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Wednesday, February 28, 2001
Tuesday Recap
Unfortunately, I've lost too many brain cells to make it interesting.
A great Fat Tuesday, yesterday--even though it was a little short for me. There was very little costume trauma in the house, and we were all ready to join the Society of St. Anne walking parade when it came by the house at 11:00am.
Things started off cloudy, but by the time we'd gotten just a few blocks down the street, the sun was out, and it stayed out all day. I've got the sunburn to prove it. Good thing I worked that Suzie Wong parasol into my outfit--although next year, I gotta manage the accessories a little better. As it was, I felt like a three-dollar whore juggling parasol, handbag, cocktail, and lit cigarette.
After the parade, we wandered over to Josephine's house for a little refreshment. She had a huge king cake on hand, cut into slices. Of course, I landed the baby on my first piece. I slipped it discreetly into my bag, and no one was the wiser.
Around 4:00pm I went home to take a little nap and wound up sleeping 'till 11:00pm. Oops. I'd wanted to join my friends for dinner. Oh well.
Going back out wasn't an option--by that time of night, the energy in Quarter tends to be a little weird. With a full day of drinking and doing drugs, most people cross over by sundown. Folks in bars are simultaneously sloppy and frantic. Not fun. So instead, I read 50 more pages of Cousin Bette and intermittently watched the broadcast of the meeting of Rex and Comus--a sure sign that the end was drawing near.
Unfortunately, none of us brought cameras yesterday. No one wanted to carry one, and none of us had pockets. Our outfits were a little, um, skimpy. Even my purse was skimpy. I had room for a couple of packs of American Spirit, a lighter, cash, and my id. I had to shove the phone down my speedo. (Yes, I set it to "vibrate.")
Luckily, there were a few people who managed to bust out the Nikons.
Yes, Keith, Mardi Gras is a little difficult to understand if you're not here. Even some of the newer transplants have trouble getting their heads around its dynamics. But what you see on TV is just the front side of a very complex, very important social event that would require a weeklong miniseries to accurately convey to the rest of the country.
As I've said before, New Orleans' politics are determined by the krewes--which are, in a way, kinda like dozens of individual country clubs, minus the swimming pools and par-fives. Or maybe the fraternity/sorority analogy works better. In any case, I think this article does a pretty good job of explaining it:
Until the late 1960s, there were separate parade routes for whites and blacks. Those no longer exist, although [the Krewe of] Zulu still winds through some traditionally black neighborhoods not visited by many other krewes.
"There are parallel parties going on, but it's not something where the intent is no whites are welcome or no blacks are welcome," says Ed Muniz, a captain of the Krewe of Endymion, which was formed 36 years ago and is considered one of the more racially progressive parade clubs.
Edwin Lombard, who became one of the first black members of Endymion when he joined 25 years ago, said the separation may have little to do with skin color. Older clubs consist of blue bloods who have little in common with the middle-class or nouveau riche, he said.
"I have nothing to talk about with anyone in Rex," Lombard says. "What would we talk about? The cotton market?"
Tuesday, February 27, 2001
Happy Mardi Gras!
(Pics to follow. Eventually.)
Monday, February 26, 2001
It's nice to know that, despite the esoteric crap I typically post, some people are dropping by for baser stuff. Case in point: someone just did a Google search for "prison rimjobs" and found me on the first page.
Life is good.
Saturday, February 24, 2001
From the coronation of Louis XIV until the time of la Grande Revolution a century and a half later, wit was the comedic form de rigeur in France. In fact, the French--who, to my mind, are typically less anal than many of their European neighbors--were very meticulous when it came to defining types of humor. Wit, for example, was very different from punning, satire, sarcasm, and irony. (The film Ridicule tackles the topic quite well--with the aid of the always-entertaining Fanny Ardant.) What's most interesting, though, is that the rise in popularity of wit wasn't a random social trend--it had everything to do with fashion and politics.
Thanks to Louis XIV's reinvention of Versailles as the center of aristocratic life, noblemen and noblewomen from across the empire suddenly found themselves crammed together into one palace. Whereas before they were free to carry out their political posturing from a distance, now they had to do so face-to-face. Appearance was everything. Not surprisingly, folks--especially court women--went to greater and greater lengths to get noticed by the king.
Wit helped maintain a courtier's facade of sophistication. On one level, "getting the joke" proved your intellectual prowess. But more importantly, it kept your teeth out of view. While other forms of humor could result in an outright belly-laugh, witticisms evoked little more than a smile. That's important at a time when toothbrushes were unknown. I mean, really, how can you impress le roi with a checkerboard grin?
Wit's popularity has come and gone since then. Oscar Wilde had it. So did Dorothy Parker. But with the increased popularity of mass entertainment (e.g. Hollywood) that aims to entertain the lowest common denominator, wit has been on the wane for some time. In fact, these days wit is often suspect; it implies bitterness, world-weariness, effeteness, and debauchery. In films, it's usually the villains who are witty (e.g. "Scar" in The Lion King and nearly any of James Bond's nemeses).
So it's nice to know that despite all that, some people are keeping wit alive.
Friday, February 23, 2001
And So It Begins
(To the tune of "I'm Super" from the South Park: Bigger, Longer, & Uncut Soundtrack)
Verse 1
Streets are closing,
Drunks are dozing,
Porters are hosing down the sidewalks and the loos.
Phi Mus are flashing,
Floats are crashing,
Merchants are cashing in on schlock--now wouldn't youse?
Chorus
It's a party--
A Mardi Party!
Our neighbors packed and headed out the door!
Five more nights,
And four more days--
Then things will be just like they were before.
Verse 2
Maskers are throwing,
Tow trucks are towing,
Guys are blowing guys right out there on the street!
Beads are flying,
Drug fiends are buying,
And their pals are trying to get back on their feet.
Final Chorus
It's a party--
A Mardi Party!
Even the squarest nerd can be a whore!
Five more nights,
And four more days--
Then things will be just like they were before
This awful glut
Of messy queens
And billy-bobs!
Big Splashy Finish
Ooh!
It's a party--
A Mardi Party!
The Marys down their crank and GHB!
Five more nights,
And four more days--
Then they'll all be back en route to old DC--back to DC!
<jazz hands>Yeah!</jazz hands>
Thursday, February 22, 2001
I dunno, Jocko. I think I can imagine slightly more ominous opening lines:
* * *
"Suzanne Vega was having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day."
* * *
"Flowers are my life."
* * *
"Rod and Bob Jackson-Paris will go down in history as the greatest gay role models ever."
* * *
"Tristan awoke at dusk and crawled from the confines of the coffin in which he spent the hours of Phoebus' glorious ride into the endless gloom of the Parisian catacombs, in the process, nearly stumbling over the gabardine cape of his kill from the previous night--a bawdy house tart who claimed virginity as her only vice."
* * *
"Oh, Miss Thing, grab yourself a cocktail and relax, because I am going to share with you my many, many adventures as a fabulous circuit boi!"
* * *
"Self-publishiing can be the gratest experience in you're life."
* * *
"I discovered my gift for poetry on my 73rd birthday, when my great-granddaughter, Barbie, stopped by with her newest little puppy, Mr. Tinkles."
* * *
"Call me Ishmael."
* * *
"My name is Norman Mailer, and this is my autobiography."
Wednesday, February 21, 2001
A few letters that got left on the editorial floor:
* * *
Despite repeated cease-and-desist letters sent to Mr. Mathers and his SWAT team of attorneys, he has continued to market his "music" under the intentionally duplicitous pseudonym "Eminem." While we understand that this stage name is merely homophonically related to our own M&M product, we nevertheless believe we have legitimate grievance against the "artist."
First and foremost, we find the "hook" for Mr. Mathers' pseudonym ludicrous and ill-informed. If Mr. Mathers does, indeed, wish to acknowledge his inner-identification with African Americans (theoretically symbolized by the chocolate center of a typical M&M), then how, we ask, does the other half of the metaphor stand up? "Chocolate" (i.e. African American) on the inside, perhaps, but how does Mr. Mathers express green, red, or blue on the outside? Clearly, the facile symbolism collapses under such scrutiny.
Furthermore, Mr. Mathers has been and continues to be the direct cause of increased expense associated with the official M&M website. Countless bandwidth is expended on visits to this website by legions of Mr. Mather's underwashed and undereducated admirers, none of whom who seem capable of distinguishing between a very white, very whiny "musician" and our delectably refined chocolates.
Lastly, we find Mr. Mathers' bilious (and oft-times conflicting) ideology at odds with the smooth, sweet taste of our own flagship product.
As such, we cannot support Mr. Mathers' nomination for an award from the GRAMMY Foundation and have taken up a collection from the secretarial pool for a contract on his so-called life. Once this contract is signed, we cannot be held responsible for the acts of any professional assassin or bounty hunter who may and will cause serious bodily harm to Mr. Mathers. Consider yourself warned.
Sincerely,
Mars, Inc.
* * *
Yo, that dumbass playa' Eminem piece of shit done ripped me off, too. Ain't none of y'all got no respect for me! Fuck you and that bitch of an Academy. Have your goddamn awards show. I'm going to Shoney's.
Spitefully,
Yo' mama,
Martha Wash
* * *
I love M&Ms. They are my favorite food. They are good. My mommy puts them in a jar in the bathroom. I love my mommy. She lets me have some when I make it to the potty before I have an accident. I am almost potty trained! Mommy says my doggie can't have M&Ms because they are bad for him but he likes them alot so I give them to him. Now mommy says that he is not housebroken anymore and he has to sleep in the yard. I like the brown M&Ms best. I miss my doggie. Why won't mommy let doggie come inside?
Ronald Reagan
Tuesday, February 20, 2001
 So I'm on my lunch break, and I've got a craving for bad Chinese food. Like the sloppy, messy kind of goop they throw in styrofoam containers, coating everything in a gelatinous brown paste. So I make a u-ey in the middle of St. Claude Avenue and head over to my favorite ghetto--and I do mean Good Times/Cleopatra Jones/Foxy Brown-ghetto--Chinese food place. It's not even a restaurant, really; more like a snowball stand that just happens to serve Chinese. But not as clean. Eew.
Anyway, I'm standing on the sidewalk, waiting for my order to come up, when a low-stylin Buick Regal pulls up to the curb, its stereo blaring none other than the incomparable Teena Marie. And for a moment, as I looked around and saw that I was probably the only honky for several blocks, I felt somehow one with Miss Teena--lily white girl, black girl world. And I think to myself, was I always this, um, racially aware (for lack of a better term)? And my hunch is no, but New Orleans has created that awareness in me. The Creole legacy to the city has been an intricate caste system, complex and fascinating.
As a lucky bonus, on the way back to the office I heard another great one: Nancy Wilson's fantastic version of "Guess Who I Saw Today." So...subtle, yes? I wonder what would happen if Lil' Kim were to do a cover...
Guess who I saw today, muthafucka?
Lovah, brotha, bitch-bastard-sucka?
Bitch saw yo' stank ass with that party ho' Jojo
On the downlow
In the bistro
Workin' yo' shrinky-dink yo-yo
Creepin' out the do'
To yo' crib
And now you gon' fib
To me?
Sucka mc?
You must be crazy.
Get on back to yo' chick
Outta my face, suck my dick.
Pussy.
Monday, February 19, 2001
 I've been uncommonly lethargic lately, especially in my spare time--probably because I'm spread so thin that by the time I get home from work, I just wanna crash. It might also have something to do with the fact that I've all but stopped jogging. Aerobic activity: so invigorating.
Or it could be just because I'm growing into an old lazy fuckwad.
Whatever the reason, I found myself doing very little this weekend. Cleaned up the new house so the contractors could begin work. Went to the gym. Attended a very petit birthday party for friends. Spent a couple of hours working on the party scenes in Camille. Made a brief sojourn to the gymnasium. But overall, I spent most of my time in bed, watching public television. And I noticed something very, very strange.
Liev Schreiber has a complete monopoly on the narration racket. Like, seriously, at one point I saw three of his documentaries in a friggin' row: one on genetics and Egyptology; one on animal intelligence; and a third on evolutionary adaptation. He's singlehandedly done away with John Lithgow, Stacy Keach, and that guy who does the voiceovers for the Arthur S. DeMoss ads ("Life. What a beautiful choice."). I hope he's paying his agent well...
Friday, February 16, 2001
A Slight Qualification
When I disparage popular theatre, that's not to say that other people can't enjoy it, or that I find it morally offensive--in fact, I don't. Popular theatre--like popular music--is a great way for artists to make money, and that's of primary importance in my book. Rock on. Just don't expect to see me in the "will call" line.
No, what I'm really trying to say vis-a-vis Oklahoma et al. is that I've been there, done that. On the staircase, in the parlor, in the wheat fields with Sandy Duncan, I've done it. And I have little or no interest in doing/seeing it again. (Unless of course Jonno and Dorian's offspring finds herself/himself as one of the family Von Trapp. In which case I'll be there with the camera, third row back, on the aisle.)
So please don't be all Pollyana with me and start talking about how there's tons of great theatre going on in New Orleans these days, 'cause there isn't. Yes, there's more than there used to be, but for a city of its size...oy.
But enough about that. I'm off to see some good stuff--if I can only manage to avoid tonight's festivities.
A Brief Diatribe Against Hippies and Other Smelly Things
So about five years ago I was on this boat, right? It was April 21, and the Society of St. George--gee, we sure seem to have a lot of saints' societies in New Orleans--was having their annual birthday party for Queen Elizabeth II. She was not expected to attend.
Anyway, we'd danced at the hotel ballroom, we'd paraded to the levee (dressed, as the custom, completely in white), we'd climbed onboard the steamboat Natchez, and we'd all made a bee-line for the bar. I grabbed by vodka/rocks/dirty, headed up to the top deck, sprawled out on a chair to enjoy the sunset, and was almost immediately besieged by some guy--tall and cute, but skinny.
So we're talking and he's kinda flirty, and we're chatting about stuff and things and junk, and we discover that we have a few friends in common, and then the subject changes. To art.
I'm not sure how it all came up. I guess it doesn't really matter. What's important is that things went wrong. Terribly wrong.
Basically, we started talking about the performing arts here in New Orleans, and I think I said something kinda like, "Jesus H. Christ, the goddamn theatre in New Orleans fucking sucks toilet sludge." Like I said, I can't remember exactly.
Well, Skinny Boy was having none of it and started listing off all the venues in town and all the stuff that was going on like Oklahoma and crap. Oklahoma. And I said, something like, "Honey, that's not theatre. That's a two-hour high-colonic for the Geritol set. Makes 'em think they're having an arts experience, but it's really just bad TV with a pulse."
HIPPIE"At least those actors and directors are doing something, man. They could be just, like, sitting around becoming alcoholics, you know."
ME"Yes, well, I suppose you have a point. But don't expect me to sit in on their public therapy session."
And basically he proceeded to tell me that I was some sort of theatre snob, and that all theatre is good theatre because people are doing something that comes from the heart, and I stopped his ass right there and set him straight: "Yes, I'm a freakin' theatre snob. There has to be an elite in theatre, just as there has to be an elite in other disciplines. Someone's gotta be at the helm, someone's gotta be in charge, someone's gotta say, 'For god's sake, Karen Finley, can't you do something a little different, just this once?!' Art depends on three things: (1) short attention spans, (2) big mouths, and (3) very big opinions."
I was kinda stunned by the vehemence of my reaction. I don't normally think of myself as a rude person--really I don't. But something in him, something dark and malevolent and steeped in patchouli and prone to group hugs and communes made me furious. I excused myself rather suddenly and--I swear it was such a movie moment--raced down to the main deck just in time to jump back on shore before the cruise up the Mississippi River began in earnest. Half a minute later and I'd have been trapped with the yutz for three more hours....
The performing arts in New Orleans have seen some progress since then. It's actually a very exciting time to be around, with no fewer than four monster-sized arts centers in the works. But I'm still sort of a snob.
I mean, who finds the pedestrian truly entertaining?
Epigram for Friday, February 16, 2001 (courtesy of Jocko):
When bankers get together for dinner they discuss art.
When artists get
together for dinner they discuss money.
--Oscar Wilde
* * * * *
On an unrelated note, do any of you 'mos know who sings the song "Bill"? I hear it all the time on one of the local soul stations, and I've even seen the video, but for the life of me, I can't recall the artist. Black woman of a certain age, looks kinda like Della Reese with a gin hangover, singing about finding her hubby in the arms of another man... I'll paraphrase the refrain:
I was ready
for Betty,
Susan, Mary, or Ann,
but all the time
it was Bill
sleepin' with my man.
Anyone? ...Bueller? ...Bueller? ...Bueller?
Thursday, February 15, 2001
Three Things
1. Tonight we have our first rehearsal for Camille, which'll go up in April. Just for the hell of it, I went back and re-read Ludlam's manifesto for the Ridiculous Theatre. I was particularly struck by item number seven:
The theatre is a humble materialist enterprise which seeks to produce riches of the imagination, not the other way around. The theatre is an event not an object. Theatre workers need not blush and conceal their desperate struggle to pay the landlords their rents. Theatre without the stink of art.
I'm not sure I completely agree. I mean, yeah, I can appreciate fine art, art for art's sake. But I can also appreciate art that's designed solely to wow the audience, to entertain, to make moolah, moolah, moolah. And I have a particularly low tolerance for artists who deny/are ignorant of the commercial possibilities inherent to their own art.
Bottom line: professional artists are just that--professionals, no less than doctors, lawyers, or Tiger Woods. There are good doctors and bad doctors; there are good artists and bad artists. Art is worth paying for, and it's up to the artist to figure out how to get people to cough up dough. If that means futzing with their work--which is not the same as self-censorship, it just means being more precise--so be it.
Paint, dance, sing, whatever. But for goddess' sake, don't suffer because of it.
2. The house that Jonno and I bought nearly a year ago is entering the final stages of renovation. Or rather, the final stages of phase 1 of the renovations. Phases 2, 3, 4, and 5 to follow....
3. I said yesterday that I wasn't really concerned about the origins of Valentine's Day, but Sister Taffy's essay is so compelling...well, see for yourself. (Thanks for the link, George!)
Wednesday, February 14, 2001
To me, Valentine's Day is one of the great riddles of Western Civilization. Like W's popularity, the success of Andrew Lloyd Weber, and the inner life of cats (Cats, too, for that matter), it mystifies me.
When I ask someone to "be my Valentine," what, exactly, am I asking? I'm not talking about in the seminal sense--like, of what origin is the expression and all that crap. I simply mean, in semiotic terms, what do I signify with those three signifiers? Will you sleep with me? Will you be my paramour? Will you be my dearest platonic friend? Can I bum a cigarette?
Inevitably, I feel like Ralph Wiggum when Lisa Simpson choo-choo-chooses him on the big VD.
I'm not a very romantic person. To be as silly and dramatic and--some would say--nelly as I am, I've got very little of the Casanova in my bones.
Luckily, my boyfriend understands that my lack of romantic affection (or affectation) doesn't mean I don't love him. It just means I'm completely self-absorbed and thoughtless, that's all.
Tuesday, February 13, 2001
The weather here has been miserable all day. Gray, rainy. Not the warm, gooey sort of gray and rainy that makes you wanna curl up by the fire with someone you love, but the insipid, torpid sort that drains the life from every living thing and makes you wonder, "What's the point?" Thanks for the pick-me-up, Mother Nature. Your timing couldn't be better.
On top of that, I'm surrounded by artists--the needy sort.
Luckily, we start working on Camille this week. Few needy folks or egos in our group, mostly because none of us are actors.
Does that make sense?
Monday, February 12, 2001
Goodbye, Frank.
Friday, February 09, 2001
I am officially bored.
I am officially uncomfortable.
I am officially a boy-kisser.
I am officially uninterested in the fate of my first true love.
I am officially unable to recall my first true love.
I am offically a fascist, in my own way.
I am officially tired of dealing with artists.
I am officially glad that it's Carnival time.
I am officially looking forward to the Krewe du Vieux parade this weekend.
I am officially not ready for the Society of St. Anne Ball.
I am officially unprepared to begin directing Camille.
I am officially in love with Jonno.
I am officially not in love with Will and Grace.
I am officially thrilled that we're having houseguests for Mardi Gras.
I am officially excited by tornadoes.
I am officially uninterested in "twinks".
I am officially frustrated with my external modem.
I am officially in search of an official to propogate my official pronouncements.
Thursday, February 08, 2001
More writing for other people who [hopefully] won't mind if I post my latest piece here.
Wednesday, February 07, 2001
Chance sighting: as I sat down at my desk, I happened to glance over at the circa-1951 Big-Ass Dictionary that's so big-assed the only place I can find to put it is the floor of my office. An entry at the top of the page caught my eye. It dovetails nicely with Andy's anti-consumerist rant from yesterday:
Say's Law (n.): a statement in economics: production creates not only the supply of goods, but also the demand for them.
Funny, I don't remember learning that in Econ 101. But then, it sounds a little too marxist for Mississippi classrooms.
Congratulations, papist webheads! You're about to have your very own patron saint to watch over your travels down the world wide internet superhighway thingummy. I just hope you remembered to say the appropriate prayer before logging on today.
Two questions, though:
- Do you have to say the prayer if you've got DSL?
- Will his feast day be 01/01? (nyuk, nyuk...ugh)
Monday, February 05, 2001
As sturtle.com nears the one-year mark, it's time for me to reconsider my hosting options. I'm at Easyspace right now, and they've been very reliable, but I'm considering a move to ReadyHosting: they're cheaper, and they offer more stuff. Only thing is, it's hard to get an idea of ReadyHosting's reliability from their client list. The oh-so-gooey comments are a little staged, if ya' know what I mean. Anyone had any personal experience with 'em?
Sunday, February 04, 2001
Four Things
1. Never underestimate the power of cigarettes and coffee as dieting aids.
2. After a month-and-a-half hiatus, Jason and Gladys are back. We'll see how long they hold out this time.
3. Everyone probably already knows, but I just discovered it yesterday: they've opened up the Stortroopers goth wardrobe. Therefore, three new and improved avatars (Jonno didn't care much for my version of Fat Tuesday boyfriend, so he created his own):
|
mardi gras me
|
my
mardi gras jonno
|
jonno's
mardi gras jonno
|
I still can't seem to get Jonno right, but the eerie likeness to me is, well...eerie.
4. Last night I had the strangest dream. I sailed away to China...in a little rowboat to find ya'.... No seriously. It was odd.
My friends Jim, Kim, and I were extras in a movie about the Israeli army. Wait, let me clarify that: we were extras in a movie musical about the Israeli army. And all the dialogue was in Hebrew. Go figure.
Next thing I know, we've been asked to help coordinate a shoot for a horror flick. They want us to pull in an audience full of people for a free screening of some Christopher Durang movies (which strikes me as odd, because as far as I know he's only made Beyond Therapy, and he hated it) so they can get some good crowd shots for the film. So we're standing outside a movie theatre, herding people in from off the sidewalk. There must have been a masquerade party nearby, because an unusually large number of folks were wearing costumes--especially chicken costumes. Like the kind schmucks have to wear when they're handing out flyers in front of Chick-fil-a. (Again, go figure.)
Anyway, we do a pretty good job of rustling up a crowd, and when we finally go in, the theatre's packed. The only place I can find to sit is next to Mary Garlington (Lu-Lu "For a Quarter I Will" Fishpaw in Polyester). Actually, it's so crowded, Mary and I have to share a seat. And we do. With room to spare (see #1 above).
So we're watching these Durang films, and they all look vaguely like low-rent versions of The Year of Living Dangerously, complete with cheesebag Maurice Jarre-esque soundtracks. After a bit, I decide I'm tired and wanna go home. Timo razzes me as I get up to leave, jeering that I'm always prone to flake out early. (And I am. You gotta problem with that?)
I leave the cinema and head off to retrieve my car from a valet parking lot. And as I'm waiting for the guy to bring 'round my vehicle, I'm set upon by some theatre queen who's telling me all about his latest production (One Flew Over the Cukoo's Nest, I think) and his night out at the Roxy in New York, and I fall asleep in the middle of his story. (You would have done the same.)
Then I woke up.
Saturday, February 03, 2001
You'd think this'd be the last place on earth anyone would come for info on clit piercing. But of course, you'd be wrong.
Holy crap! Must...obtain...Itchy & Scratchy action figures....
Friday, February 02, 2001
All right folks, we'll see you tonight at the Feast of St. Brigid. We'll be the ones in pink.
Just one question: why do I always have to be the girl?
Thursday, February 01, 2001
Bitch Slap
A work in progress
Stage lights up on a posh but messy green room. The sounds of rhythmic chanting can be heard in the distance. We're apparently backstage at a concert hall--a very large one, at that. The crowd is growing restless.
Shortly after the lights come up, Madonna enters the green room downstage left. She's dressed completely in white, with a cascade of auburn ringlets brushing against her shoulders. Surrounded by a six-member beauty SWAT team (Jennifer Grey, Tiffany, Martika, the fat girl from Wilson-Philips, Marcella Detroit, and Rossy de Palma, each of whom sports a long white lab coat), she makes her way to the center of the room and sits in a very minimal-chic recliner, leaning back so that the stylists can do their work. The effect is of crows gorging on a corpse.
After a moment or two, a previously unnoticed barber shop chair spins around upstage right. Sitting in it, we find a woman, although her face is obscured: she's looking straight down, wearing a very large-brimmed, very white, felt fedora. When she looks up, we realize it's Grace Jones, naked save the hat. She's had her nose in a very large pile of...something. There's a wide straw sticking out of the top of the pile, which we'd assume is cocaine, except it's green. And it glows with a rhythmic, scintillating, wave-like phosphorescence, like a cuttlefish. She laughs as she raises her head, leveling her eyes at Madonna. Startled, Madonna bolts upright in her chair. She slowly stands.
Madonna: I didn't expect to see you so soon, Gracie.(Grace breaks into laughter again.) You know, it was foolish of you to come here tonight. My henchwomen have been specially trained to deal with you by Dolph Lundgren himself. (Henchwomen drop lab coats. They're wearing outfits much like Madonna herself, but much less fabulous and about a half-size too small.) Have at her, girls!
(The SWAT team rushes her. The barber chair spins, Grace disappears. General confusion. Moments later Grace, clad in a leopard print cat suit that would probably look ridiculous on anyone but her, drops from the ceiling onto the pack of women. This is followed by a ten minute kung-fu sequence, choreographed by Maggie Cheung. During the fight, Madonna breast feeds Rocco, looking mildly amused by the goings-on. Grace eventually kicks every last ass and whips out a cigar, striking her match on the nose of Rossy de Palma. She paces slowly toward Madonna, who appears unruffled but puts Rocco in a bassinet nearby--just to be safe. Madonna lunges first.)
Madonna: (Giving her a kick to the head) Send that one to the agent who scored you Vamp, tramp!
Grace: (Flipping her over the shoulder) And that's for Body of Evidence, you mindless little slut!
Madonna: (Landing on Grace's shoulder's with a gravity-defying front somersault) You don't have room to talk about bodies, ya' freak! You lousy excuse for a post-op trannie!
Grace: (Falling backwards, pinning Madonna to the ground) Listen here, Eyebags-y Mallone, at least I don't inject myself with toxic chemicals every day of the week just to look younger. (Pauses. Thinks for a moment.) Well, maybe on the weekends...
Madonna: (Pushing her off with the heel of her 6-inch McQueen pumps) Get your lousy bumper offa me, you cow!
Grace: (Flying jump-kick to the head) Cherish this, bitch! (Madonna's head is severed, flying off and up. Grace catches it on the sharpened tip of an eyebrow pencil plucked from Martika's pocket. Grace licks Madonna's head like a lollipop, then inserts it into her own vagina. Addresses audience directly.) For safekeeping. (Smiles, exits. The sounds of the crowd grow louder as we hear an announcer say "Ladies and gentlemen: Jones, Miss Grace Jones...")
The End
Director's note: The above can be performed with Javanese shadow puppets if Ms. Jones and Ms. Ciccone are unavailable at the time of production.
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