Thursday, August 31, 2000
Special Advertising Section
Do you remember your first game of tic-tac-toe? Or hangman? Or Candyland?
You felt a special little frisson, didn't you? A tiny electric charge, a huge synapse that washed over your nubile, pre-teen body. Like a hip, downtown junkie, you were hooked before you knew it, and there was no turning back.
As you now know, games are more American than apple pie, more mind-boggling than Shonen Knife, more important to the fabric of our nation than the WWF or Tommy Hilfiger. They are the best and most consuming way to distract yourself from the meaninglessness of your pitiful little life until you accidentally step out in front of that cross-town bus and shuffle off the proverbial mortal coil.
Of course, some people need more distraction than others. Some people, weighed down by ruts and habits, throw themselves into games and other pastimes with a vengeance. We prey on them.
We're Maxis.
We recently introduced our friend Richard to the wonderful world of The Sims. At first he was reticent, having recently overcome quasi-addiction to another game and completed an unusually large number of writing projects. He had hoped to revive his lagging journal and do some writing for himself, and perhaps entertain/irritate some passers-by in the process.
We caught him just in time.
The Sims, you see, is the ultimate experience for obsessive/compulsive personalities like Richard. Our insidious programmers have provided you, the gaming public, so many means of customizing the gaming environment--with houses, furniture, artwork, and hot leather daddies deployed at your discretion--folks like Richard can spend hours just futzing with the color of the carpet. Anyone who organizes their stationery collection on a regular basis is in for the ride of his life.
On behalf of everyone who worked on the creation of The Sims, we hope you'll give The Sims a try. For breakfast, lunch, or an afternoon snack, there's nothing like The Sims to get you through your day and render you oblivious to the dreadful state of the modern world. Stock up now--just in case a certain daddy's-boy finds himself in the White House come fall. You'll be glad you did...
Tuesday, August 29, 2000
Oh. There's the sandman. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz....
My sleeping pattern cannot be broken. Case in point: last night we went to the Crack Whore Ball (a little Decadence warm-up party thrown by the kinky Krewe de Qui Tu Connais) and kikied and carried on 'till almost 1am and finally came home and watched a little boob-tube and I should be exhausted, but now, less than six hours later, I'm bright eyed and bushy tailed (though I'm always kinda bushy, you know). Basically, I wanna sleep, but I can't. My father insists it's a sign of getting older. Hmph.
Monday, August 28, 2000
In case you didn't know, John Lennon is a trademark owned by Yoko Ono Lennon. Greedy tuneless bitch. At least she had the good taste to let the vastly underrated Zbignew Rybchinski direct a video for one of her songs. I bet someone else gave her the idea, though....
Friday, August 25, 2000
In case anyone's wondering, my life's been pretty dull this week. I could bore you with the details, but I figure if you're bored enough to be stopping by, I don't need to make it any worse. Until you hear otherwise, it's safe to assume I'm:
(a) waking,
(b) typing,
(c) futzing,
(d) eating,
(e) griping,
(f) freewheeling,
(g) scapegoating,
(h) mollycoddling,
(i) toying,
(j) dozing,
(k) drooling,
(l) stumbling,
(m) gossiping,
(n) bemoaning,
(o) paying,
(p) flopping,
(q) digesting,
(r) smiling,
(s) leering,
(t) sneering,
(u) dancing,
(v) swilling,
(w) swishing,
(x) sauteeing,
(y) reading, and
(z) sleeping--not necessarily in that order.
I'll try to mix it up a bit in the next few days.
Oh, one other thing: Caleb is neither for sale nor rent. Well, not so far as I know. If you're really interested, though, I can always ask.
Tuesday, August 22, 2000
Yipee! My thoughful shutterbug of a boyfriend has posted the party pics!
(Just between you and me, I was hoping they might trigger some lucid memories of that night, but, well, no dice. Pity.)
Monday, August 21, 2000
(cough cough sniffle) being sick sux (sniffle cough). not an auspicious way to start my new year.
blech. i'm going back to bed.
too bad no one's figured out how to email matzo ball soup yet. maybe my boyfriend will make me some when he gets home (sigh).
Sunday, August 20, 2000
Something That Might Piss-Off a Former Sports Hero:
Hey! Hey! Aren't you Archie Manning? Wow! I thought that was you. You're looking good to be as old as you are. Still trim, I see. And damn you're tall! What are you, like seven feet or something? You looked a lot shorter on TV. You must have one hell of a dick down there (poking his crotch)! I mean, I'm sure you've watched enough guys in the shower to know that tall + skinny = hung. You know what I'm sayin', right?
Oh, listen, is that Payton guy your son? Really! I thought so. He is one fine motherfucker! Much cuter than you were at his age. Do you think you could give me his email address? Next time he's in town I'd like to ask him over so I can fuck the shit out of that sweet ass he's sporting. He looks like he'd enjoy it, too. He's got "bottom" written all over him. I guess it runs in the family.
Say, I'm kinda drunk, and you're lookin' good to me, so what say we trot on over to the Superdome and get busy on the 50 yard line? You can just drop those Sansabelts and let me go to work. Deal?
My birthday party was a success. I thought I wasn't going to have much fun, 'cause I was feeling pretty crappy before we got there (I've got some sort of sinus infection or something), but straight bourbon and illicit substances fixed me right up.
Friday, August 18, 2000
Dear Al:
I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but you are so not a public speaker. Policy maker? Sure. Able to see the big picture? Absolutely. General all-around smart guy? You're that and more, baby. Capable of delivering a rousing speech by feeding off the energy of thousands of audience members and the national zeitgeist, whipping the proponents of democracy into a frothy, heady foam? Um, no.
Nice tie, though.
In my humble opinion, Al, you would have done much better to shorten that speech by about 20 minutes so you could give the audience some time to respond. I mean, what were you thinking? Your fans were giving you love, and you railroaded right over them! Have you never watched The Carol Burnett Show? Laugh In? Dame Edna? You'd make a good, solid, patriotic point that brought everyone to their feet clapping and cheering, but then you'd just raise your voice and keep talking. Carol would never do that.
Yeah, sure, I know, this was your big moment and you needed to get in all your points, but you could've fit 'em into a half-hour speech, right? If you can't at least be that succint, you're in the wrong business, honey. Then you would have had time to let the ovations roll. But what did you do? You had to drone on and on, reiterating the nation's perception of you as an automaton. Shields and Yarnell doing the robot thing were looser than you were last night.
President Bush. President Bush. President Bush. I don't wanna have to get used to saying that, but frankly, you're his best secret weapon. Go back to Tennessee, sit in the back row of a Baptist church, and watch the preacher work the crowd. Or at least let that former banjee-girl from Kenner who's serving as your campaign manager show you how to work the cobra neck. Seriously. Before it's too late.
--Your faithful servant,
Richard
P.S. I hope you're not mad. I mean, I'd still fuck you. You'll have to take that rod out, though.
Thursday, August 17, 2000
It's another one of those gang-rape weeks. You know what I mean. The kinda week when it feels like every linebacker in the NFL has ridden you hard and put you up wet.
I've gotten about 3 hours of sleep since Monday--not because of any late-night carousing (surely your initial assumption), but because I've built up a caffieine reserve the size of a small goat thanks to the many, many gallons of Diet Coke I've consumed to get me through the workday. Too bad melatonin makes me nauseous, or I'd take the rest of the afternoon off and catch a nice, long drug-induced nap.
Despite the frenzied pace, though, there's really nothing of note that's gone on in my life. The hounds are still rambunctious, the kitchen is still a wreck, and I still love my boyfriend very, very much.
Oh. And my birthday's coming up. I guess that's something. I mean, I don't make a big deal out of my b-day, but Jonno and Flynn insist that we do something to mark the occasion. I don't think I have a choice.
And is everyone a Leo or what?
Tuesday, August 15, 2000
Being adopted has never been a big deal for me. I was adopted at birth, and I've always known about it, so I guess I just integrated that fact into my worldview and kept on trucking (as they said in my youth).
But for some reason, right now I'm really keen on learning more about my social and medical background. Maybe it's my impending birthday--I mean, if my father's side of the family has a history of fatal heart attacks in their mid-30s, I wanna know about it.
I'm not interested in meeting my birth parents, though. I've had enough experience with Mississippians to know I'm not a good fit for the Hospitality State. It took me a quarter-century just to find some common ground with my adopted family, so I hate jumping to conclusions and all, but my guess is that after the first five minutes, a "reunion" with my birth parents would sound a bit like one hand clapping. Why prove myself right?
Oh, and those people on Sally-Jesse-Mother-Love-Springer who get all weepy and obsessive about "the father I never knew"? I don't get it. Sure, they've got a right to want to know their birth parents, but how can you get that worked up about two people you've never met and whose only tie to you is a simple fact of biology? Frankly, I think those folks have watched too many smarmy after-school specials and have built up a reserve of hackneyed emotional turmoil. But maybe that's just me being bitter and jaded and misanthropic.
Nah.
Monday, August 14, 2000
My life is an NEA grant application. Seriously.
Saturday, August 12, 2000
*sigh* My bubble has been burst.
My darling, being the darling that he is, was kind enough to post a link to the official Nina Hagen homepage in response to my recent dream. "Cool," I thought to myself. "This'll be a chance for me to catch up with one of my teenage idols. I wonder what she's doing now...."
Things started out pretty well. In fact, one of the first images that caught my eye was a Polaroid of Nina posing a la Jonno:
Cute, no? Charming. Just a bit edgy. Like, in a cute and charming sort of way. Nina version 4.0: upgraded for your pleasure--and hers.
I mean, we all know her recent music has sucked ass (though the title track from her last album kinda rocks), but she's still touring and stuff. At least in Europe. Well, parts of Europe. Parts where the popular taste in music tends to gravitate toward low-rent Britneys and such. (FYI: French and Italian discos are far more horrific than even a Mississippi prison.) Anyway, she's still kicking. That's my point.
Apparently, though, her kicks have gotten a little lower these days:
Now, I can't read German at all, but I think there's very little to misunderstand here. The meaning is far too clear. Therefore....
A Postcard to Nina Hagen
Dear Nina:
Hi there! Remember me? Goofy little backwoods fag? Duran Duran hair? Oh, I'm sure you do--assuming those particular brain cells are still around. I bet you haven't ridden inside a Ford F150 since.
We used to have some really good times, you and I. Like when I went to my first gay bar at 14 and my soon-to-be friend Tracy was performing "New York, New York" and his makeup was eerily close to your own. And when we used to go on debate trips together, and we'd drive the whole team crazy with endless repeats of "What It Is" and "Atomic Flash Deluxe," but because we were driving the van, they couldn't do shit. And then when I lost my virginity to side A of Flex.... Oh, wait. That wasn't you, it was Lene Lovich. Sorry. TMI, I know.
Anyway, I wanted to apologize for not keeping in touch and everything. You know, the 90s were a big growing lesson for me. I learned that some places of employment don't like to hire people with pink hair. Well, at least they didn't in 1991. And I found that when I was trying to convince customers they look great in $700 cashmere catsuits (I mean, who would? They should know better, right?), they grew uneasy if I cranked up the volume on "Smack Jack" and started lip synching up and down the aisles of the store. And so I changed. Sorry. It happens.
Now, don't you go giving me that smug look, little miss schadenfreude. You changed, too. Remember a little diddy called "Gorbachev Rap"? A certain album by the name of Bee Happy? Shall I continue? Bottom line, we've both seen our ups and downs.
But honey, I had no idea you were so bad off that you needed to start a psychic hotline. Okay, like, maybe in Europe they're more accepted or whatever, but your fans in the States--they'd be crushed. Do you really want to hurt that many aging Gen-Xers? Do you really want to make them cry?
Let me ask you something: have you ever heard of Esther Rolle? She was once like you. A right-on woman. Empowered. Sought-after. For several seasons, she was on one of the top-ranked sitcoms in the US.
Then she stumbled. She got desperate for work, and she started a psychic hotline. But just starting a phone scam wasn't enough for Esther. No, she had to outdo all the other psychic hawkers and start wearing hats--not just any hats, mind you, but hideous, gut-wrenching hats.
You know where Esther is now, girl? She dead. D-E-A-D. Dead.
Now, I know what you're thinking. You're saying to yourself, "Well, I'm Nina Hagen, that can't happen to me," but sugar, lemme ask you: what is that on your head? What is that? Answer me! You know what it is! It's a fucking hat, woman! You're running a goddamn psychic hotline and you're wearing a hat. You might as well just chain yourself to Margot Kidder and Kevin Costner and start skipping across the autobahn 'cause you are asking for it girl. Chew on some cyanide, if that's what you're after.
I'm asking you nicely. It's for your own good: cut the damn phone lines today. If you need my help, I'm here for you. We can get through this together. We can play canasta and watch junkies (but only watch, because that heroin crap is played out) and drink Heineken, if you like. Whatever it takes. I'm here for you. Please call today; there's no per-minute charge on my line, liebling.
I'll talk to you soon.
--Richard
Friday, August 11, 2000
Note to self: kick-ass eggplant and spinach linguine + a bottle of moderately priced pinot noir + a nightcap of Pernod = disturbing and/or strange REM cycles. Case in point: last night I dreamt about filling out a really long grant application that would have brought Nina Hagen into New Orleans' public schools for a year-long arts residency.
It wasn't an exhausting dream; I mean, I wasn't hurrying to get the thing finished for a rapidly approaching deadline or anything. In fact, it was kinda fun because I had all this cool stuff from her agent (CDs, glossies, etc.) to use as supporting documentation for the grant. I was, however, a bit concerned that Nina wasn't exactly a good fit for high school students. Not that that stopped me.
Then I woke up, meandered to the bathroom (after all the liquid I'd consumed, I'd worked up a good piss), and when I got back to bed, I told Jonno what I'd dreamt. He kissed me, applauding the integration of Ms. Hagen into my daily routine.
Silly? Yes. But so far, it's the high point of my Friday.
Thursday, August 10, 2000
Yo, yo, yo: giving a shout-out to Bill (who simply must know our pal Varla Jean Merman) for sending me the article in question.
Pretty creepy, huh? Not as unsettling as if it were an accident, but still. Ugh.
At the gym yesterday, I was on the treadmill and I was watching the incomparable Lynne Russell on Headline News. And at the bottom of the screen, where they flash those impossible-to-read little news blurbs, I could have sworn I read about someone accidentally falling into a tree shredder. Given my sometime fascination with things morbid, I've been trying to find the story on the web, but no luck. Was I hallucinating?
Tuesday, August 08, 2000
There's a strange thought that goes through my head sometimes. It's one of those "what if" sort of stoner thoughts that I tend to get when someone else is telling me a really long, pointless story and my eyes glaze over and my mind wanders.
The thought is this: when I'm gathered around a table with a dozen other people and we're discussing something relatively mundane, what would happen if I were to slowly undress, crawl naked to the center of the table, and start masturbating? What sort of expressions would I see on the others' faces? What would ultimately happen to me? Would I get carted off? Or would everyone else simply leave the room and vow never to speak of the incident again?
I mention it because that very thought came to me moments ago as my colleagues and I sat around the conference table interviewing a potential employee. The same thought used to run through my head at Christmas and Thanksgiving as my brothers and I listened to my father and grandparents gossip about people we'd never met. Of course, back then I knew why I never followed through with the idea: the look of shock/horror/anger on my grandmother's face would have killed me (if my father's bare hands didn't do the trick). But what is it, exactly, that keeps me--or anyone--from doing it now? Personally, I think it would have been pretty amusing if I'd done it today--a much better means of evaluating the guy's performance than the standard interview questions everyone else was asking.
Societal norms are funny and arbitrary.
Just a thought.
I belive Sandra Bernhard said it best when she said, "Will someone please tell me why the world is chock full of so many IDIOTS!"
Monday, August 07, 2000
If I were running a campaign that had been consistently described as flat and undynamic, I think I might have made a different choice in running partners. Moral rectitude is fine and all, but couldn't Gore have found someone a little jazzier to compete with the Bush/Cheney ticket? Um, and, like, maybe someone from the west coast or at least the midwest where things are a little more hotly contested than New England? Looks like we may have to get used to hearing the term "President Bush" again.
Oh well, at least we get to be the ones with the "Don't blame me" bumper stickers for the next four years.
Actually, this may not be such a bad thing. I think queer politics has floundered these past eight years because of Clinton: we haven't felt any pressure to get out there and push for things because we've got someone in the White House who's on our side. At least Dubya will give us someone to villify, to work against. 'Cause we all know that big GOP tent he keeps talkin' about doesn't have much room for homos.
Sunday, August 06, 2000
Children are sexy again--overtly so. During The Simpsons there was a Gap Kids commercial featuring these 10 year-old boys doing a saucy Britney-esque group dance to an 80s-style rap version of "You Really Got Me" (reminiscent of Midnight Star) . I'm no chicken hawk--not by a long shot--but just the look in those kids' eyes.... They were clearly selling sex.
Personally, I think it's a good sign. Yeah, we're still a long way from the inter-generational relationships of Ancient Rome, but it's a start. I welcome anything that moves us away from that "Won't someone please think of the children?!" rhetoric that assumes those under the age of 18 have no sexual agency--that's the basis for a lot of homophobia in the West these days. It's a correlative of that lame, unfounded "recruiting" trope. Like we set up tables and pass out brochures at county fairs in an effort to teach teenagers how to give rimjobs....
Now, that doesn't mean I think all teens are/should be sexually active, but it's insulting (or it was to me when I was that age) to say that kids don't know what they're doing when they have sex or when they feel love or lust. If I'd made Little Darlings, I would have had 'em all boinking like rabbits instead of wussing out because they realize, "Gosh, sex is a really special thing that only grown-ups should do, and I'm just not ready for that." Sure, some of 'em would have flaked, but how could you have an entire camp full of girls and not one of them sleeping with a 16 year-old Matt Dillon? Really.
Friday, August 04, 2000
So it seems that someone finally figured it out: Missy--or rather, Parker Posey--is indeed the one.
Of course, Brian still hasn't claimed his prize. Perhaps someone else would like it (whatever it turns out to be)....
[Coyote Ugly] looks like a big-budget version of a Miller's Genuine Draft commercial. (After extolling the fun of alcohol, the movie is lacking only the somber tagline "Drink Responsibly," which actually makes the Miller television spots morally superior.)
No one writes a movie review like Janet Maslin et al.
Thursday, August 03, 2000
Mattie and Moesha may be in trouble.
Given my previous post, is it any surprise that I'm really wasting time?
Anyone wanna try their hand at grantwriting? Anyone? Anyone? Something "D-O-O" economics? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller? I guess trial-by-fire isn't everyone's idea of a good time.
No, that's okay, I'll do it myself....
It wouldn't be half so bad if that ice cream truck playing four repetitive bars of "Turkey in the Straw" left the neighborhood for a while. Up and down the street, up and down. The Doppler Effect's kinda cool, though: if I were to make a film in which I played a serial killer slaughtering clowns for fun and profit, that'd be my soundtrack.
Grrr. Why has no one informed me that Scanner is playing tonight in DC? Whether he's serving up ass-shakin' kicks (the "Michael Jackson" one kills me) or a soft and contemplative homage to the late, great homo filmmaker Derek Jarman, Robin Rimbaud friggin' rocks. I hope someone takes pictures.
Wednesday, August 02, 2000
RealiTV: Stuck at home while Jonno attended his yoga class (first Belle and Sebastian, now this--he's gone phishy-commie-pinko-hippie on me), I found myself tidying up and listening to the TV, waiting for my weekly hour of Simpsons reruns. I kept switching back and forth between Fox's new American High (confirmation that their target demographic is now almost as young as the WB's) and the Republican National Convention.
Of the two, American High wins on reality points. I mean, at least they're featuring--a la Real World--a high school-age homo. I can relate to that. The RNC, on the other hand was a little too creepy to be believable (hello, bringing on The Rock?), although they did have a gay speaker. Of course, it would have been nice if they'd allowed him to talk about civil rights instead of the oh-so-sterile international trade agenda....
Side benefit: Fox featured a very sassy anti-meth ad during the AH run. A stylish twenty-something scrubbed her house clean with a toothbrush while a happy song about crank played in the background. All in all, a very soft-sell anti-drug ad. Probably a little more effective in the long run. I wonder what took 'em so long to figure it out.
Somehow this Yahoo search led to me: "sarah michelle gellar pie".
Given my distinct lack of affection for la Gellar, the idea of having her pudgy, bleached-blonde WBody ground up into little meatballs and used as the daily special at Mr. Gyros sounds positively smashing. Not that I'd want to eat her, mind you--if I want bitter I'll have a Campari and soda--but it's the thought that counts.
Tuesday, August 01, 2000
So many comings-out I've had recently. Now, add one more to the list: yes, I was a debate geek. I did a little LD (the policy topics my junior and senior years were really dull: water treatment, zzzzzzz), but my best events were Original Oratory, Humorous/Dramatic Interp, Duo Reading, and Duet Acting.
My high school once kicked NFL and CFL ass, but by the time I got there, they'd long since dropped the debate program. Luckily, our speech teacher wanted to start things up again, and within the first few weeks of my 10th grade year, she'd corralled four of us into a ragtag group of competitors. We did surprisingly well; even at our first tournament I walked with a 2nd place Prose Interp (a category I later came to despise) and a 1st place Duet. Hot stuff, no?
A small point of interest: one of my fellow teammates (the one with whom I shared the aforementioned Duet trophy and with whom I was inexplicably matched up for the rest of my high school years) went on to do very well for herself. There's a pic of her somewhere on this site. Who could it be? First one to get it right wins a special token of my esteem....
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