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So much has happened since Friday, I think I'm gonna puke. Among other things, I...
More on all that later. In the meantime, I'll see some of you at the Gorey party ce soir.
3:36 PM
I'm daydreaming more than I used to. Not just casual sorts of fantasies, I'm talking near-hallucinations. I'll be in the middle of a meeting, or driving to work, or writing an article, and my attention will just kinda drift off, you know, and it's vivid--like I'm actually there, in it. I used to do this a lot back in grade school. I was in a weird position, see--my parents sent me to this quasi-sassy day school, kinda sorta quasi-elite, so there was this implied relationship I had with the other kids: we more-or-less had to like each other and get along because our parents were part of the same peer group. Problem was, though, I was moderately effeminate, and although I was really athletic and stuff, I always wanted to play on the girls' team. Basically, kids were friendly with me 'cause they had to be, but they were kinda wary, too. As a result, I'd spend hours--days and nights--thinking up elaborate ways to make my classmates like me. These daydreams always involved some sort of threat to the group, and I'd emerge as the hero, chasing down the bad guy and kicking his ass.... As I grew older, the fantasies changed. I acquired three little brothers, and I became obsessed with the idea of protecting them. Whether the threat came from snipers (remember the early 70s?) or mass murderers (hello, Helter Skelter anyone?) or boogeymen (the trailers for The Town That Dreaded Sundown traumatized me), in my mind I was always defending them from someone or something. I'm still not completely sure why. Maybe I didn't think dad was living up to his role as Protector of the Household.... For the past decade or so, though, I haven't been prone to such thoughts--certainly none as regular or vivid. Since high school, I've been pretty good at cultivating friendships, and once my brothers passed puberty, I figured they could fend for themselves. Then, a couple of months ago, things changed. Today, as I walk through the French Quarter and Faubourg Marigny, as I drive to the suburbs of Metairie and Algiers, I see lines on the streets--glowing lines, tracing every path, every inch of road or sidewalk or parking lot I've ever traversed. Molecules of me have fallen to the ground, turning red and sticky. The more times I've traveled a particular route, the brighter the lines glow. When I'm in planes, I can see them, criss-crossing the country, like the maps you find in in-flight magazines showing airline hubs and flight trajectories away from them. I think it's a result of my new-found family--my growing awareness of the tiny circles in which we live and the many times I've crossed the red, glowing paths of Callie, Tiffany, Diggie. It's hokey, I know: it's the same facile revelations people have when they touch beds George Washington slept in, or when they walk the streets of Jerusalem thinking You-Know-Who walked the same road two millenia before. But I can't help it. There's another fantasy I have--one I've had before, in slightly different ways. I'll be in the middle of something--usually driving--and suddenly think, "If I woke up right now with a complete case of amnesia, how could I piece together where I am, what year it is, what life I lead?" If I close my eyes, I can see the landscape as it must have appeared 300 years ago--lush, marshy, sparsely populated. What separates me from then? I inspect the t-shirts of passersby and wonder: are they definitively 2001? Or could they just as well be Goodwill finds from 1988? That girl on the sidewalk: is her haircut fashionable or unfashionable? Or ironically unfashionable? Is the car I'm driving new or used? Does it have a cd player or a tape deck? Most importantly, the songs on the radio--are they current or retro? Were they released before or after the 11th of September, 2001? Ultimately I think that's it: I think it's my way of figuring out what's changed.
9:51 AM
People are going to think I'm a Virgo or something.... 1. There's a drag king show tonight at the Shim Sham (though I can't seem to find it listed anywhere online or in print). Be there. I guess. 2. For your personal amusement, check the writings of John Sanchez on Arts and Leisure. Aunt Jemima...ha! 3. For your personal edification: a selection from The Hermit Songs, op. 29, by Samuel Barber:
Sounds like a pious Elsa Maxwell on her fourth glass of sherry describing her fantasy dinner party. Or Jerry Falwell after a six-pack.
11:12 AM
So... 1. Our new roomie and his hound rock. Kind, considerate, warm: perfect additions to our household. 2. A mon avis, the birthday weekend was a great success. Yeah, Sunday night was dullsville, but between the wig show, the hiply casual Libra party at Lucky Cheng's, and last night's cholesterol-laden dinner, it was very, very memorable. I think my boyfriend enjoyed himself. 3. As an added bonus, I got to meet someone who knew my uncle very well.
1:31 PM
9:57 AM
Every so often, I click over to Exquisite Corpse. Since it's put together by a local guy, I feel somehow obligated to enjoy it. But invariably, I walk away more confused than anything. It's kinda like watching those weird Cold War, Czechoslovakian cartoons that used to appear on USA's Calliope (and which were subsequently parodied on The Simpsons--during the "Gabbo" episode, if I'm not mistaken). Anyhoo, it always looks interesting, kinda, but it make two dollars and no sense. Most of the time. And then they'll publish a damn funny article like this, and suddenly life is good and we've got Squishy back even though it's not technically her doing the writing and girl talk is funny and I'm laughing loud enough to wake my boyfriend... Okay, enough dilly-dallying. I'm off to clean some more. The new roomie and his hound should be arriving shortly. P.S. If you're in New Orleans tonight, you'd better get your ass to the Fifi Mahony's Wig Extravaganza at the Shim Sham. I'm serious. I dunno what time it starts or anything, but be there. And say "hi."
8:42 AM
Aside from the Jerry Falwell/Pat Robertson fiasco that took place a couple of days after The Attacks, it seems like America's most virulent homophobes have been subdued of late. I get the sneaky feeling, though, that that's about to change. Which is why I signed up for the American Family Association's "Action Alert" listserv. You can, too, just by sending an email to afalert-join@lyris.afo.net. The AFA's latest initiative? Taking Proctor and Gamble to task for providing health benefits to its employees' domestic partners. Drop a line to P & G Chairman John E. Pepper to let him know how you feel. Side note: activism feels good. I mean, I'm not heading out to Islamabad anytime soon, so attacking assholes from my home state (though they're technically from Tupelo, which is like another planet) helps rid me of some nervous, aggressive energy. Try it yourself.
10:37 AM
Worst holiday article ever. Ordinarily I wouldn't have posted it, but it looks like the only thing I'm gonna have time to write over the next few days--especially since I've got a new roomie to prepare for.
7:37 PM
Tripplehorn. Jeanne Tripplehorn. Jeanne Tripplehorn. Jeanne Tripplehorn. Jeanne Tripplehorn. Jeanne Tripplehorn. Jeanne Tripplehorn. Jeanne Tripplehorn. Jeanne Tripplehorn. Jeanne Tripplehorn. Jeanne Tripplehorn. Jeanne Tripplehorn. Jeanne Tripplehorn. Jeanne Tripplehorn. Jeanne Tripplehorn. Jeanne Tripplehorn. Jeanne Tripplehorn. Jeanne Tripplehorn. Jeanne Tripplehorn. Jeanne Tripplehorn. Jeanne Tripplehorn. That's the name of the woman who stars in Office Killer. For some reason, I have this mental block, and I can never remember her friggin' name. Oy.
11:10 PM
On the radar this morning: >>> From Lebanese news source Cyberia: "Is Washington doing too much to defeat Osama bin Laden?" >>> Slutboy's account of last night's encounter. >>> A casual survey of Amazon's top-sellers:
And yes, I'm aware that "on the radar" employs a military metaphor. What can I say: it's contagious. Unlike certain poorly distributed biological weapons currently enjoying popularity in our fair United States.
1:47 PM
Okay, I never liked George Bush to begin with, but I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. He all but admitted he was mentally handicapped and surrounded himself with smart, experienced folks to compensate. Between September 11 and last Sunday, I was also impressed with his patience, his apparent level-headedness, his efforts to investigate, survey, plan. Then bombs started dropping. I guess I knew they would--if for no other reason than that he had to save face in a dramatic, televisible way. It's not ideal, but if he'd waited any longer, Afghanis would have begun returning to the cities, and it would have been an even greater PR nightmare. So again, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. But then I read articles like this, and I start thinking to myself, "Damn, that man must have a really small penis." Unfocused campaign. Too many fronts. Winter approaching. I smell Waterloo.
3:30 PM
3:20 PM
All I'm sayin' is that it's nice to be a homo in the US of A--comparatively speaking. I mean, growing up as a boy-kisser in Mississippi wasn't exactly fun and games, but it could have been considerably worse.. Ironic, isn't it, that if I hadn't been given up for adoption, I could have been in the same predicament.
3:10 PM
Due to circumstances beyond my control, I haven't been reading much lately. That may sound like an idle complaint, but trust me, it's a very serious problem. As far as aesthetics are concerned, my desk and my half of the bedroom are a wreck, buried under delicately balanced towers of unread anthologies, plays, and the occasional periodical. Much more troubling, however, is the general effect on my productivity: I haven't read or responded to emails for over two weeks. My apologies if you're one of the unfortunate ones who's foolishly chosen to write. I have, however, taken time to read my boyfriend's always-amusing weblog. It may seem silly, but because of our divergent schedules--I like the sun, he likes the moon--it's often the best way to keep up with one another. Ergo, since I have nothing else upon which to comment right now, I'll respond to/expand on his blog:
P.S. I cut my hair again. Yikes. Pics to follow. P.P.S. Funny how for a week or two after 9/11, all I could think/talk about was The Events. Now that we're actually at war, things seem so distant... Am I the only one feeling this way?
8:29 AM
Did I mention the fact that I finally spoke with mom before I left for the land of KY?
3:00 PM
I am still alive, despite having been trapped for many long days at a conference in the Bluegrass State. Not that I have a problem with bluegrass itself. In fact, some of the conference's musical offerings were particularly good--much better than the other crap I was forced to endure--so the trip wasn't a total loss. And the natives were generally nice, I guess. And it was good to have some face-to-face with colleagues.... But lemme tell ya', darlin': there's nothing to do in Louisville and the food is Bel Ami-bland. Someone should introduce those folks to the wonders of salt. Apologies to any Kentuckians, but I don't think I'll be visiting your state again anytime soon. Thank goddess the conference moves back to Atlanta next year.
12:45 PM
I am alive. I am in Louisville, Kentucky. Like tapioca, being alive in Louisville, Kentucky is neither good nor bad. I don't have access to email. That's definitely bad. This screen resolution is set to 800x600. Bad. The food here is also--without exception--agressively bad. Like, working at it, you know. I come home on Sunday. Which is most definitely good. 'Till then.
1:05 PM
Last week, I spent most of my evening hours lying in bed. With three concerts and the final performance of Hedwig approaching, I knew the weekend was going to be hellacious (P.S. I was right), so I guess I was trying to store up some energy. Or maybe I'm just getting old and fat and lazy. Who can say? Anyway, lying there cuddled up with J-no and the hounds, I got to watch most of the PBS series Evolution. Eight hours later, I can truth fully say that the series didn't live up to its trailer--but of course, how many features do? It was good, yes; great, nyet. It was all pitched a little low, I think. I'd heard most of that back in high school. The one exception to this intellectual mediocrity was the segment devoted to faith and science. As a product of PBS, I'd have expected the series to come down pretty heavily on the "evolution" side of the argument. Interestingly enough, though, the bulk of the piece was devoted to Christians--particularly young, intelligent, devoutly Christian college students attempting to reconcile their studies in geology, biology, and anthropology with creationism and their own belief systems. The producers really seemed to identify with these academics, searching for a place to put their faith in a world filled with godless material facts. Admittedly, this made me uneasy. Like a couple of you out there, I was raised Southern Baptist. Luckily, my family belonged to a pretty liberal congregation (no, that's not a contradiction in terms), so I didn't suffer quite as many scars as I could've, had I been raised in a church full of bible-thumpers. That's not to say my relationship with Christianity was an easy one, though: to this day, the whole concept of organized religion makes me kinda queasy, and fundamentalists--with their literal interpretations of the King James Version of the bible, itself a translation many, many times over--drive me straight up the wall. So as I'm watching this segment of Evolution, these people filled with both scientific knowledge and blind faith, I notice my body tensing up: my fingers are curled into fists, my shoulders are flexed, my jaw is clenched. I like to think I can handle anything, but apparently, some things hit a little too close to home. I like that, though. Although watching the piece made me uncomfortable, it was a pretty nifty experience--as I said, about the only one worth remembering. It put me on the defensive, made me think. In a good way. So it was with interest that I clicked on a banner this morning, placed on the New York Times website. It read: A Critique of PBS's Evolution. Little did I know, the sponsoring organization--The Discovery Institute--is in no way related to the much-revered, science-oriented Discovery Channel. No, the Institute is essentially a conservative Christian scientific think-tank (there's your contradiction, Mary), and their criticisms, while technically grounded in science, belie a pronounced anxiety toward Darwin. Frankly, these folks can't even acknowledge the rationale behind evolution--a sure sign that they're fishing for a counter-theory that might or might not have any grounding in material fact. Now, I'm sure lots of people--Christians and Hindus and atheists alike--had issues with the series. And although PBS is commonly seen as a media "good guy," I know that like any corporate entity, it's faulty. But these guys at the The Discovery Institute... They're just plain creepy. Propaganda disguised as science. Of course, that's what the Christian Right says about evolutionism. Lucky for us, there are more than a few folks out there ready to do battle with 'em.
4:41 PM
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