came across more as the butt of the joke rather than the one who sets the terms. Still loved though.

• Jake Shane: We need to bring back gatekeepers.

• “Rock Music” by Charli XCX: “Wow / I’m really banging my head / I’m really hurting my neck” are not lyrics conceived from a place of topping.

• Middle of Nowhere by Kacey Musgraves: I’m not a Kacey evangelist, but I’m loving this new album. It’s the first of hers since Golden Hour that I’ve actually chosen to listen to more than one time.

• Maximum Strength Mucinex Rapid+Clear Nighttime Cold & Flu: I’d be absolutely nothing without this diva this week. I’ve had a run-of-the-mill cold since Tuesday (thoughts and prayers, please) but have managed to be lights-out by 9:30pm each night thanks to her. Mucinex, I’m open to sponsorships.

• KJ from Summer House: An earnest share about a late brother? On the week of my own late brother’s birthday? How dare you, KJ from Summer House. I guess there’s one Summer House boy it’s still okay to emulate.

• Nicole Kidman: A Met Gala co-chair claiming an entire color? You know what? She can. Unequivocally dominant behavior.

• The David Geffen Galleries at LACMA: The new wing, designed by Swiss architect Peter Zumthor, is absolutely massive. The collection in this brutalist structure is allegedly organized around four bodies of water — the Pacific Ocean, the Atlantic Ocean, the Indian Ocean and the Mediterranean Sea — and their coastlines. In other words: the theme is the entire world. Ancient Chinese textiles? Sure! A Studebaker? Yup! Performance art featuring a single mournful violinist, a very slow dancer, and a cyclist popping a wheelie around the gallery? Okay! Still, I am desperate to go to a cocktail party here. If anyone knows any filthy rich Brentwood girlies planning a wedding, know that I am an excellent plus-one.

• Jane Fonda’s Ted Turner tribute: Made me misty!

• Emma Chamberlain: Do NOT explain to me who this person is. I am TOO OLD to know and I DON’T WANT to know.

• The Pacific Surfliner: Elegant way to travel; stunning views; takes care of you.

• Chonkers the Sea Lion: Finally, something to love about San Francisco.

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The Puritan minister was out on his ass, banished from Massachusetts Bay Colony for such outlandish beliefs as “separation of church and state” and “you can’t just take land from Native Americans without paying them for it.” It was a fortuitous punishment. Williams would go on to establish Rhode Island — the first American colony to enshrine freedom or religion without fear of persecution.

For the 17th century, this was huge. Paradigm-shifting. Monumental.

Then, 390 years later, these seven women arrived on televisions across America:

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For the 21st century, this was huge. Paradigm-shifting. Monumental.

The Real Housewives of Rhode Island premiered last month and is, to me, an instant classic. What the fuck is in the water in Rhode Island? How am I in the same country as these people? Are they speaking American English? Here are seven women whose romantic relationships are scattered across an X-axis of monogamy to polyamory and a Y-axis of consensual to cheating. It’s baffling and fascinating and full of potential.

I’m down bad for RHORI, so I’m processing my feelings the only way I know how: organizing them. Here are the seven Real Housewives of Rhode Island, ranked by how enthusiastically I would come out to them.

7. RULLA

The level of compartmentalization happening in this woman’s brain terrifies me. It feels unsafe. Rulla’s whole deal is this: Her husband, Brian, clearly has a mistress. Rulla is adamant that the affair is in the past, and that her husband is, in fact, at the gym every morning, despite what Jo-Ellen might say about Brian’s physique. This playbook feels very Housewivesian: Save face for your dirtbag husband when cameras are up.

For me, Rulla went from “typical delusional reality star” to “potentially in need of psychiatric diagnosis” in a talking head in episode two. Rulla says in her culture, divorce “isn’t rampant,” explaining her commitment to clear-cheating Brian. We then hear a muffled, off-camera voice ask, “But you’ve been divorced once before, right?”

Rulla hesitates, caught. “I’m not trying to talk about that.” We don’t hear anything about her divorce again. It’s unclear whether that producer made it out of that tape day alive.

Would not come out to Rulla.

6. ROSIE

I don’t want this nosy bitch to know one fucking thing about me. Rosie is an ex-on-air news reporter who left her career because she either a) took medical leave for an acute colitis flare, during which she learned the joys of unemployment and chose to leave, or b) had an affair with a higher-up at work and got fired. She’s the kind of millennial who says “hashtag” out loud and is married to a Frank Sinatra singer (NOT impersonator).

For all her personal inconsistencies, Rosie is obsessed with on-camera fact-finding. It makes her very annoying to the other women and an essential worker on this TV show. To Rosie, all information is ammunition. Were she to hear my confession of my newfangled sexual orientation, Rosie would, within seconds, be strategizing for how to use the information against me.

In episode 5, we meet Rosie’s two gay friends, Anthony and Jack, who invite the ladies on a boat. “We all just kind of run in like, the same gay circle, if you will,” says Rosie in a talking head. Is she including herself in that identity group? Probably not. When girls like this say they love the gays, one must assume they do not mean lesbians until proven otherwise.

Would not enthusiastically come out to Rosie, but she would probably interrogate it out of me.

5. ASHLEY

It’s not that I get homophobic vibes from Ashley. Not at all. If anything, her and Jared’s relationship (on RHORI – please do not educate me on Bache-lore, I only need Rachel to do that) most resembles a lesbian relationship: They spend every scene over-communicating about Jared’s independent coffee shop, the cumbersome third in their marriage.

Ashley is chill and likeable enough. But the stakes of coming out to her would be too low to feel validating or satisfying. I’d mention off-hand that I’d switched my dating apps to women, and Ashley would bubble over with undue, effusive support that over-staked her claim to my interior life. She would cry, and I would find an excuse to leave, overexposed.

Would come out to Ashley, probably as a throwaway line or forgetting she was there.

4. ALICIA

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Let me be clear: I am obsessed with this woman. And I think part of the reason I’m obsessed with Alicia is because she’s probably low-key lesbophobic. Nothing to interrogate there! It’s impossible to know what’s going to come out of Alicia’s mouth at any given moment, but ultimately she is a woman of love. Alicia loves Jane’s Fonda. She loves crackers. She loves that Rosie is a Taurus. She loves a game, but she does not know what a game is. She once ran a woman over with her car. She channels Luke Ward from the The OC pilot. She is perfect.

I do think there is something inherently queer (at least camp) about a 40-year-old pizza chip heiress with a prized collection of haunted dolls. Ultimately, I don’t think Alicia would give a fuck about me being gay, because I don’t think Alicia would give a fuck about me, period. Thus, the basis of her appeal.

Would come out to Alicia as a kind of social experiment and record my findings.

3. KELSEY

Kelsey looks like the kind of girl who would look at me and just see a strange white haze. I do not exist to girls like Kelsey. I’m sure she’s cool with gay guys and has probably had threesomes with her anonymous, older, Miami-based boyfriend (side note: If her dude is in Miami half the year, and he’s gone during filming, and they’re filming in July, does that mean he spends summers in South Florida and winters in Rhode Island? Ummm okay Mr. Extreme Seasons!). But I don’t think queerness, in herself or in others, is something Kelsey has really considered in any meaningful way.

That said! I have been surprised and delighted by Kelsey’s openness about her open relationship. Kelsey’s Other Man, Billy, doesn’t blow me away. But adjacent to Rulla’s clamped-down delusion about Brian’s dalliances, Kelsey’s attitude towards non-monogamy is a breath of fresh air. Were I to come out to Kelsey, I imagine she would be equal parts nonjudgmental and unsentimental, largely confused as to why I was talking to her at all. That’s fine with me.

Would come out to Kelsey, and would make sure I post a selfie (and tag her!) after the talk.

2. JO-ELLEN

There comes a point in the coming out process where you get tired of the one-on-one sit-downs and just want people to know. That’s when you tap Jo-Ellen Tiberi. Jo-Ellen Tiberi is an instant star. She’s an unabashed gossip with an actual job (if you Go To Chicago For A Conference, you’re employed down) and a loose temper: cunning, competent, combative. I need this woman in my arsenal. And what better way to bait her into friendship than by offering up a piece of very personal, intimate, and secret information?

I’m unclear on whether Jo-Ellen has “morals” or “principals,” per se; the only law Jo-Ellen knows is loyalty. Good enough. If I had Jo-Ellen on my team and got, like, hate crimed by a seasonal offshore trawler in Pawtucket, Jo-Ellen would absolutely fuck them up in my honor. “AH YEW OUT OF YA MIND?!” she would scream, chasing that homophobe off-road and into a cranberry bog. “ONLY SHE CAN SAY THAT!”

Would come out to Jo-Ellen when I’m ready for everyone from Woonsocket to Narraganset to know my business.

1. LIZ

I’m dying to come out to Liz. I would go back to 2009, throw on my Jenny Lewis bangs and Urban Outfitters two-tone minidress and funky patterned tights if it meant that I could come out, for real, to Liz McGraw from The Real Housewives of Rhode Island.

Liz is a weed mogul and a step-mom who’s low key in a throuple with her husband, Gerry, and their younger friend, Dino. Slay! Liz insists she has never slept with Dino, and would just hit the clubs with him when Gerry was out sport fishing for weeks on end. Okay! Which is to say: Liz understands the intricacies of human desire, the gray area between friend and more than friend. She might even know something about lying to your whole community about your weird secret romantic relationship. Love!

Apparently, though, the other women fear Liz. Rosie told Liz this in episode four, as they peddled six miles down a scenic oceanside railway track. And, yes, we did witness Liz in a positively Barlowesque catatonic rage blackout spurred by Kelsey’s suggestion that she not go down to the sea wall with Gerry and Dino. There is real darkness within.

But y’know what? I just want to split a bottle of a big-ass, high-tannin Cabernet with Liz and confess my entire life story to her. Maybe it’s her voice (soothing, commanding, persistently slurring). Maybe it’s her age (highest of the women on the show). Maybe it’s her face (Dolores Catania’s).

Whatever it is: Hell yes, I’d come out to Liz. Fuck it, I’d even let her invite Gerry and Dino to my coming out talk and take the whole party down to the freakin’ sea wall.

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