OUT IN THE ARTS LOVE IN BLOOM by D.L. Groover

It was impossible to dislike Infernal Bridegroom Productions' Tamalalia 7: The Love Show, the latest musical romp through the feverish brain of actress-director-choreographer-lyricist-co-author Tamarie Cooper, with generous assistance from Andy Nelson (co-author and prickly "antagonis"), Anthony Barilla (music), and assorted zanies from IBP. Our Botticelli copper-haired heroine looked for love amid pratfalls, mugging, production numbers, and a sublime Loser Love Parade of former boyfriends. This soiled valentine to "crazy mixed-up love," only an hour long and filled with whacked-out sensibility, managed to squeeze in a phalanx of stomping brides singing "Look at me, I'm prettier than you"; a sleazy, cigar-chomping dirty ol' Cupid (Noel Bowers); a psychotic stalker with a Barbie-doll Tamarie perched on his shoulder (Kyle Sturdivant); a cardboard Tom Selleck; zoned-out Hare Krishnas; bitchy theater critics; and a wailing chorus, depicting Ms. Cooper's unconscious, dressed as Lord of the Rings rejects.

The musical score was superb, the spangled Vegas red set by Kirk Markley tacky perfection, and Miss Cooper a national treasure. Whether wheeled about in a shopping cart wearing a rose-imprinted flamenco gown or jiving like a '40s hep cat, she was delectably daffy. We can only hope she doesn't find love in the near future, for it could never be as hilariously twisted as her continued quest.

ALL SINGING, ALL DANCING, ALL NAZIS

What a chilling, sexy spin Country Playhouse put on Kander & Ebb's Cabaret, thanks to sizzling whiplash choreography by veteran director Christopher Ayres, a stunning performance by Greg Ayres as the hellish Emcee, and a terrific cast all around.

Overlaying the Sam Mendes recension still playing on Broadway at the former Studio 54 (Manhattan's own Kit Kat Club during the hedonistic '70s), the brothers Ayres splashed postmodern acid. Gravel-voiced, with bloodshot eyes rimmed with kohl and arms bruised with needle tracks, Ayres prowled the stage in a leather trench coat, snapping his suspenders while he leered, grabbed, and tweaked any flesh in sight, male or female. At one point, he parodied a torch singer in black gown and evening gloves, crooning the Dietrichesque "I Don't Care Much" as the lovers fell apart. He was everywhere: ominously hissing "welcome to Berlin" as the innocent Cliff arrived, mocking the old couple during their "Pineapple" ballad, throwing the "Juden" brick through the window, or flashing the audience a swastika tattooed on his ass. It was a gutsy performance, sated with Weimar decadence and creepy insouciance-perfect and spine tingling, musical theater at its best.

ONE LESS REALITY SHOW-AND A GAY ONE AT THAT!

Fire Island Pines used to be hot and notorious. During the '70s, this gay resort and neighboring Cherry Grove off Long Island was the weekend party destination for tony gays, musclehead boy toys, and druggy beach bums. Coke, meth, and poppers were major food groups for cruising the Meat Rack, and if you ever attended the Sunday tea dances at the Monster, your brain was way too fried to remember the ferry and train ride back to Manhattan. The little island is gorgeous, though, and families started to infiltrate, especially after AIDS altered the gay-to-straight balance. Fire Island is much tamer now, and those freewheeling days are long gone, as Oscar-winning movie makers Rob Epstein and Jeffrey Friedman (The Times of Harvey Milk, The Celluloid Closet, and Common Threads: Stories from the Quilt) found out. They were two weeks into filming a reality series for HBO about five gay guys sharing a summer rental when the project was abruptly cancelled. It just wasn't sexy enough for Sheila Nevins, HBO's executive vice president of original programming, claims Robert Kushner, one of the subjects of the aborted documentary.

"There's a question about whether they wanted something less wholesome than what we were giving them," he said. "It was clear from the beginning who we were. We are not a drug house, and we're in our mid-30s, so it's not like we're a sexually promiscuous bunch. Two of us have been in a relationship for eight years."

Any potential scandal quotient was also tamped down when the guys negotiated a clause in the contract stipulating what kinds of sex could be filmed. Then the gay community fussed over the invasion, and the premier gay club refused access to the filmmakers, all of which limited action scenes to grocery shopping, tame cocktail parties, and romantic walks on the beach. "People just immediately assumed that this would be about drugs and sex and debauchery," said another non-subject, Trevor Yoder. "They weren't assuming that it could have a higher purpose. This was an opportunity to show how special our summers are-great friends, the family environment. Maybe it could be a chance for people to see something to aspire to." Family values? Who wants to see that in a gay TV series?