It's holiday time, which means another article written for the local homosexual newspaper. This one ain't so bad, I think--'cept the intro, which is ass-backward awkward. But hey, I wrote it in 30 minutes, what do you want from me?
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7:39 AM
Yo, like, merry Christmas and all. That's all I'm sayin'. Merry Christmas. Gentiles may now return to their regularly scheduled feeding frenzy. ...Oh, wait, one more thing: you missed a rollickin' good time down at the Golden Lantern last night. The highlight? A big, showy opening number (well, as big and showy as things can get in a dark little homo watering hole like that), in which a half-cocked drag queen--who looked like nothing so much as an Edward Gorey victime with badly Toni Home Permed hair--lip-synched "Walkin' in a Winter Wonderland" while seated in a motorized wheelchair, spinning in circles while a trio of fairies sprinkled the crowd with "snow" that felt suspiciously like chopped up bev-naps. I know, I know. The EEK! factor was really high. But then, it always is...
11:20 AM
Help! Does the name Carol Peril mean anything to any of you? My friend Zod introduced me to the wonders of Carol, a bona fide trailer park resident caught on tape for legions of North Carolina ravers to admire. Watching the video of Carol's birthday celebration--at which she receives both Body Butter (her neighbor, Lucy, explains: "Aw, Carol, you rub that on your puss!") and a sperm-scented candle--was a sight to behold, made all the more terrifying because it was totally, honest-to-Yahweh for real. It was kinda like Pink Flamingos meets Big Brother. Eek. Anyway, Zod left town about two years ago, and being the nice guy that I am, I gave him back his copy of the tape. Now, however, I'm completely distraught, 'cause I never dubbed it and I can't find Zod and I really really really want/need it. Like, now. Anyone? ...Anyone? ...Bueller? ...Bueller? ...Bueller?
11:55 AM
 After the show last night, I was talking to a friend who teaches English at a local high school. He was complaining about having to teach Arthur Miller's The Crucible next spring. I nodded my head in sympathy: without question, it's the most annoying piece of literature ever written. Now, I'm not saying that the writing's bad--hell, it's Milton compared to something like All My Sons (in which Miller forces the lead character to speak the title of the goddamned play). No, it's the setup that drives me crazy, particularly the maddening "mob mentality" that drives the piece. As an audience member, it's unbearably frustrating to have to sit there and know the truth of the matter (since the writer's handed it to us on a silver platter) while uninformed, witch-obsessed, somberly clad townsfolk run around the stage for two hours accusing everyone of sleeping with Satan. I can only assume Mr. Miller wanted to be absolutely, positively certain that we identified with his protagonists. Mission accomplished, Art. In lieu of focusing directly on the play, I suggested to my friend that it might be more interesting to teach The Crucible as a kind of history lesson, devoting the bulk of classtime to the historical origins of the play--specifically, the McCarthy hearings. He could talk to his students about The Wooster Group's performance of LSD: Just the High Points, which essentially deconstructed the play and the hearings and the counterculture of the 1950s...but then, the title alone could be enough to earn him a reprimand from the principal. ...Well, maybe the class could talk about John Ashcroft and his recent McCarthy-esque pronouncements.... No, it's not a great example of "group think," but there's plenty of fodder for discussion there. Today, however, I'm greeted with something even more terrifying and bizarre and ripe for debate in my friend's classroom: the UN has apparently decided that the child sex trade is "a form of terrorism." Go ahead--you don't believe me, read the damn thing. I defy you to fully explain how "child pornographers" can possibly be synonymous with "suicide bombers." If they're just being logically and semantically lazy, assuming that everyone who's not in complete control of his own life is somehow being terrorized...well, that's a can of worms they probably shouldn't be opening--unless they want to go to the trouble of explaining the difference between their version of terrorism and, say, economic terrorism or cultural terrorism. Like McCarthy, they're using "terrorist" as a convenient label to villify everyone and everything to which they object. Ladies and gentlemen, let the terrorphilia begin....
2:51 PM
Okay... (1) I've sent out all the Secret Santa Somethingsturtleorother notices. If you signed up and you didn't get an email from me today, drop me a line. Something must've gone terribly, horribly wrong. (2) I finally managed to post three pics from "The Meeting". I'll get around to commenting on it all soon. Whew. That's enough for today.
3:28 PM
Yo, this is your last chance, Fancy, to sign up for the Secret Santa Sturtle thingy. Drop me a line if you're game...
12:18 PM
At Jocko's suggestion, I re-worked yesterday's fantasy scenario into a more viable Hollywood version. Here's the pitch I'd make to Mr. Katzenberg:
3:07 PM
 Lindh said he would like to hug his son and kick his butt for not getting permission to go to Afghanistan. SON: Hey, Dad, you finished with that beer? DAD: Yup. SON: Want another? DAD: Well... SON: C'mon, Dad, loosen up. Mom's three states away living in a gated community with some Lutheran named Sven. That makes you a free man--a guy on the town, a bachelor with a pad, a swingle! You can drink all you want now. DAD: Well, okay. Pass me another. SON: (Under his breath) Infidel! DAD: What's that, Son? SON: I said I'd like to have one, too, if it's okay with you. DAD: Fine by me, Son--we're in California! We're enlightened. We live the life of the Old World. We take walking tours through wine country, we host romantic al fresco dinners on the decks of our beach houses, we smoke marijuana at the dinner table--but never cigarettes, son. (Standing and towering over Son.) Never cigarettes! Do you hear me? Cigarettes are awful, vile, instruments of corporate America! They pollute the environment, make thousands of people sick every year, cause untold economic damage to the world's developing countries-- SON: I understand, Dad. DAD: --keep thousands upon thousands of uneducated workers in poverty-level jobs-- SON: Dad, I got it. DAD: (Sitting down again.) ...Oh. Ok. Good. So long as you understand. SON: Yes, I understand. DAD: Fine. I'm glad. ...You know, we've never really had that talk before. SON: Yeah. I'm glad we had it. DAD: Good. Me too. Now where was I.... Oh, yes: our refined, higher standard of living.... Like I said, we're laid-back here in California. We live not unlike centuries of Tuscans have done, celebrating holidays among loved ones without a hint of familial strife, traveling to the weekly market by horse-drawn buggy, consuming vast amounts of bread. So why should I mind if my Son--a young man, very nearly 21 years old--shares a beer with me? SON: Gee, thanks Dad. (They sit for some time on the patio of their Twin Peaks townhouse, watching the eucalyptus trees sway in the misty breeze. When Dad isn't looking, Son pours his beer into a nearby bougainvillea. This continues for several hours until Dad is noticeably tipsy.) SON: Hey dad? DAD: Huh? ...Whazzat, Son? SON: I think I wanna travel some. DAD: (Belches.) Then fer godsakes, travel. I wish I'd had the chance to do some oat-sowing myself, but that she-beast of an albatross--otherwise known as your goddamn mother--wrapped herself around my neck when I was just 18. I never had a chance. (Begins to sob.) SON: ...So, I was toying with the idea of kicking around the Middle East for a while. You know, since I'm a devout Muslim and all, I thought it might be a good thing to do. DAD: Yeah, yeah. Sure, sure.... (Belches.) Hey, you know what I really love? Chinese food! Eggrolls! Yum! (Dad rolls out of his lawnchair and onto the terra cotta tile. He stretches out on his back, muttering to himself, "Eggrolls! Yum! Eggrolls! Yum!" while fondling his nether region. Son looks contemptuously at Dad for a moment, then continues.) SON: That's kinda why I've been growing out my beard, so's I can fit in and all. DAD: Huh? Who? Oh.... Brzsksyzrwp! Ack. (Dad sits up, suddenly lucid.) Hey, Son, pull my finger! Hahahaha! (Collapsing to the ground once more.) ...Eggrolls! SON: I figure I'll go over to someplace like Afghanistan, blend in with a group of Islamic fundamentalists, share with them as many secrets as I can about the American military, then join the jihad. That okay by you? DAD: Eggrolls! Eggrolls! Aroooooo! (Dad begins howling like a dog. This continues for some time. Son pulls out a hookah, smokes silently for a few minutes. Eventually it becomes clear that he's had enough of this encounter.) SON: (Tapping Dad brusquely on shoulder) Dad? DAD: Huh? What! Whozzere? I can see you. You can't hide from me! SON: Dad, I'M GOING TO AFGHANISTAN TO BECOME A TERRORIST. Stay out of my room while I'm gone. And don't forget to feed Sparky; if I hear that something's happened to him, I'll come back and stone you my goddamn self. Seriously. (Exits.) DAD: Urp. Wheredego? Whereami? Wassamanspozedtado? ....Arooooooo! (Blackout.)
11:40 AM
I know, I know. It's weird, isn't it, this silence? You can ask Jonno: around the house, I never shut up. I come home from work or from rehearsal, I give him a hug and a kiss, I start talking about my day or asking about his, and before you know it, I've gone from cutesy, stressed-out hubby coming home from a long day at the office to nebbishy psycho love-muffin with a big, fat, wagging tongue. But then, I've always been that way. Way back in 5th grade we had to draw self-portaits, and I remember my teacher commenting that mine was pretty good--except I'd drawn my mouth shut. I got the hint. All in all, I have a lot to talk about--most importantly, recently meeting mom and sis--but I can't pull together the energy and focus I need to get my thoughts down on paper (so to speak). I guess it's just a phase. Maybe I need a vacation. Or a drink. Yeah, a drink sounds nice. Several of them, in fact. Side note: those of you in and around the Crescent City will soon have the questionable pleasure of watching yours truly perform in drag. We're short a performer for opening night, so guess who gets to fill in... The last time Jonno saw me fully shaved was almost a year ago to the day. I guess it'll become an annual event. Trimming the tree in reverse.
5:28 PM
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