Angel Moroni At My Table

THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES  | REVIEWS

by James Killough

Book of Mormon is all the rage.  Every so often a musical opens that all of New York is rapturous about, but none that I would agree are actually rapture-worthy.  I haven’t seen this production, nor have I listened to one note of a single song, yet I give it two thumbs and two large toes up.  I wasn’t interested in Rent, although the Trey Stone and Matt Parker send up in Team America — I laughed so hard I farted during “Everybody has AIDS” — is one of my top ten favorite comedies of all time.  I liked The Producers in the original 1968 movie with Zero Mostel and almost zero music; I watched half of the recent film version of the musical before I was overcome by homo self-loathing with the way Gheys were portrayed in that retarded, cliché-infested musical number about Gheys.  But I would probably never tire of Book of Mormon.

The "Keep It Gay" sequence from "The Producers," film version. Barf. This is everything I detest about musicals summed up in one picture. As the drag queens used to say back in the 80s, "it's so tired, honey." Never even got out of bed for me.

Aside from the fact that Trey Stone and Matt Parker and I have the same raunchy, compassionately irreverent approach to “sensitive” issues…. Well, that’s it, actually.  That’s the entirety of my affinity with them.  There is no “aside.”  The guys are genius, they deserve their success, may some of it float this way.

My evil twin Andrew Sullivan said after seeing Book of Mormon, “Religion is both insane and necessary at the same time.”  At first I re-dubbed him my twit twin Andrew Sullivan until I had a good think about this statement.  

Just Shoot The Bitch, Already

Very aptly, I am the son of a Mad Man.  In the 60s and 70s, my father was with one of the larger ad agencies that are referred to from time to time in the dialogue of Mad Men.  He accepted a position to head up the Italian operations of that agency, the purview of which was expanded over time, but we the family were based in Rome while he traveled around.  The real reason we were there is probably because the US was afraid to lose Italy and France to the communists during the 70s, so we sent some of our “businessmen” over there to help bolster the interests of democracy.  If I were in a pitch meeting and had to do a mash up of references to describe Dad, it would be Mad Men meets The Good Shepherd.

If Dad has a quibble with the authenticity of "Mad Men," my only problem with "The Good Shepherd" is the women in my world just didn't look like that, which means it was eerily real.

I won’t delve too much into The Good Shepherd aspect because much of it is conjecture, albeit conjecture based on high probability.  Dad has expressed a desire in this last chapter of his life to tell me his story, and I would like him to feel free to do so without fearing that it’s going to end up in a blog side by side with some willfully salacious anecdote that involves sodomy, haute couture and Class A drugs.  Suffice it to say, there is a reason the period we lived in Rome is referred to as the anni di piombo, “the years of lead,” referring to the flying bullets and the bombings that seemed to be a part of our daily lives.  After we left in ’79, things calmed down in Italy considerably.  Hopefully that was just a coincidence.

Palace of Fear

It's official.  Today I went where so many other Hollywood celebrities have gone before.  Michael Jackson. Linsday Lohan. Not OJ Simpson, that was Beverly Hills, but Justin Timberlake's 48-year-old cougar stalker, for her restraining order.  Yes, I'm talking about the Los Angeles Superior Court House.  My  landlady, Susan Blais, who...