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Whee! We're on for tonight after all. (There was some confusion as to whether we'd been included on the final line-up.) Off to Robert's to pick up last minute supplies: several boxes of Kix (which'll serve as dog food), a couple of cheap dog collars, and of course lots and lots of newspaper for those un-housebroken little puppies. XO Wish you were here....
7:37 PM
I thought we might go out on the town for a bit of carousing this steamy evening, but my ever-sensible domestic partner brought it to my attention that we'll be seeing a lot of moonlight the next several days and should probably charge our batteries tonight. Unfortunately, he chose to remind me of this after I got all hopped up on two gallons of caffeine. To calm myself down, I traipsed around the corner for a cocktail to go. Unfortunately, I've drunk 2601 completely out of Pernod, so I had to settle for Herbsaint, which is close, but not the same. Coming home, I was reminded of a phrase often repeated by a New Orleans performer qui s'appelle Becky Allen, which goes something like "New Orleans is the uterus of the world: we can grow anything." And as I walked up the stoop to see a fistful of slugs slowly dragging their slimy, glabrous bodies over the cat food we leave out for the half-dozen strays we've adopted over the past several months, I thought, "Maybe Becky's onto something." Multi-cellular organisms are just plain weird. (Yeah, us, too.)
10:18 PM
Okay, goddess: enough with the waterworks. Just 'cause we went a couple of months without it doesn't mean we wanna make up for it all at once....
12:58 PM
10:20 PM
Warning: the following post is even more tedious and self-indulgent than usual. Proceed at your own risk. Since everyone else is weighing in on the Boy Scouts thing today, I could reasonably let it drop and move on. But there are a couple of things about it that interest me. Notably, it bears a striking resemblance to an incident that took place here in New Orleans back in the early 90s in which Mardi Gras krewes (basically social clubs that get together every year during Carnival to host a ball and run a parade) were ordered by the City Council to integrate.
Now, krewes are fundamental to the social hierarchy in New Orleans. If you grow up here, your identity and your social milieu are somewhat determined by the krewe to which your family belongs. If you're part of an old-skool krewe like Rex or Comus, you've got it made. If, on the other hand, you belong to one of the newer, pretender-to-the-throne sort of krewes (e.g. Tucks, Thoth), you're gonna have to work a lot harder at it. So it's not surprising that the krewes were reluctant to adhere to the City Council's edict (perhaps the most understated thing I've ever written). In fact, many krewes went on hiatus in protest, bringing to an end parades that had been running for nearly 200 years. They thought, like the Boy Scouts, that krewes are social organizations and that they can associate with whomever they want. Although not technically business, I'm assuming that the City Council based their decision in part on the precent set by the Civil Rights Act of 1964:
If that's the case--if the City Council used the Act as its precedent--then social organizations are subject to these guidelines, right? And so for homo activists, it's just a matter of amending the Civil Right Act to include "sexual orientation" so that homos are officially protected just like everyone else. And in fact, according to the precedent set by the Supreme Court's ruling against Colorado's Amendment 2, homosexuals do constitute a protected "class" of citizen, not unlike African Americans or women:
So, even though homos aren't mentioned specifically in the Civil Rights Act, the Court has essentially ruled that like Ragu, we're in there and we're protected. Which would mean that we should be able to belong to any social group we want, right? Then, yo, why'd we get dissed? Are they speaking out of both sides of their mouth, or what? Or maybe the City Council's edict is just unconstitutional. Of course, come to think about it, the Colorado Amendment smackdown flew somewhat in the face of the Bowers v. Hardwick decision, which essentially said that homos aren't a protected class at all--at least, not when it comes down to fudgepacking. Maybe the Court's decided to do a bit of backpedaling on homo rights for now. Or maybe I'm completely off-base. Just food for thought, I guess. [Note: Regardless of the convoluted arguments expressed here, Justice Anthony Scalia is still the Antichrist.]
9:11 PM
8:09 PM
Help! I awoke this morning to the realization that the fetish party at which Jonno and I agreed to perform is this Friday, not next Friday. And of course, being the professional procrastinators that we are, we haven't the vaguest notion what we're doing. I mean, yes, we know that we're in charge of the "doghouse" room, but, well, we probably need more than just a couple of dog bowls and collars lying around, don'cha think? The good news is that the party's held in the glamorously run-down Audubon Hotel, which was formerly inhabited by aging junkies and prostitutes. (Actually, that's the way it still is, more or less.) Management kicks guests out of the second and third floor rooms and turns 'em over to people like me and Jonno who have to redecorate 'em with a theme. Cool setup, no? The bad news, of course, is that it's a fetish party. Fetish parties may sound exciting and interesting and all, but as many of you know, in the end they rank among the dullest events you can ever attend. Why? Because after a while, as Perry Farrell once said, nothing's shocking: "Look, hon. Another flogging." "Yeah." "You know, Bob's getting branded on the second floor. Wanna go watch?" "Nah. I went with him to get his dick tattooed. I don't like the way he moans when he's in pain. Too fake." It's a bit like preaching to the converted, you know. You think the idea is to shock partygoers with displays of wanton debauchery, but it's pretty hard to get a rise out of anyone with more than 12 clit piercings.
8:53 AM
Okay, so I think I may have recovered from this weekend. My eyes no longer have that delightful hepatitis-yellow tinge, and my hands aren't shaking any more than usual. In short, it's that weird transitional time: the one between "I never, ever wanna see alcohol again" and "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, who do I have to felch around here to get an Absolut/rocks/dirty?" On a completely different note, I now seem to have two pals in the American Southwest (Albequerque, to be exact): first Corky and now Drioux. Historically, I've not encountered too many people from this part of the country, but what I see, I like....
7:25 AM
After spending 24 of the last 48 hours at Lucky Cheng's slinging parasol-type girlie drinks to heterosexuals who still think drag is funny, and after waking up feeling vaguely like I'd been gang raped by the LA Lakers (no lube), I come to work and spend the better part of my morning debating, essentially, whether our annual membership solicitation should be on regular letterhead or special letterhead. As Sarah Michelle Gellar once said, "Jesus-effing-Christ."
10:42 AM
It's funny how dawn can make almost anyplace beautiful--with the notable exception, perhaps, of Elizabeth, New Jersey (but that's another story). I, however, prefer to rise with the dawn than to see it on my way home from working an all-night party for South Beach pseudo-circuit, pseudo-homos. Maybe it's the Protestant-work-ethic/Sunday-school side of me, or maybe it's that vampire thing so prevalent in New Orleans, but I have to be home before the sun comes up. Staying out all night is something I just don't do. I've made it with 15 minutes to spare.
5:54 AM
Someone's done an update (though, sadly, it's left the site much smaller than before). For jaded types like myself who tend to stay in on Saturday nights (in New Orleans, Saturdays are for amateurs), you might pass a pleasant half hour looking for the half-nekkid pic of Andrew Cunanan that Mr. Hawkins has left lying around. It's hidden in one of the old galleries listed here. His own hint: "look for some of the only imagery on this site pertaining to Versace's clothes and Miami Beach." Happy hunting.
5:02 PM
I can't belive I forgot about this lovely page. Nothing better to do on Friday nights than play dress-up with your dolls. (No, that's not a drug reference. Well, right now it's not, anyway.)
11:42 PM
Being the NAMBLA fan that I am (though not technically a chicken hawk), I just had to fire off a response to this irritating piece of drivel:
Did I take that too personally or what? What's your take?
9:06 PM
[NB: Due to the devastating coffee famine that has recently hit St. Roch Avenue, Richard has asked Lucy Pevensie to provide this morning's blog.] Hullo, there! It's me, Lucy! I'm so glad to see all of you. It's been ever so long! I'm currently hidden away at the back of a closet at my Aunt Alberta and Uncle Harold's. Edmund and I have been sent here for a fortnight while mum and dad and Susan go on holiday in America. It's not too dreadful, really, except for our tarsome cousin Eustace. He's always creeping about with his nose in everything. The other day, Edmund and I were having a jolly good time under the bedclothes when Eustace came in and bloody spoiled everything. Luckily, Edmund's very skilled at taking on boys and gave him a good wallop to the noggin. Eustace fell over and hit one of Aunt Alberta's favorite ceramic badgers, and now he's on the outs with her! Huzzah! Bully for Edmund! Sitting here right now, I can hear Eustace going through my dresser drawers. Blast! He's got quite a thing for my underclothes, I do say. Edmund thinks that's quite alright--in fact he rather likes it when Eustace prances about in my knickers. (Sometimes the two of them together can be more dreadful than anything.) Edmund will oft-times encourage Eustace in his tomfoolery, strewing my clothes across the bedchamber and forcing Eustace to dress up in them, after which follows an interminable wrestling match. With all the roughhousing, it's a bit of a stumper why Aunt Alberta hasn't locked us in our room and fed us naught but suet pudding. Well, I do believe I must be off. I don't really want to cross paths with Cousin E., but I'm afraid I've no choice. Edmund seems to think Aslan will be coming for us soon and he said he wants to play another round of physician with Eustace and me before we shove off. Cheers, then! Your faithful servant, P.S. Richard has just told me he intends to post this on the world-wide inter-thingummy. How exciting! Ta!
8:33 AM
4:54 PM
Um, okay, I know the site's called Ugly People and all, but, well, is it just me or it there something oddly fascinating about this one? Like if Sissy Spacek were a little more ethereal? Maybe? Or maybe not. Jonno has always said I have weird tastes--except, of course, for my choice in boyfiends.
4:51 PM
2:07 PM
Okay, at the request of David Byrne, I have officially stopped making sense.
11:15 PM
Bloggity blog blog blog. This salad is really delicious boyfriend. You're aces in the kitchen! Blog Blog. [ Which reminds me: I started getting wise to the teaching racket in about fifth grade. My teacher and her husband were best friends with my aunt and uncle, and they spent nearly every weekend camping and canoeing together, so I knew she couldn't possibly have time to read my homework. One day in the middle of this essay on Mississippi history (zzzzzz), I wrote out a couple of verses of "Mary Had a Little Lamb," and it came back with an "A." It was kinda like learning the truth about Santa Claus, but more liberating. On an unrelated note, now that I think about it, that teacher strikes me as a bit of a loose woman. I bet she and my uncle et al. were the pot-smokin', wife-swappin' type. That's kinda hot, huh? (My uncle's pretty hunky.) I should ask my aunt one day.... There I go again: showing my thoroughly Southern penchant for incest. ]
8:43 PM
Whee! A tech day! We just got a kick-ass G4 lab for the students, so in an effort to give each faculty member her own computer, I've spent the entire morning and the better part of the afternoon hooking up some very weird looking G3s that were made for about a day and a half back in 1998 (the top of the all-in-one unit looks like the small of someone's back--if someone's back happened to be perforated opaque plastic) and a few LCIIIs with some very old StyleWriters and DeskJets and whatever else I could find lying around the school's computer graveyard. I'm not the world's best when it comes to doing hardware things like that; in fact, it can get pretty damn irritating. But once I demonstrated the ability to hook up a mouse, suddenly everyone else around me became helpless. I mean, yeah, I like feeling needed (if not loved), but having to run across campus to fix a paper jam isn't the kinda love I need.
3:41 PM
Another day of work and domesticity. But instead of speaking about that special frisson I get running in and out of Robert's (pronounced RO-bears--tell 'em, Jay) in under 30 minutes with a two-week supply of groceries in my basket, I think I'll post something else... About two years after leaving Millsaps, I experienced a nagging concern: I'd had so many good times in college, what if I forgot them all? So for x-mas that year, I bought each of my college chums a pen and a fancy notebook and asked them to write down their favorite Millsaps stories. Of course, in the end no one bothered to send me a damn thing, and I had to rely solely on my own foggy recollections. [I try to reconcile this urge to remember with my equally strong resentment of nostalgia, and all I can come up with is that writing something down isn't quite the same as reliving it. Like, when the written word became a widespread phenomenon several centuries BC, Greek philosphers lamented the death of memory, their logic being that once a story is written down, there's no reason to remember it anymore. Translation: with my past written down, I can leave it there, not get bogged down in it. I think. Or maybe I'm just full of it.] Gradually I pieced together a sort of history, fraught with drugs and sexcapades and hooliganism. I hope soon to surprise my buddies with a nice, clean hard copy of it all. (If any of you are reading this--and I don't think you are--stop now.) So, this is one of the silliest pieces from that work, but I kinda like it because I was reading Gertrude and Alice at the time I wrote it and I felt like I was channelling that deco-lesbo-lit vibe. Anyway, enjoy. Don't worry: it's short. Ann Is Not a Vet I had a tarantula. It�s name was Arachne. �How original,� you say. It died. I put it inside the refrigerator. Later I took it back. I wanted my money back. They would not give me my money back, they would only give me more doomed pets. I chose guinea pigs. I had to leave. My roommate Frank had to leave. We both had to leave to go other places. Ann was not my roommate. She did not have to leave. Ann would stay in Jackson. Ann said she would come by my apartment to look after my pet guinea pigs. I forget what their names were, the guinea pigs. I came back from where I had been and my pets were in the refrigerator again. They were wrapped in foil. Ann was not to be seen. I called Ann at her apartment. �Ann, my pets are in the refrigerator,� I said. She said, �I know.� �Why are my guinea pigs in the refrigerator?� I said. She said, �Because they are dead.� I had assumed that. I assumed I would not get another refund on pets. The shopgirl would think I was an abusive parent and would give me no more animals. �How did they die?� �Well, you see, I got here one day and one of them was dead and the other one didn�t look too good so I called the vet and he said that it was probably just constipated and that I should give it some roughage, lettuce or something, so I do and then it has diarrhea, and so I call the vet again and he says that a little Pepto Bismol should fix things, so I go out and I buy a bottle of Pepto and I feed it to the hamster�� �Guinea pig.� �Whatever, and I feed it, and it must have been too late because it died. Sorry.� I doubted that. I doubted that a doctor had said to feed a guinea pig Pepto Bismol. I made her take me to dinner. And I kept the bottle of Pepto until it was empty. Ann is not a vet.
10:03 PM
I came home and began scrubbing the kitchen floor on my hands and knees. That obsessive/compulsive thing, I guess. It was the perfect end to my workday: tactile, humbling, and somehow authentic. Like touching the arm of your closest friend when he's telling you how bad things really are. I took extreme delight in the fact that I was able to marry an old bottle of Windex with a new one without spilling a drop. Sounds like I've got a Mammy Complex. What, exactly does that imply?
6:24 PM
Must work. Must finish writing grant proposal begun three weeks ago. Must not succumb to the alluring scribblings of a freekalicious goddess, who, incidentally, created the unquestionably fabulous "Winter Steel" series for MTV's Liquid Television.
12:39 PM
I tried to be all cute and clever (well, maybe not so clever) by posting some fathers' day love to my dad  and my daddy  on a super-duper daddy page, but it wasn't working--probably for a number of reasons. Notably: 1) it's a sickeningly cutesy pun, confusing my dad and my daddy, when, truth be told, they're completely different people and play very different roles in my life; and 2) I don't think I've ever had a picture taken in which my father and I are embracing, and it looked so lopsided--it still does--with Jonno and I showing obvious love on a ritzy red background, and my dad just sort of standing there, alone in a field up at the farm (actually, my brother's in the pic too, but I cropped him out since he doesn't make sense, visual or otherwise). [ Side note: Part of this dilemma has to do with a weird sense of empathy my mom instilled in me as a kid--one of my personality traits with which I'm most happy. Specifially--and this is going to sound silly to most of you--I feel sorry for my father, just because he looks so alone in the pic. These feelings have nothing to do with real life (my dad's hardly ever alone these days, and when he is, he really relishes it), it's just something about the sight of him that makes me feel sad. It's as if the picture is actually him and he's looking at me and saying, "Why haven't you called? Why haven't you visited? Are you doing okay?" This kind of empathizing (psychoanalysts would probably call it a sort of displacement) often gets me into trouble. Case in point: once, when I was a kid, we'd gone fishing up at the farm and caught about a dozen bream. My granddaddy ran a general store in this tiny, tiny town of 200 or so (where I was related to just about everybody--very Eudora-Welty-"Why I Live at the P.O."), and while my daddy and my brothers went inside to grab a coke for the half-hour trip home, I couldn't stop looking at the fish. They were in a bucket of water back in the truck bed, still swimming. I felt so sorry for them, when in fact they probably weren't feeling too bad about life in their new-found home. Their thoughts were probably more like, "Smaller, okay. Crowded, yes. But no snakes or beavers. That's a plus." Almost without thinking, I grabbed the bucket, ran across the road, over a really treacherous cattle-gap, and across a quarter-mile of pasture to a small pond. I got right up to the edge and dumped the bucket out, and some of the fish wound up floating upside down, but I think most lived to see another day. Then I raced back to the store, threw the bucket in the truck bed, and sat down in the cab, waiting for everybody to finish up inside (why they hadn't already come out and discoverered my treachery, I don't know). When they finally emerged, there seemed to be some real confusion, especially on David's part (he who was cropped) about what could have possibly happened to the fish. Of course, all the details eventually came to light and my brothers were furious but my daddy and granddaddy just kinda laughed at my chutzpah (they would have called it gumption). Besides, bream are pretty bony anyway.] So, somehow all this has led me to the realization that even though I've scanned and posted quite a few pics recently, I don't have nearly enough photos of the people I love. That's not to say I haven't tried. Every January 1, I promise myself I'm going to do two things: a) I'm not going to avoid people I know when I see them on the street or at the grocery store just because I don't wanna get bogged down in conversation, and b) I'm going to take more pictures. I've failed miserably at both. Grab your digital cameras now, guys. I love you dad. I love you Jonno. I love you granddaddy, wherever you are.
12:45 PM
Get back! Touch myself! Ungh! Ungh! Owww! I love the ambient shit (courtesy of mr. pants). If it didn't irritate the hell out of that guy on the other side of my living room (and most of our guests), I'd be listening to this 24/7. Frankly, I think they should all be glad I'm not partial to that hi-NRG-techno-bubblegum-retro-disco- Nicki-French-Abagail-bullshit--the stuff that's been keeping me and some homies out of homo bars for the past several years. Hey, wait a minute! Was that anti-gay rhetoric I was just spewing? Was I dissing my rainbow brothers? Was I speaking from a privileged position within the gay ghetto that allows me to sneer at queer culcha? Wow. I'm sounding like a bitter queen, ain't I? I agree with Steve: too much sissyfighting can make ya' mean.
7:51 AM
11:39 PM
Okay, 24 hours later, I'm already addicted. There's just something intriguing about a site full of people pretending to be little girls, when we know good and damn well that "Muffy St. Jacques" is probably someone's grandfather. And, you know, although the chat window's small for loquacious types like me, you can kinda talk to people here--unlike the chat rooms on AOL, which are either stuffy or slatternly and nothing in-between. And even though you don't get to see the other folks online, looking at an avatar is sorta close. Well, sorta.... Still, something about the whole endeavor seems vaguely unsatisfying. Maybe it's the fact that it's timed, or maybe it's because I feel compelled to maintain the illusion of being Soleil Moon Frye (the erstwhile Punky Brewster), even though I'd rather come out as a penis-wielding, testosterone-laden nancy boy who can nevertheless sissyfight with the best of 'em. Maybe they should offer a few different versions of the game--like one in which you play a prepubescent drag queen. That would be a game worth getting into.
11:27 PM
Um, okay, I understand the "fag" part's an insult and all, but what's "floating" got to do with it? Is this yet another example of yankee colloquialism don't understand (e.g."I don't know from borscht")? Or is this hip 5-0 lingo, like all that fancy schmantzy CB jargon my dad used to like so much?
9:45 AM
Zoinks! I'm on a roll. I managed to scan and post some pics today. Click on the "sPics" link on the left-hand menu. (If you came directly to this page, scroll down to come on home.) Anyway, enjoy it while you can. Knowing my attention span, in another week I'll probably be all like, "Blogwhat? Sturtlewho? Huh? Wazzat?" The formaldehyde is being prepared, even as we speak.
9:30 PM
God, am I lame. How long has this been going on? It's how the much-maligned chat room is supposed to work! Thanks Steve. I feel marginally cooler now--though that's mitigated by the fact that I'm apparently the last person in the upper 48 to discover the damn thing....
8:04 PM
It's my personal opinion (and Susan Sontag's, too, I think) that homos have pinned their hopes for mainstream acceptance on two things: 1) being different (e.g. Ms. Aviance), and 2) possessing impeccable taste (South Beach not included). In the end, however, it seems there are certain inalienable traits we faggotinis share with our breeder brethren--notably the absurd lengths we'll someties go to maintain an aura of self-sufficiency. Case in point: as Jonno can testify, if I'm lost on the higway, I ain't about to stop for directions. Directions are for pussies. Right? Luckily for those around me, I've gradually given up my aspirations to complete self-sufficiency. I no longer fantasize about fixing my own car with rubber bands and a wad of chewing gum on the side of a desolate highway just north of Bumfuck, Egypt. Nor do I believe I can rewire our new house on my own. In fact, I'm gonna pay someone good money so I can sit there and watch. (It is June and all. I might suddenly be called down to the pool). There is one thing, though, that I'm pretty picky about: I insist on cutting my own hair. Now, okay, before really special occasions, I'll swing by the barber shop (no hairdresser salons for me) for a little hot lather on the back of my neck, but by and large, I think a guy ought to be able to cut his own hair. So I do. And Jonno usually laughs at me, until he realizes he's gonna be the one who has to come into the bathroom and fix it. It's kinda like smoking: I'm not sure why I do it, 'cause it's kinda ridiculous, but, you know, it feels good. The vibrations on my occipital. The sound of a #3 guard chopping through inch-long hair. The look of the hair falling on the porcelain of the bathtub. Little pleasures.
11:44 PM
All right, 'fess up. Who comes up with this stuff? I mean, I don't recall writing it. I've asked Jonno, and it's not him, either. In fact, it doesn't sound like anyone I know, except maybe Pamie, but she doesn't wander into homo territory very often. I know you're hiding out there. Speak up so's I can buy you a lil' ol' drinkie-poo....
1:03 PM
7:01 AM
3:54 PM
Unlike some people, I think I might be on the verge of qualifying as legitimately insane. No one, I take it, is surprised.
10:06 AM
Hmm. Pinstripes. Strange. I've never had a Laura Ashley moment before, but I guess there's always a first time. Pity I'm not a real webdesigner or anything so I could bust out some real style.
10:01 AM
11:38 AM
As a general rule, I don't like nostalgia. It's nice for a couple of seconds, but by its very nature, that warm and fuzzy feeling nostalgia gives you is misleading. You hear some goofy radio song from the 80s and think, "Wow, this reminds me of all the good times I had as a wee lad," completely forgetting that at the exact moment of the song's release you weighed all of 70 pounds, had ridiculous illusions of being a professional dancer (the kind on Solid Gold), and insisted on playing for the girls' team at recess. You really liked hanging out with the popular kid who just happened to live next door, and you made every effort to be stationed in his bedroom when his older, college-bound brother stepped out of the shower. Among your best friends, you could count more than a couple of heavyset girls; you identified with them somehow, but you couldn't quite put your finger what it was about them that made you feel so comfortable (though now you realize that it's just because neither of you could get inside any of the cute boys' pants). In short, you were pretty mixed up, and the other kids looked at you as though you might be Typhoid Mary, but they weren't quite sure. So while "Favourite Shirts" is undoubtedly one of the best songs ever, it's probably going a little far to say that you and your friends had great times while listening to it. The best times you had to that song were in your bedroom, choreographing a solo routine that would never, ever be performed for the general public. I do, however, occasionally reread old books I enjoyed as a kid. More often than not, I wish I hadn't. The plots are almost always ludicrously formulaic, the characters are as thin as the roast beef on a well-made po-boy, and the moral lesson (there's inevitably a moral lesson) is so painfully obvious and simplistic it could and does fit on the back of a sugar packet. I get a little frustrated and depressed: man, was I taken in. I'm happy to say, though, that's not quite the case with my current summer reading: A Wrinkle in Time. Not to say the book's perfect: the characters can sometimes get a little silly, and although it's set in America, the kids all speak like children in early twentieth century British novels, with "Drat!" and "Rather!" and "I say!" And the theme is pretty much good vs. evil, black vs. white. Still, it's held up reasonably well since I read it over 20 years ago--almost as well as The Chronicles of Narnia, which I must sheepishly admit I still skim from time to time.... (Ouch, that was painful.) Side note: I think part of my hatred for nostalgia comes from my hatred for yuppies. They've just gotten old enough to want to be young again, and you can't walk two blocks in the business district at 5:00 without hearing "Louie, Louie" (their version of "Rio") blaring from at least five red convertibles. If this particular sensation (i.e. a general aversion to yuppies) is unfamiliar to you, might I suggest you take a temporary post as waiter in a steakhouse and ask to be put on the lunch shift. See how long you last before you start accidentally spilling cosmopolitans (which, when combined with cigars, are to yuppies as eucalyptus is to the koala) down the backs of their Brooks Brothers suits.
11:22 AM
Chad says the sweetest things. I only wish my monitor would convey his subtle use of color a little better. But maybe it's just my eyes....
10:32 AM
Well, thanks big guy. I was getting pretty frustrated. All hail Iain, who, in the year of our lady 2000, determined that poetic intentions can really fuck up page design. Worms to ya' motha...
9:09 AM
My boyfriend has just informed me that this blog page looks like crap on his computer. It's supposed to be centered and occupy about half the frame, but on his, he's gotta use the horizontal scroll bar just to read the damn thing! I checked it on my old version of Net-crap, and it's the same there, too. I don't understand--it looks fine on my browsers here and at work (not that I'd ever work on personal things at work, mind you). I feel like I've been walking around for the past month with mayonnaise on my chin. So for all you folks with Mac and/or Netscape, I'm sorry. I'll try to work on it some more, but I can't promise anything...
9:39 PM
Hmm. Funny how things happen in threes sometimes. Death: Princess Diana, Mother Theresa, and someoneelseiforget. And now alarm clocks. I guess I'm part of the zeitgeist. Yipee.
6:57 PM
Does anyone know anything about humankind's ability to "see" things while we're sleeping? I'm in this habit of waking up at almost exactly 7:00 every single morning (I'm sure some of you are simply appalled), and I think it has something to do with the fact that I can actually see the clock from where I'm laying in bed. Like, yesterday, when I'd rolled over (extremely unusual, BTW) to face the other side of the bed, I totally overslept, but this morning, I was looking right at the clock, hopped out of bed at 7:00 sharp, and stolled briskly around the corner to meet our transgender contractor just as she was descending from her heavenly Ford F150 XLT....
7:22 AM
As I sat here blogging rainbow pumps and she of the erstwhile sunflower-laden hats, my boyfiend sauntered over to my side of the room (which he normally avoids on account of my voluminous collection of garish, plastic Happy Meal toys), sat on my lap, and asked me why, oh, why do I never blog him. So here goes.... xoxo };>)
10:54 PM
File: Random So is it just me or does the name "San Francisco" sound really, um, well, gay? I mean, when I say to people I know--as I often did yesterday--"I've got friends arriving from San Francisco," I always feel as if I'm coming out all over again. Like the person to whom I'm speaking suddenly has visions of magenta-haired beauticians swinging from the chandeliers in my living room and swagging everything that doesn't move. Like they suddenly suspect me of owning a chifforobe full of rainbow-print lycra dresses and matching pumps. Like I'm going to bust out the quiche and the good china and start calling everyone "Mary." Well, I'd like each and every one of you to know that I associate with no magenta-haired beauticians. (At least, not since 1995.) And there's no swinging to be done on my chandelier--in fact, it would probably come crashing down altogether if it weren't so hideous that no one wants to touch it. And FYI, I already call everyone "Mary"--although I did go through a brief period last year of trying to change my nom de choix to "Fatima." Unfortunately, though exotic and therefore humorous, "Fatima" doesn't roll off the lisping tongue like the bi-syllabic "Mary." So I go with what works. Feh. P.S. Apologies to John for everything above. Will someone please let him know that I understand "New Orleans" is synonymous with alcoholism, poverty, and everyone's favorite Southern tradition, racism? Chacun a son croix, je suppose.
10:42 PM
10:05 PM
Anyone need another reason to deplore circuit fags? I mean, I'm all for inclusion, but, hey, I've got my limits. I don't even care about the stupid URL, frankly, and the design's okay (though have I shared with you my hatred for the shorthand use of "trust"?). I think the fact that it's both vapid and insipid is what pushed me over the edge. Oh, and the fact that they're doing the wifebeater thing. And to all those who prefer non-negative blogging, my apologies. I'm not your type, anyway.
10:55 PM
Stupid hippie programmers. Could they get any more boring? How hard would it have been to add a couple of lines of code here and there so that it writes the damn thing for you? I mean, what good's the Internet if we have to all the work? I want my butler robot and I want him now.
11:37 AM
Ha! Maurice Chevalier can talk all he wants about the international language of love, but I'm here to tell ya', lust don't translate so damn good. Process my eggs, indeed. (Although the thought of someone having "a piece of splendor in the trousers" is kinda poetic, no?)
Thanks Alta Vista for giving me such delightfully clumsy translation tools. P.S. If you wanna see the whole filthy page (in its original language, of course), be my guest.
7:18 AM
Okay: Imagine for a moment that you and your buddies are walking along, taking a nice, leisurely stroll somewhere in the vicinity of the Rio Grande or maybe over in hill country--anywhere, really, as long as it's under the w's jurisdiction--when all of a sudden you feel a sharp pain in your leg. And another. And another. Little lightning bolts are shooting through your body and you quickly look down and see that you and every single one of your companions are being rapidly covered by a raging swarm of KILLER BEES!! Would you know what to do? Well, would you? I would. While my friends would probably be all like "Ouch!" and "Holy Shit!" and "Fuck this, I'm outta here!", I'd have a battle plan. First, I'd run like hell; fat lot of good it does me to hang around and get stung to death when I could at least get my ass a few feet closer to the emergency room. Then, I'd look for some sort of indoor shelter: a Circle K, an abandoned cabin, or a clean and fully functioning rest stop (anything in a pinch.) If I couldn't find a place to hide, I'd do my best to distract the bees by running through tall grass, or perhaps I'd make for the nearest herd of cattle--I mean, if I'm being chased by thousands upon thousands of toxin-bearing insects, I'm thinking I'd probably have enought adrenaline to outrun the bovines, and I'm gonna assume that the bees themselves wanna go after the easiest prey. So, sorry Bessie, but if it comes down to you or me, I'm afraid our Africanized friends are gonna get a thorax full of steak Tartar, not homo erectus man meat.  (Here's an artist's rendition of what I'd look like running from deadly bees. Note my eerily serene demeanor--I'm in the survival zone!) Of course, no matter how fast I skeedaddle, I'll probably wind up with at least a sting or two, so when I feel the first poisonous nip, I'm going to do my damnedest to scrape the stinger out by raking my finger across it in a sideways motion. (Pulling at it works to my disadvantage, since that actually can squeeze more noxious poison into my already delicate system.) And no matter what my friends might think, I'd certainly know that jumping in a pool or other body of water is probably a bad idea, since those pesky bees will probably be waiting for me when I surface! I bet even MacGuyver couldn't handle that fierce killer bee science! Now, if you're as impressed as I hope you are, you're asking yourself, "What on earth has this child been ingesting that would make him think of such things? And how did he manage to lend such an air of authority to a topic that, at first glance, seems positively ludicrous to those of us living in the first world?" Well, I have good answers to both those questions. I got to thinking about the whole matter of freakish, life-threatening events while watching that repulsive-yet-riveting new CBS series, Survivor. You've got all these losers in a quasi real world/Real World setting, trying to make do with their wits and their latrine-digging abilities alone, and while they're arguing about the lean-to, you see shots of venomous vermin wandering around in the background and you think, "Well, yeah, they've got a camera crew and some walkie-talkies nearby, but if one of 'em gets his ass bit while taking a morning swim, what's the action plan, yo?" You can see how the thought of killer bees came to mind, can't you? Can't you? Well, okay, maybe we're not on the same wavelength. But to be honest, I go through those sorts of fantasy/vanity/rescue scenarios in my head on a daily basis. I think to myself, "Like, if someone were to walk in my office right now and throw out some anthrax (a disease that met with dizzying popularity among terrorists not long ago, but which seems to have recently fallen in the polls to e coli), how would I make it out of here without, well, kicking the bucket? And how could I save everyone else and maybe wrangle a raise out of it? And what will I wear when CNN comes a-knocking to do their feature story on my courageous acts?" I hope I'm not the only one with those kinda thoughts. Tell me I'm not alone.... (Side note: a couple of years back, there was someone here in town who acted out his own vanity fantasies, setting fire to his place of employment, then returning to put out the blaze just in the nick of time. Of course, he did it one too many times and the fire went out of control and the second and third stories of the building burned down...but maybe I'll save that tale for another time.) Oh, and as for the startling level of authority I demonstrated with regard to our pesky little friends from south of the border, I must give credit to the most recent addition to our overstuffed bookshelf: The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook. I've got much more to say about this really freeeky, really yellow little book, but since my carpal tunnel's starting to act up, for now I'm just gonna give props to the little minx for honoring us with a copy of it. He's flying back to Nueva Yorka tomorrow--y'all take care of him, now, y'hear? He's nothin' but a little bitty ol' thing (though he's on a rather impressive little gym routine, I must say).
10:42 PM
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