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Thursday, May 31, 2001
I've officially crossed over.
No, I'm not drunk. Nor have I suddenly gone cukoo for Coco-Puffs. No, I mean I've traversed that dreaded threshold, crossed from light into darkness, from Edenic perfection into a post-lapsarian shadow world. Like Peter Murphy, I've transmogrified into a half-being, a member of the undead clan.
I can no longer drink coffee.
Maybe I'm being a little too dramatic. Okay, I can, theoretically, still drink the java, but the weather's become so hot and humid that the mere thought of swallowing hot coffee is enough to make me swoon. And iced coffee can be dicey--some people actually believe you can just throw hot coffee over ice and--poof!--that's iced coffee! They act as if they'd never heard of the cold drip process. Yick.
So for the next coupla months, me and Diet Coke are again inseparable. I'll miss you, Mrs. Olsen. See you this fall....
Wednesday, May 30, 2001
My boyfriend gets queasy every time I drag him across the state line into Mississippi. I mean, I'm sure that his own childhood was filled with Bronx versions of rednecks and racism, but I guess all the Confederate flags and seersucker and sultriness of Mississippi give it its own repressive, conservative character.
I sympathize with Jonno. Were I in his shoes, I'd probably feel the same sense of trepidation. But he could have it worse--I could be suggesting roadtrips to Skullbonia.
Maybe later.
Tuesday, May 29, 2001
  
Note to self: in the future, avoid consuming copious amounts of hummus immediately before bedtime--it makes for very odd dreams, indeed. All I can remember now is that I was in Singapore producing some show--what kind? I don't know--and I was obsessed with tracking down my friend Keng from grad school. It was maddening and pointless all at the same time. Like Kafka with palm trees.
Needless to say, I didn't last long in dreamland. It's not even 8:00, and I've already been up for nearly three hours.
Of course, that's not completely bad. During the course of my groggy surfing, I came across the presumably new personal homepage of one of my favorite Japanese artists (actually, one of the few I know by name), Gengoroh Tagame. I first saw his drawings on Richard's old site, then I began running into him all over the place. His work is a virtual parade of hunkalicious Asian daddies, many of which have decorated the covers of G men magazine, a Japanese publication for bear lovers.
Looking through his most recent illustrations, though, I'm struck by how different they seem from his earlier work. The first pieces I ever saw were very, well, Japanese, with kimonos and that wacky fundoshi underwear and stuff. Today, though, his style seems practically Western, complete with Chelsea fag-type models in wifebeaters; even their eyes--which should stereotypically signal the model's ethnicity--are generic.
Am I fetishizing Asians? Or am I lamenting the global melting pot--fueled by airplanes and televisions and AOL--that is blurring what were once fairly distinct identities into a single Western whole?
You know what? I don't care. The drawings are hot, end of story.
Sunday, May 27, 2001
File under "I'm Just a Girl Who Can't Say 'No'."
I thought my summer was going to be a slow one. Nothing to do, really, other than mount Hedwig, which, while not the simplest play to put together, should be, more or less, a labor of love. Then we decided to expand the play's marketing plan with special Hedwig appearances (e.g. sending her out to open K-Marts, do book signings, guest dj on the local German punk rock station, the usual stuff), which'll require extra strategic planning and headaches and BC powder. And then, of course, I'd forgotten that Jonno and I are moving soon; we hope to be in the new house in another couple of weeks, mid- to late-June maybe--which is great, sure, but along with that come a series of headaches: packing, schlepping, unpacking, cleaning the old apartment, finding new tenants for it.
Then things got even more complicated: the owner of Le Chat Noir, the venue in which we've been doing the cabaret, asked if we'd be interested in keeping the show up all summer long. I was flattered; Barbara's a savvy business woman and producer, and she knows what sells; if she likes it, that's a pretty nice compliment in my book. So, since flattery'll get you everywhere with me, I said "Sure, we'll figure out a way to keep it going through August," temporarily forgetting that the show has a rotating line-up of performers, meaning that I've now got a summer's worth of torchsingers and jugglers and ventriloquists to line up.
I know, I know: the whining seems pretty disingenuous. I mean, what have I got to complain about? One play on the boards, another cool play on the horizon, and a new house around the bend. Sure, I'm very happy, but I'm also very, very tired. I wanna spend time with my boyfriend and time with my dogs and, well, I can do without the cat, but I'd like to get out of town more often to see my dad and brothers and my buddy Lesley in Jackson, and, well, maybe just spend the day...I dunno, fishing maybe. A break. A big, fat, mindless break.
Calgon, you know what to do....
Friday, May 25, 2001
Yes, it's been quiet over here. Don't really know why. Not much to say, I guess. Not much has happened either. The Minx arrived yesterday, that's good. And we're expecting someone else next week, which ought to be interesting. And the plays are going well. And I had pinkeye. And yadda yadda yadda.... Perhaps I'm experiencing a bit of early summer malaise. It'll be gone soon.
In the meantime, why not expand your vocabulary with a few of my favorite words beginning with the letter "A"?
- AGONOPHILIA: Person who is aroused by a partner pretending to struggle
- ALVINOLAGNIA: Stomach fetish
- ANACLITISM: Arousal from items used as infant
- ANDROIDISM: Arousal from robots with human features
- ANTHOLAGNIA: Arousal from smelling flowers
- ANTHROPOPHAGOLAGNIA: Rape with cannibalism
- AVISODOMY: Breaking the neck of a bird while penetrating it for sex
- AXILLISM: The use of the armpit for sex
Use any one of these delightful terms five times today, and it's yours forever.
Wednesday, May 23, 2001
Ladies and gentlemen, whether you like it or not, Hedwig!
Does that make up for four days of no posts?
Friday, May 18, 2001
Hey, New Orleanians! Y'all comin' out tonight?
"The first word spoken by the model since the April 29 crash was 'Coke.'"
I'll bet.
Thursday, May 17, 2001
Summertime and intellectual endeavors don't usually go hand in hand--at least, not down here in the subtropics. Attempting a poolside read of The Archaeology of Knowledge in New Orleans in July, for example, is a task no less Herculean than reciting multiplication tables while carrying a Bosendorfer grand piano up five flights of mouse-narrow stairs. (Not that I'd ever do either, mind you.) Luckily we've got the frosty, meticulous Germans and Swedes to pick up the navel-gazing slack during the warmer months.
Now, don't get me wrong: I'm no scholar, that's for sure. Since I turned my back on academia, I could probably count on one hand the number of times I've mentioned Foucault in a sentence. But even my thoroughly insipid middlebrow tastes can't stand up to the summer sun. During those hellish months, I tend to slouch toward dime-store romances and People magazine.
So, to prepare myself for the next few months of shall-we-say lighter fare, I've begun re-reading Mr. Capote's Music for Chameleons. I haven't even so much as thought of the book since the summer between my sophomore and junior years in college, when I spent the better part of every day getting stoned, going to an obscenely facile level-two French class, smoking up, having a swim, getting baked, and reading the afternoon away. I guess in my altered mental state, I failed to notice how thoroughly genius the man could be--the ease and simplicity of the narratives, the well-drawn characters. I'm finding I also managed to forget some pretty amazing passages, too. Speaking of Jackson Square in the French Quarter, for example:
A lot of fey folk have strolled about this square. Pirates. Lafitte himself. Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow. Huey Long. Or, moseying under the shade of a scarlet parasol, the Countess Willie Piazza, the proprietress of one of the ritzier maisons de plaisir in the red-light neighborhood: her house was famous for an exotic refreshment it offered--fresh cherries boiled in cream sweetened with absinthe and served stuffed inside the vagina of a reclining quadroon beauty.
Certainly makes me hungry. Or thirsty. Or confused. Or something.
Let the publicity blitz begin!
Wednesday, May 16, 2001
Committee endorses sex-acts bill! Someone buy those men a Remy Martin with a water back, godammit!
Tuesday, May 15, 2001
My relationship with my mother isn't very solid, either. I mean, when I was growing up, sure, we got along well. She was ridiculously overprotective, but she compensated by going to bat for me with dad when I wanted something out of the ordinary: a guitar, a new bike, armloads of cash. She was Good Cop to my dad's Bad Cop, Madeliene Albright to my father's Taliban.
Then something changed. I dunno if it was menopause or mental illness or a little bit of both, but sometime in high school, my mother took to her bed and refused to get up much. In addition to the babysitter we already had (there were four of us boys), we took on two cleaning ladies and a part-time cook. In the middle of dinner, mom would occasionally wander from her room into the kitchen, rifle through the junk drawer chock full 'o Flexeril tablets, and mosey back to bed. Not a lot of mother-son bonding experiences, as you might imagine.
My freshman year at Millsaps, my parents divorced. About a year and a half later, while I was off in Texas for spring break, she married some scuzzy freak she'd been seeing. Since she didn't bother to tell me herself, I had to find out from one of my brothers. I called her up and had a long conversation about nothing in particular and then, just as I was about to sign off, I asked: "Mom, while I was out of town, did you get, um, married?" She responded a quick "Yes," and that was about all she'd say.
All-in-all, that's the way our relationship's gone for the past decade. She's not a terribly good communicator. Add to that her genetic disposition toward schizophrenia and alcoholism, and you've got a woman most folks would try to avoid. Except maybe Tennessee Williams, who'd write a play about her.
Frankly, mom and I don't have much to talk about these days. We don't see eye-to-eye on anything, really. When I make the obligatory pilgrimage to her house once or twice a year, it's like Chinese water torture: we talk about safe things, make small talk--drip, drip, drip--as the minutes creep by. I've managed to escape each incident with my sanity intact, but I don't know how long I can keep it up.
My dad and I, though, we get along like gangbusters. We're both pretty stubborn, and we butted heads a lot when I was younger. He thought I was frittering my life away in the arts instead of becoming a lawyer or doctor or something. He also had a little trouble accepting the fact that I'm gay. But now that he sees I can make a living doing what I love, and that Jonno and I have a relationship as solid--if not moreso--than any of his married friends--he's come around. We could sit and talk for hours; in fact, we have more in common than I'd ever thought possible.
Sorry, mom. I guess it just wasn't in the cards. Hope your day was happy.
Saturday, May 12, 2001
The dotcomments/php thing wasn't working. When I started having problems with the UNIX commands, I gave up. I was out of my element, and I didn't need any more gray hairs. So for now, I'm back with dear old blogvoices. Until it starts futzing my load times, anyway.
Some people don't care much for the comments option, but I kinda like it. Lets you pull your weight.
Thursday, May 10, 2001
Oh yeah, one more thing: sturtle.com's a year old today. Yippee.
Speaking of the urban gay lifestyle, we just scored the rights to a kick-ass play. Anybody wanna guess which one? Here's a hint....
I know I live in a metropolitan area. I know I live in a gay ghetto. I know that the ideologies and tastes I've developed aren't necessarily the same as those of folks from, say, Dubuque. I know I'm not exactly down with the middle-American zeitgeist. I know, I know, I know. And I accept all that...
That said, I refuse to believe that the values expressed through CNN.com's Quick Vote polls represent those of contemporary America. They're always so completely skewed to the right. For real. Even my mom doesn't think that way. Who's stuffing the box?
Wednesday, May 09, 2001
Yes, I'm aware the comments function isn't functional yet. Yes, I'll fix it. Or remove it.
I have awakened, no longer the short-sighted, nebbishy putz that you know. No, today, I am lucid, enlightened.
I am Dionne Warkwick, and I am clairvoyant. I see things about your future, and I will share them with you.
I see brown, a vast soupy sea of brown. Coffee, perhaps. Or poorly made gumbo. You will ingest this brown, then get very queasy. Then everything will be all right.
Your lunch, it bores me. I will skip it.
Later in the afternoon, you will hear me on the radio and think, "Where is Dionne right now?" I am right here, you fool! Talking to you! I know all! I see all! I sing all! Do not doubt my authority!
Ah, that reminds me of the time Sammy and Soupy and I were playing a joint engagement at Caesar's, and we got to this one point in a Humperdinck medley, and I don't remember who did it--it think it was Soupy, but don't quote me on that--and he just went off. I mean off, girl. He started singing that Neil Diamond pot smokin' song and Sammy and I--or maybe Soupy and I--didn't know what to do, so we just joined right in, and that was the biggest standing ovation we ever, ever received! And I owe it all to marijuana.
Thank you, Secaucus, you've been a great audience! I'm here all week...
Tuesday, May 08, 2001
Make that four ticks.
Sunday, May 06, 2001
Back from dad's. Interesting time. Fun with dad and one of my younger brothers (I'm one of four boys). Lots of uncomfortably nostalgic moments--gut-wrenching, nausea-inducing, though not always in a bad way. Seeing houses I used to pass every day, now painted different colors with different owners. Visiting the family farm, very different from when my grandparents were alive. Seeing their barn torn down, a new man living in their house, all the livestock sold, nothing but acres of lumber now. All in all: weird, but bearable. At least the people don't change.
My dad bought some new land--that's cool. A place for a new house, with a small lake. It's beautiful, covered in poplar, live oak, and pecan. When I got home, I found three ticks on my leg.
I change when I go back to Mississippi, and I'm not sure how I feel about that. I become more prone to small talk, and a Southern accent I never really had as a kid creeps into my speech. On the one hand, it's easy to talk to my family that way--when in Rome, right?. On the other hand, it feels vaguely schizophrenic--worrisome because schizophrenia runs in my mother's side of the family. Luckily, I'm adopted.
On the drive back to New Orleans, I had another odd moment. I'd gotten to a point on the interstate that's fairly isolated--no major towns for several miles in either direction. It was there that my old Bronco broke down about a year and a half ago (bad water pump). Anyway, today I'm driving down the interstate, blaring some old skool Nina Hagen or something, and when I get to that point in the trek, I see a car on the side of the road--a green Volvo, windows down, flat tire. A few yards further, I see a guy, mid- to late-20s, walking along, thumb out. He's wearing a white t-shirt, jeans, horn-rimmed glasses. Exactly what I was wearing when the Bronco gave out. He looks like a thoroughly nice college kid having a bad day.
I tried to stop, to pull over, but I was in the passing lane, and couldn't squeeze over just then. And by the time the other cars had cleared, he was nothing but a small disgruntled speck in my rear view mirror. To him, I was just another guy in another car, rocking out to some guitar-laden music and leaving him in the dust.
I felt awful. I started to panic. I knew how he felt at that moment, alone on a Mississippi highway as the sun's going down, plenty of cars passing but no one stopping. My anxiety was made worse by the fact that it was so clearly some kind of cosmic, Shirley McClaine-style sign from goddess; my sartorial twin, frustrated, angrily walking the very same stretch of gravel shoulder I'd traveled a few months back. When it happened to me, I was picked up by a woman in a compact car with her two kids. I could have been anyone, Charles Manson's little brother for all she knew, but she took a chance, and I told myself then I'd try to repay the favor someday.
Someday was today and I had my chance and I blew it. I felt awful all the way home. Wherever you are kid, I hope you're with friends, warm and full of food.
Thailand, as it happens, is a country whose male-to-female transsexuals make up an unusually accomplished and accepted subculture. There are no legal sanctions against homosexual or transgendered lifestyles, and kathoeys, or drag queens, are everywhere. In the late 90's, one of the country's most popular celebrities was a cross-dressing kick boxer who kissed his opponents and wore lipstick in the ring. The second-highest-grossing Thai movie ever made, "Iron Ladies," tells the (true) story of a transsexual volleyball team.
My boyfriend's always wanted to go to Thailand, but I never had much interest in the place. But this article may have changed my opinion. I mean, any country that puts transsexual volleyball players on the big screen wins points in my book.
And yes, I'm reading the article to my dad and little brother as I go.
Saturday, May 05, 2001
Holy crap. I'm posting from my father's house. This is unsettling because:
a. My dad lives in the Middle of Nowhere Mississippi.
b. My dad lives in the Middle of Nowhere Mississippi and he has DSL.
c. My dad lives in the Middle of Nowhere Mississippi and he has DSL and I don't.
d. Dad will eventually become knowledgeable in the ways of email.
Of course, I don't know why I'm surprised. It's not like Mississippi is Irkutsk or anything. Dad's also got digital cable and a Sprint PCS phone. Go figure.
On a completely unrelated subject, I may soon have some pretty sassy news about a production we could be mounting this summer. The rights haven't been positively secured just yet, but we'll probably know something this week--good lord willin' and the creek don't rise (as they say here in Mrs. Hippie).
Friday, May 04, 2001
Despite my boyfriend's recent post about the banality of blogging search engine requests, I have to mention one I received today--I think it's my favorite ever: Is Amy Grant into scat?
Well, is she?
Another trip to Baton Rouge today. You've no idea how much fun that is. No, really.
Hey, did you hear about that new pirate movie? It's rated "argh."
Don't blame me--it's Jonno's joke.
Thursday, May 03, 2001
Today's Overbearing Monster of Fluctuating Weight: Kirstie Alley. Bitch could drop twenty pounds in a heartbeat if she'd stop chewing all that scenery.
Wednesday, May 02, 2001
To the person who stopped by for naked pictures of Lynne Russell: did you find any? 'Cause goddess only knows what I've got lying around in here.
Tuesday, May 01, 2001
Dear Coffee:
I'm sorry I've been ignoring you today. It's nothing personal. You look great--in fact, in that sassy new Krupps outfit, you look better than you have in years. I could stare at you the whole morning long, all the while watching a little tiny me reflected in your deep, rich brown. Normally, we'd have already "gotten together" a couple of times today, but...
Well, I never really noticed this before--and please, don't take this the wrong way--but you have the tendency to be a little, um, cloying. You put little socks on my teeth, my throat, my tongue. And today, before I knew what was happening, you put them on my tonsils.
I know, I should have gotten rid of them years ago (the tonsils, that is). We never got along, they and I. I kept 'em around, though, thinking our relationship would smooth out--and it did, for a while. But now they're as irritating as ever and I just want 'em gone 'cause they're coming between me and you.
Truth be told, I think they're probably just feeling a little neglected. And I can see where they're coming from--I mean, I have known them for longer than I've known you. I tell you what: I'm gonna spend the rest of the day humoring them, and then bright and early tomorrow morning, we'll pick up where we left off. That okay, honeybun?
Thanks for understanding. You're my one and only!
xo richard
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