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Wednesday, January 31, 2001
Okay, Bryan, I understand you're all into this and stuff--and that's fine--but, yo, why ain't that shit allowed in France? Frankly, it makes me a little nervous. I mean, take your average Frenchman off la rue, sit him down in front of a 72-hour Jerry Lewis/David Hasslehoff telethon with nothing but a bottle of Pernod and a carton of unfiltered Gitanes by his side, and he'll come out just fine. They have developed a superior tolerance for pain and horrifying aesthetics. So when the French start whining about something, you know it's really futup.
 Okay. So we've got a couple of votes for Nina Simone and Chet Baker, quite a few for the twisted one, Nina Hagen, and her swarthy sister, Ofra Haza, and about one each for Debby Harry, Grace Jones, Annie Lennox, Stevie Nicks, and Dolly Parton. (Ralph also proposed Cyndi Lauper, but I dunno 'bout that.)
Any other nominations for alpha-type vocalists worthy of booting the Lady M from her king-of-the-hill spot atop the queer heap? Preferably someone alive? I mean, Billie Holliday's great and all, but I prefer heroes with a pulse.
Tuesday, January 30, 2001
 So I'm in the car the other day listening to the radio and, like, there's this commercial, right? And it's this guy with a thick-as-a-brick Southern accent who's supposedly calling some random person to find out if they're a "real Southerner," asking them to pronounce "y'all" and wanting to know if they've got Bama Jelly in the 'fridge. So of course, to make the ad funny, the woman who answers is total Brooklyn-down, who can't seem to manage "y'all" at all and has never even heard of Bama. She says she's from Florida--obviously a retiree in, like, Naples or Boca or someplace very Golden Girls--and he tries to convince her that to be a true Southerner she's gotta talk the talk and always have the jelly on-hand. Hahaha, end of commercial.
What's wrong with this picture?
- The woman, sassy as she is, never hangs up on the freak. Nor does she take his number off the caller id and have him prosecuted for harrassment.
- Bama Jelly is, like, the total crappiest jelly ever. For real. The most generic, insipid toast spread line, bar-none. It's the condiment equivalent to "cheese food."
- Bama Jelly is made by Welch's which is based in Concord, Massachusetts, ground-zero for Yankee carpetbaggers.
- Who cares about definining what is and isn't "Southern" anyway? Is this part of some conservative, nationalist/regionalist movement, not unlike what the 1990s saw in Rwanda and the former Yugoslavia, where we're all trying to decide who belongs where? If so, should we prepare now for an impending wave of regional cleansing? Should I stock up on Bama to avoid persecution by the mob? "Please, don't hurt us! We've got the jelly! And we looooooove it!"
Yeah, I know it's just a commercial. But it's irritating. I guess it's particularly annoying to me because New Orleans is so much about what constitutes "real" New Orleans culture. We've done such a good job of preserving ourselves that it's all we can do. You can't make a movie about New Orleans without it being all jazz and gumbo and red beans and Mardi Gras.... It's one of the very few gripes I have about the city I otherwise gladly call home.
Monday, January 29, 2001
I got a fairly sad email from Craig Chester this afternoon. Apparently, his cat, Erazmus had an accident, was misdiagnosed by some veterinarians, didn't improve, finally got the proper diagnosis, underwent a long, painful recovery process, and then died suddenly in the middle of the night. If the first clinic had examined him properly, the outcome would likely have been far different.
Now, most of you who know me know that I'm more of a dog person. But even so, I'm very fond of Lola, our aloof bete noir, and I'd be very distraught if something were to happen to her. Well, Craig is a total cat person, and he's very, very upset, and pretty angry, too.
The point of the story is that the extensive treatment ran up some bills--over $6,000--and being the struggling actor, Craig and his partner could use some help. I understand it's got far less immediate effect on you than, say, the Blogger servers that maintain your websites, but still.... I dunno, I'm kind of a bleeding heart when it comes to these things. So, basically, if you're feeling philanthropic and wanna show some support for one of America's pioneering queer actors, drop on over to Paypal and spread some love. FYI, Craig's email address is chestyboi@aol.com.
Sorry, Keith, but I have to agree with Dean on this one. I mean, I have nothing against Madonna personally. In fact, she seems to have quite a few redeeming qualities. For starters, she's one of my leo brethren--uh, sistren. She's also charmingly eccentric, and when it comes to marketing, she's a whiz kid nonpareil. I even find her music bearable--and with the right re-mixer, it can be downright enjoyable. Why, I've juked to nearly all her diddies, from "Everybody" (my personal Zen-disco-minimal favorite) to the recent "Music," with the notable exception of the duck-and-cover-inducing "Cherish." (*shudder* Let us never speak of it again.)
No, my problem with the M. Lady stems not so much from her funky-but-puerile music, but from the cult she's created among the Marys. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Madonna, save me from your homo disciples.
Saturday, January 27, 2001
Another little something from The Magazine That Never Happened:
FAKE Magazine: Personals
Work me!
Sandy Duncan in the wheat field can't hold a candle to me! I am all that, honey, and a 25¢ drink--and a toothpick when you're done. 39 y.o., chocolate-flavored lover, feminine above, masculine below. I'm all you need, so do me, daddy! No gay men. (As if you'd even think about it after you laughed at me falling down the steps at that A-list party last week. All I gotta say is, at least I got paid for going to that lame-ass party, gymboy motherfucker--you know who you are!)
* * *
Cut Me Open!
DWF, former mannequin, undergoing painful separation from world-class magician. Seeks swarthy M for fun and games. Watersports OK. Fluent in 12 tongues. I mean it.
* * *
Let's Skip Breakfast Together
BM seeks lovin' on the side. Late middle age, former songwriter, wants to please any interested young women. Well-built, attractive, very few facial scars. Love fine cars, good wine, passion. Dislike contemporary music, jealousy, grits.
* * *
I Swallow!
DWF, 67, recently widowed, lonely. I make a mean bruchellone, boys! 38" 26" 38" and it's all real! Come and give me a whirl! No drinkers--I swore on my husband's grave I'd never marry an alcoholic because that's how he passed, you know, drank himself to death. I won't let that happen again! If you drink, you stink! Stay away! Vamoose! All others considered regardless of race, age, or religion (as long as you're Catholic).
* * *
Spicy Girl Sandwich!
GM couple seek woman for first-time encounter. #1: 22yo, bi, 6', 175, tattoos, brown/brown (blond highlights); #2: 58yo, gay, 5'7", 132, businessman, grey/bald/blue, clean-shaven. #2 needs a woman because he's terminally ill--not contagious!--and wants to have the experience. #1 will serve as leader. Be open-minded, patient, attractive, under 60, with nice feet. No men dressed as women, please.
* * *
Que Sera, Seance
Recently deceased, bi-curious SWF seeks soulmate for the afterlife. Enjoy hovering silently above my two children, hiding things in former husband's study, misplacing mother-in-law's tiara. No drinkers. Swarthy Mediterranean types a +.
* * *
Worship at My Temple!
SJF, 34, 6'3", writer/equestrienne, seeks same for fun and profit. Or games, if you prefer--ha! Natural blondes a +, and don't think I won't be able to tell, you. I like long, lazy walks, picnics, stilt-walking, and, occasionally, wrestling. Recent episiotomy, so we'll have to take it slow. No men! This means you! Yes, you! Please bathe.
Friday, January 26, 2001
Sloth is good. I mean, if I weren't so goddamn lazy, I might have actually removed the BlogVoices code from my page, and then it'd take me weeks to put it back properly again.
I feel the same way about making the bed: it's much easier to crawl into when it's a mess.
My, but Tina Yothers looks...different.
No, really, I mean that in a good way. Sort of.
No redesign after all. Just new colors.... Spring-y, no?
Thursday, January 25, 2001
I'm lazy and refuse to remove my Blogvoices tags until the situation resolves itself completely.
<batting eyes> Unless, of course, that brainy little sexpot Steve wants to help me out with some php....</batting eyes>
Wednesday, January 24, 2001
My desk is piled high with work. My car is a wreck. I won't even mention the living room, the bedroom, or *shudder* the kitchen.
So with all this crapola, this karmic schmutz, why am I considering a redesign? Me, Richard. The guy who's been know to wear the same outfit for a week. The one who goes days without bathing. I mean, my dogs change their look more often than I do. A redesign should be at the bottom of my list.
I'm guessing it all stems from stress. It's heavy grantwriting time at work, and I've got some serious marketing to do, and of course, Mardi Gras is coming up, and with it, many a costume to prepare for the balls and parades. And, and, and.... So, redesigning this website is a great way to focus my energies on a non-threatening, deadline-free task. Or, in common parlance, to waste time. Hey, what can I say? It's a coping mechanism.
Today's broadcast of Solo Psychotherapy for the Self-Absorbed has been brought to you by Campbell's Soup for One, Big Daddy's neighborhood bar, and the friendly folks at Falcon Video.
Monday, January 22, 2001
Okay, somebody found me by doing a search for the Ameritrade commercial song. Who on earth could possibly be that bored?
Of course, blogging it implies that I'm even more bored.
Well, boyfriend, as long as we're on the subject of divas, let's not forget the most fabulously terrifying one ever. (Um, except for old whatshername, that Visigoth queen who drank everyone's blood. I guess she was pretty fab, too.)
Saturday, January 20, 2001
 
C'mon. Seriously: what queen doesn't need a little more drama in his life?
Friday, January 19, 2001
 On that note, why hasn't anyone ever done a good cover of Calling Occupants Of Interplanetary Craft (The Recognized Anthem Of World Contact Day)? Between you and me, that's their unacknowledged master work.
And as for that movie, I think I know someone with a copy.
Thursday, January 18, 2001
So...there's this "crackhouse law" that's used to punish folks who foster environments (e.g. crackhouses) condusive to drug use. Now, prosecutors in New Orleans are trying to use the law to nail the owners of the State Palace Theatre, who have promoted and hosted the city's largest raves over the past 5 years or so. The argument goes, "the owners knew that all the little ravers would be taking drugs, so they did everything in their power to promote drug use and enhance the collective trip."
I guess the case has some merit. I mean, it'd be different if the owners were just renting out the space to someone else, but they were active parties. They shared in promoting the event and the profits.
Still, I can't help feeling there's something excessive about all this hub bub--especially since these parties have been going on for so long. It's not like the kids just suddenly discovered ecstasy or anything. Frankly, if anyone should be indicted, it should probably be Barbara Walters. You know how she's always doing those insightful, tearful exposes? Well, that's where America's youth learn about illicit substances.... But then again, I've got a soft spot for recreational drug use.
The Times-Picayune applauds the lawsuit, but imply that the rationale of the prosecuting attorneys is seriously flawed. I agree: sue the pants off the owners--not because they promoted drug use among rebellious teenagers (which is like shooting fish in a barrel), but because they insisted on calling the damn things "raves." I mean, maybe in 1987, but jeez, Louise...
Wednesday, January 17, 2001
Okay, so I'm swamped. Totally and completely swamped. But I'm getting good press....
If I can make it through this weekend, I should be okay.
(I say that every week.)
Monday, January 15, 2001
Just days after posting to classmates.com, I've already gotten emails from two of my high school friends. Funny, I kinda registered with the site out of boredom--nothing better to do on a Saturday morning than peck away at my keyboard, I figured. And there weren't that many folks listed from my graduating class anyway. Bottom line: I didn't really expect anything to come from signing up.
Now, don't get me wrong. It's not as if I'm overwhelmed by the surprising (albeit meager) response to my post, or suddenly racing out the door to rent Pretty in Pink (although I've been meaning to pick up a copy of the kick-ass soundtrack for some time now). It's just..I dunno, hearing from people I used to know reminds me that my adolescence actually happened.
Best/oddest of all, neither of the folks who wrote to me have been able to deduce the identity of the lesbian who made my life unnecessarily hellish for several very long years. I guess I was right: no one figured her out.
Sunday, January 14, 2001
Wheeeeee! This application from Stor Entertainment's kinda fun--and useful, too (especially when you're trying to plan that perfect Fat Tuesday look):
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me
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mardi gras me
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jonno
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mardi gras jonno
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(Yeah, yeah, I know--the outfits are a little more "Southern Decadence" than "Mardi Gras." Sue me.)
Thanks for the link, Keith!
Friday, January 12, 2001
Four Manifestations of Pussy Terwilliger
as Conceived by Ming Cho Lee
 
 
Thursday, January 11, 2001
A Day Without Whining Is Like a Drag Queen
Without Coty Airspun Powder
(a play in one teeny-tiny act)
When the house lights fade, the stage goes completely black. After a moment, we hear some rustling onstage, then a loud thunk, as though someone might have just rammed her thigh into the jagged corner of the kitchen table for the third time this week. There is a loud but understated "Shit!"
As the stage lights slowly rise, Pussy Terwilliger enters from a small door upstage right. We're in her apartment: stacks of books--secondhand, but unread--litter every flat surface of the room. A computer workstation is located downstage left, its 19" computer monitor completely covered in sticky notes. There are an unusually large number of orchids in the room, most of which cling precariously to life; one gets the sense that if Pussy were to remove even half a layer of dust from their glossy leaves, they'd all be doing remarkably better. Unfortunately for the orchids--and for Pussy--she's not gonna clean dipsquat.
Pussy walks over to the workstation, lights a cigarette, flicks the mouse to turn off the screensaver, and rips down as many Post-Its as she can in one fell swoop, revealing a close-up screen image of a very large, very uncircumcised penis. She recoils slightly; it's a bit early for all that.
The phone rings. She wanders over to it, hesitates, then answers.
Pussy: Hello? Why yes--yes I am looking to change my long distance carrier! You must be psychic! I simply must invite you to dinner one evening and have you read my tarot or runes or whatever divining tools you use. Just don't expect much in the way of dinner--it's as though my opposable digits fly out the window every time I enter a kitchen. I'm practically useless.
(Sips from coffee cup. Grimaces.)
Pussy: You see, my sweet, as a young girl we lived on a pig farm in Botswana. My parents were devout vegetarians, repulsive detritus from that so-called political movement of the 1970s known as “the hippies.” determined that we should appreciate all god’s creatures, they allowed my eleven siblings and me to eat nothing but the very grain which we fed our porcine charges.
(Lights a cigarette without missing a beat.)
Pussy: Luckily, Margaret Mead’s granddaughter was traipsing through our neck o’ the woods one day, making a tour of local hamlets in an effort to prove that at least some of Maggie’s theories weren’t lies. I doubt she succeeded, but that’s neither here nor there. As I was saying, she stumbled upon our lean-to just as I happened to fall in one of the many mud puddles that dotted our small parcel of land. As I stood up, I spat out several pieces of grain, which I was still chewing when I took the proverbial fall. Thinking they were teeth I expelled from my sweet, tender, pouty, prepubescent, coquettish mouth, la Mead picked me up and, without asking my parents, rushed me off to the nearest Red Cross station. There, I was given a thorough examination and heavily interrogated by several very efficient-looking women—by which I mean they had absolutely no fashion sense. After eating a batch of some dreadful “homemade” cookies—Maggie wasn’t much of a cook, you know--I was whisked away to Burkina Faso, then known as Upper Volta, where I lodged with Ms. Mead for a number of years in the quaint capital of Ouagadougou. I love that word. Say it with me.
(She waits, listening.)
Pussy: Excellent. Anyway, my dear, it seems that one particularly irritating June, I found myself selling flowers at the airport. I had just finished making a rather large sale to a honeymoon couple from Mongolia when I caught the unmistakable scent of pigs being prepared for a cargo flight to Paris. Drawing on my vast childhood experience and creative genius, I used my several saleable bouquets to disguise myself as a deliciously svelte sow and proceeded to board the plane. I arrived in Paris two weeks later, even thinner than usual, and became an instant success on the runways of several couturiers, who shall all remain nameless, of course. Finally, after years of living amongst cafe society, I escaped to the States in the dead of night to pursue my dreams of marrying a Texas oil baron, which, as is usually the case, has led me here. And that, you see, is why I cannot cook.
(Stubs out cigarette.)
Pussy: Well, dear, it's been perfectly lovely chatting with you. I do hope you'll call me again sometime. I'd so enjoy a companion on my shopping excursions. Ta-ta!
(Slams phone onto receiver. Pauses half a beat.)
Pussy: Not bad for 9am on a Saturday.
Blackout.
Wednesday, January 10, 2001
Ok, I lied. I'm gonna keep the wishlist thing going. At least for a little while longer.
It just too damn sweet to delete yet--all these folks who signed up to spread comfort and holiday joy, secretly hoping to strike it rich and get paired with Bill freakin' Gates and score the most extravagant thing on their list.... Ah, the holidays bring out the best in people.
Lemme know if you wanna be added to the lineup.
Tuesday, January 09, 2001
Ugh. I'm exhausted. I've spent the last three and a half days shuttling from one performance to the next. The way the conference is structured, groups from around the country are presented in a "showcase" format: you go to the Joyce Theatre, for example, sit your happy ass down, and watch as dance companies get 20 minutes to show off their best work. Like it? Book 'em. Hate it? Only 19 minutes 'till the next act. Kinda fun, no?
Accordingly, I've seen some really amazing work, and some that really sucked (which I won't link because I'm sure they're all very nice people). Best of all, one of my favorites is coming to New Orleans this spring.
Q. What's worse than a queen doing a Judy Garland impersonation?
A: A queen doing a Bette Davis impersonation.
Q: And what's worse than a queen doing a Bette Davis impersonation?
A: A queen gushing about modern dance. Puh-leeze, Mary....
Oh, Jonno says "hi." He's too exhausted to write at the moment. Later, perhaps, when we get back to the Big Easy.
Saturday, January 06, 2001
Well, despite the weather, last night was very pleasant, indeed. It was good to see everyone who dropped by, and I hope we're able to cross paths with the rest of you before we leave.
Today, my conference starts in earnest. It's a performing arts kinda thing--which is nice, 'cause you get to meet artists and presenters from all around the country. Unfortunately, you also have to meet their agents. Yeah, I know they're a necessary part of the buisiness, making it easier for producers to find talent in a one-stop-shopping kinda way, but do they have to be so slimy? I've yet to meet one who wouldn't sell his grandmother into slavery if it meant that one of his artists could land a starring role in a Chia Pet commercial.
That brings me to this week's Like/Loathe List:
Like
- Honest-to-goddess triple-threat talent
- The sound of subway trains rising up through gratings
- Shopping and finding nothing I really need
- Novels with an occasional illustration
- Coffee served by swarthy Mediterranean types
- Finally conquering my video game addiction
- Jazz hands
- This year (so far)
Loathe
- Performing arts companies with the word "Productions" in their name (e.g. "Silver and Gold Productions")
- The curious and sinister disappearance of homeless people from the streets of Manhattan
- Shopping and finding nothing I really want
- Artists without a sense of humor (you know who you are)
- Having to layer-up just to step next door for a cuppa joe
- The fact that I'm too goddamn jaded to enjoy much of anything these days
- Blade hands
- 1982 (eighth grade isn't pretty when you're outed by a vindictive lesbian-in-waiting)
Friday, January 05, 2001
We had a pleasant though uneventful yesterday. I'd forgotten how much of a hassle it is to get places in the snow. Of course, I'd also forgotten the warm, gooey feeling you get as you walk into the museum/restaurant/shop you've been trying to reach for an hour and a half. My grad-school friend David (a Yankee who was, by the way, one of the best directors I've ever met), used to insist that winter was far preferable to summer precisely because of that. He'd argue that there's something warm and nurturing about coming in from the cold to sit by a fire, but dragging yourself out of the Louisiana heat into an air-conditioned building didn't have the same effect at all. Frankly, I dunno if I totally agree--I mean, I far-and-away prefer 100-degree temps to sub-freezing ones. Still, I like a good fire....
Of course, getting places would be slightly less exhausting if I were able to wear normal shoes. As it is, though, with all the snow and slush and crap, I prefer to wear boots, which means my legs and feet are worn out by the end of the day. Lucky for me, shopping at places like the world's best bookstore can be remarkably rejuvenating....
(I promise, I'll get off this reflective tip soon--back to regular old stupid crappy quasi-funny posts. Stay tuned.)
See you tonight, New Yorkers!
Thursday, January 04, 2001
After a 13-hour journey (which was only supposed to have taken 6), Jonno and I finally arrived at Chad's apartment last night.
There's still snow on the streets, and more's supposed to fall tomorrow. The city is grey as usual, but shiny, too. On the drive in, as we crossed town on 53rd Street, Jonno commented on how much wealth there is here--new buildings everywhere, sparkly things in lobbies seen through smoky mile-high plate-glass windows. I'm not used to being around things that conspicuous anymore, and it makes me feel a little uncomfortable. Guilty, even.
Wednesday, January 03, 2001
Well, kids, we're nearly off. By mid-afternoon, Jonno and I will be frolicking in the dingy, snow-filled gutters of NYC, firmly ensconced at the little minx's gracious urban estate.
See you all Friday!
Monday, January 01, 2001
Well, I hope everyone took part in some delightful New Year's festivities. Jonno, Chad, and I traipsed through the Quarter, watched the semi-entertaining fireworks display on the levee, and wandered around fagland 'till the cows came home. (Of course, as always, this one came in well before the other heifers. As some of you know, I have a real aversion to seeing the sun rise--unless I've awakened to see it.) Anyway, I'm sure someone will post pics soon....
And, you New Yorkers join us for drinks in Hell this Friday, January 5. We'll be there for a couple of hours, from 5:30 or 6:00 'till around 8:00. And just in case the joint's closed (I mean, you never know), our backup spot's gonna be Florent. Yeah, I know it's the same thing we did a couple of years ago. What, you expect me to be original or something? See you there...
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