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Monday, January 28, 2002
I spent the weekend in Mississippi with my father and one of my brothers. We ate comfort food at "homey" restaurants and talked a lot about my mother, who just can't seem to get her act together. We spoke about the farm and about our grandparents--my dad's mother and father--whom we all miss. We told the same stories about relatives and cattle and farmhands that we'd told dozens of times before. We sat on the back porch and looked at the stars, which we could see because there aren't enough streetlights in town to muck up the view of the night sky. I lamented the fact that I didn't pay more attention to my grandmother when she pointed out the constellations to me as a kid--but not to the point of being maudlin.
As I was leaving, I drove around town a bit, over to the street where I grew up. I almost got lost trying to find it. I'd lived there 'till I was in 4th grade and returned to hang out with friends from the neighborhood well into high school, but now it looks as strange and foreign as St. Louis or Pittsburgh or Charleston.
I stopped by the cemetary to see my grandparents, too. I'm not really the sentimental type, but I like going to see them, especially when there's no one else in the cemetary. They're buried on the side of a lake, which is a good place to sit when the weather's nice.
Mississippi's landscape isn't particularly pretty. In the winter, all you can see is the pine trees, gangly and tall, with stark, graceless branches. The land undulates a bit, but just enough to be called "hilly." It's lush, but it doesn't have the character, the soupy, shadowy, big-leafed mystery that south Louisiana does, though they're just a few miles apart. Mississippi is a plain, no-nonsense kind of pretty, like a well-formed Pentacostal girl on Sunday morning, or your memories of your mother after she'd been working in the garden: nice, but not necessarily something you'd want to grow old with.
Sunday, January 20, 2002
Southerner that I am, you might expect me to have some sort of knee-jerk, hackneyed aversion to New York. You might assume, for example, that the sheer size of the place ("They just cram all those people into teeny tiny lil' apartments no bigger than a cattle trailer!"), or the speed at which people live ("You folks wouldn't know how to set down and relax if my mule, Jethro, kicked your butt into that there Jennifer convertible sofabed!"), or its highly multicultural population ("Don't nobody around here speak the Good Lord's English?") would be so instantly off-putting to my rural sensibilities, I'd never wanna go back.
On the other hand, homosexual that I am, you might expect me to be drawn to the city because it's so damn fierce (note to heterosexuals: "fierce" was a popular term in gay lingo of the mid-1990s which roughly translates as "righteous"). I mean, it's the center of the fashion industry (fierce), its nightclubs are legendary (double-fierce), and it's the place where Madonna got her start (triple-fiiiiiiiiieeerce with a double-snap). What more could a girl want in a city?
The fact of the matter is that I'm like most people, Southern, Northern, gay, straight, whatever: for me, New York is a mixed bag.
On the one hand, there's the weather. Yeah, I know it's mild by some standards, but jeez, Louise, what insane colony of religious zealots spent the first winter there and felt the sphincter-clenching, gale-force winds blowing across the Hudson and said to themselves, "Would this be a great place to settle down or what?" Who? ...Oh, of course. The same people who can't decide whether they live in Holland or the Netherlands but call themselves Dutch. The same people who, until the EU came along and knocked some sense into 'em, thought it was a good idea to have two national currencies. The same people who eat mayonnaise on their french fries. Hmph. Figures....
Then there's the living situation. I mean, if I'm going to pay three times the rent I'd pay in other cities for an apartment one-fourth the size, I'd at least like to see a tree out the window--two if possible. And yes, a radiator provides an ample and efficient source of heat, but can someone weld a freakin' thermostat to the damn thing, please?
On the other hand...
You get to walk in New York--which is, you know, a good thing. In fact, New York is probably the most perambulophilic (I just made that up!) city in the country, maybe the world. For the rest of Americans, walking is something we do only sporadically--maybe in the middle of the night, we get to walk to the bathroom, or when we want to distribute a memo to our coworkers about the need to practice aiming at the toilet instead of the tissue rack we walk to the copy machine, but otherwise, we hop in our cars, drive the 20 feet to the 7-11, and circle the parking lot for 20 minutes trying to find a spot five feet closer to the door. But in New York, you wanna get somewhere? Walk outside, two blocks down to the train station, get on, get off, then hike six blocks over, one block up, to visit your friend who lives in a 5th floor walk-up. Life in New York is conducive to great calves and even better asses.
New York is so hip to walking, they've made it okay to eat en route. Most of America is kinda funny about eating away from the table. We'll consume lunch in the car if we've just hit the Burger King drive-through, and we'll even eat on our feet at carnivals and such, but other than that, there seems to be an aversion to eating on the go. In Europe it's even worse; there, if you're not actually seated at a goddamn table in the beer garden and you so much as pop an M&M in your mouth, they'll extradite your ass and put you on the next plane headed west.
In New York, however--the world's premiere multi-tasking milieu--eating and walking are an everyday thing; I can only assume that it's somehow been built into the genetic code. You see people walking down the street not just with candy bars or breath mints, but with caesar salads, bagels, and of course, pizza. Watching a 95-pound model wolf down two Sicilian slices while carrying on a cell-phone conversation with her agent (no headset) and digging her apartment keys out of her Coach rugby bag--now that's talent.
New York is also good for another thing: waiting. Despite its frantic pace, New Yorkers get to spend a lot of time doing nothing. You wait in line. You wait for your friends. Unless you're wealthy or you're in a big hurry, you wait for the subway. Then once you're on the train, you wait to get where you're going.
You don't get that elsewhere--at least I don't. Except at the movie theatre, I don't spend much time waiting in line. If I need to see my friends, I go and pick 'em up. and when I need to get somewhere, I dash off to my car and drive there. And no matter how pleasant are the dulcet strains of Linda Wertheimer's voice, driving a car is never quite the same as just waiting.
Subway platforms, cafes, the F train: they're sudden oases of calm, a surfeit of time to reflect, to read, to people-watch, to calm down. They're like pressure valves to keep you even-keeled.
And that is how I feel about New York today.
Saturday, January 19, 2002
Tonight? DramaRama9, of course. Join me, if you will...
Thursday, January 17, 2002
General Lehnert said that the prisoners have toothpaste and showers and roofs over their heads. They will get bagels and cream cheese, granola bars and Froot Loops.
Holding up a day-glow orange prison outfit, the general said: "They get a jump suit." But revealing a little frustration with all the international scrutiny, he added, "They don't get to pick the color."
--from the NY Times
Now if only we could be sure that these crazed Islamic militants understand the full implications of eating bagels with cream cheese....
Wednesday, January 16, 2002
On not sleeping
I'm the sort of person who finds sleep highly overrated--it's nice, but it's no oil painting, if you know what I mean.
Now, that's not because I can't sleep; I can, and do, when the mood strikes me. No, typically this disdain for sleep stems from my hectic lifestyle: I've got too much on my plate to just lay down and do nothing for eight hours at a time...
This past weekend, though, my sleeplessness was due to a mild case of insomnia: I'd go home thinking I was tired, feeling sleepy, my legs aching from walking blocks and blocks and blocks and blocks; I'd be moaning in exhausted agony as I peeled off my haggling clothes and put on my sweats; I'd lay down on the comfy bed and start to read, which usually puts me right out...but nothin'. I sat there for hours, wide awake, intermittently scanning the TV channels, hoping that WNET would replay that painfully dull documentary on the Dead Sea scrolls. I took long, hot, relaxing baths. I wrapped myself around pillows trying to simulate the curve of Jonno's back. But it was hopeless: the combination of sleeping alone (a disturbing sensation), a surfeit of caffiene (I had to stay awake during those meetings somehow), the stifling heat (radiators suck), and the energy of New York throbbing up through the ground and through the walls and through my veins rendered me incapable of dozing very long or very restfully.
Last night, the sound of Jonno's breathing and the feel of the well-worn comforter and the smell of two dogs huddled at my feet were a little slice of heaven.
On nice people and heterosexuals
New Yorkers have never been rude to me. I try not to behave like a complete asshole, and they reward me by being cordial.
This time, however, people were just plain, honest-to-Yahweh nice. Like, going out of their way to be nice. Not just friends like Chad and Julian, who were somewhat obligated to be civil. I'm talking shop keepers and coffee queens and cabbies and...well, nearly everyone. I dunno why, I'm not questioning it, I'm not attributing it to anything at all, I'm just sayin' folks was friendly.
This is particularly true of the webfolks I met, many of whom I'd corresponded with, but never encountered face-to-face--notably (in chronological order) the spunky Sparky, adorable Andy, ebullient Brad, quick-witted Choire, and the tranquil Tin Man. As an added bonus, I also stumbled across the heretofore unknown quantities of Mike and Thomas. Not bad for a weekend's work.
But that's not all. There were even some moderately staunch heterosexuals who passed my way: specifically Anil, Cam, and David. I gotta admit, though, I was surprised to find 'em--I mean, maybe I'm sheltered or cliquish or something, but the weblogging community I know is pretty, well, queer. I guess I just don't think of it as a very heterofriendly place. Girl-kissing boys seem downright exotic...
Just re-read the above. Yikes. I gotta get outta this gay ghetto.
On The Producers
Feh.
Yes, you heard right: feh.
Monday, January 14, 2002
Unpleasant things I have seen:
More about not sleeping, my boyfriend, nice people, and Murray's Bagels soon. Right now, I gotta rest before my horse-drawn carriage arrives to whisk me away to the airport. Nightie-night.
As I said, there were relatively few group photos taken at this weekend's geek Gatherings (not to be confused with The Gathering or, heaven forbid, Magic: The Gathering). The one pic that was snapped, however, has already made it online.
Yes, that's me, all the way at the back on the left, giving you some Señor Wences realness.
P.S. I'm sitting here in Jonno's apartment, which is wired for cable, and I've got public access playing in the background, because we don't have anything to compare with it in New Orleans or anywhere really, and there's an ad for phone sex with the tag line, "976-WOWW! The extra "W" is for extra wow." Those who remember the original spot featuring an aggressively urophilic Porsche Lynn screaming "Call now: 976-PEEE! The extra "E" is for extra pee!" will understand what a frail, half-assed attempt at cleverness this is.
Sunday, January 13, 2002
I've managed to attend two blog mixers in the past 24 hours--more than I might have thought myself capable of enduring. I'm happy to report, however, that the affairs were decidedly low-key and very, very pleasant. And despite a couple of fairly conspicuous absences, I saw nearly everyone I'd hoped to see, and then some. All in all, a hell of a lot of fun--and almost none of the obligatory blogathering group pics.
On my way out the door now, back into the cold to see yet another friggin' performance (hopefully a good one this time). Coming soon: my thoughts on NYC, my far-away boyfriend, homosexuals, heterosexuals, The Producers, and by-the-slice pizza. Fascinating stuff, to be sure.
Friday, January 11, 2002
I'm here alone (unfortunately). I miss my boyfriend (terribly). The skies are clear (finally). It's cold (moderately). The food is expensive and bland (typically). H&M is cheap and stylin' (thankfully). There's a dearth of public restrooms (sadly). The next several days are going to be busy (insanely). I get to see some of you tomorrow (luckily). I'll be home soon.
* * *
P.S. So, on the way here yesterday, I'm travelling with my friend, Aaron, right? He's a nice Polish boy, fairly goyische-looking.
Aaron gets stopped and searched not once, not twice, but three times--at check in, at the entrance to the concourse, and at the gate.
I'm the one who always causes a sensation when passing through the metal detector. I'm the one with the Lebanese father. I'm the one with a name strikingly similar to that guy with the plastique in his Keds. So, yo, what gives?
Wednesday, January 09, 2002
The Minx suggested a venue for our petite soirée: the hitherto unexplored (by me) Holiday Cocktail Lounge. Apart from being on St. Marks, it seems well nigh perfect--it's in the East Village, it's not too gay, it's not too straight, and most importantly, the drinks are supremely cheap. (Hey, I don't ask for much.)
So, Saturday night, 8:00 - 9:30, at 75 St Marks Place. I'll be the unkempt-looking one in the corner nursing a warm domestic beer. See you there...
Tuesday, January 08, 2002
So it looks like I'll be going to New York by myself. Not that it ultimately makes much difference--I mean, I'm gonna be so busy with work-related stuff, I wouldn't have had much time to spend with the boyfriend anyway...
Still, I'd still like to have drinks with those of you in the tri-state area. I'm thinkin' Saturday night, 8-ish, someplace quiet-ish, queer-ish, East-ish. Any suggestions on venues from those in the know? (FYI: G is not what I have in mind. In fact, it's never what I have in mind.)
Unrelated though #1: The wonderful, horrible Leni Riefenstahl has a killer website.
Unrelated thought #2: Why are vomitoriums no longer a standard feature in homes for the wealthy debauchée?
Unrelated thought #3: In the past 24 hours, I have heard two people mispronounce the word "duodenum."
Saturday, January 05, 2002
FOUR THINGS ON MY MIND
1. Julian Schnabel's Before Night Falls: neither Jonno nor I had seen it before, but then yesterday, a very special Secret Santa dropped a copy in our mailbox... It's a beautiful film, the colors are stunning, I've never wanted to visit Mexico before, but now I'm rarin' to go. I was particularly pleased with the way Schnabel chose not to sentimentalize the ending--no music, no nothing. Even the "backstage" footage from the shoot is entertaining--provided you hit the mute button every time Schnabel opens his mouth. Note to Julian: just take your shirt off and let us watch you make art; no one wants to hear you blather on and on about it like some pedantic Midtown boor. Some people don't even want to see you shirtless... But then, being the Ron Jeremy fan that I am (yes, he's on Weakest Link tomorrow night), I don't mind at all.
2. Family: I haven't been home to visit them yet--not that that's any surprise. Every year, it's the same: I make plans to go home the day after Christmas, then I get bogged down with work or the house or projects or my car isn't running properly and I can't be bothered to visit the folks 'till summer. I'm a complete heel.
3. Numbers: I could be wrong, but I think I'm probably a much bigger tramp than my boyfriend is. I tried running a tally back in high school and I found myself well into the three-digits. Ouch. Who knows where I am now?
4. At times--in fact, quite often--Tony Kushner's fingers produce beauty in the extreme.
Tuesday, January 01, 2002
Well, I hope everyone had a happy and joyous one. We spent ours inside, watching movies and generally being quiet. Yes, it was pretty quiet--dull, even--but spent with friends. And besides, I'm not much of a New Year's person anyway: the weather's too cold, the streets are filled with yahoos, and I don't like champagne (though I had a small portion last night, just to be polite).
Nothing else to say, really--between work, the house, and the play (a surprising hit), I've been so busy the past several weeks, I haven't had much of a social life. And with three upcoming projects looming on the horizon, it doesn't look like things are going to slow down 'till the end of the month. Just in time for Mardi Gras.
The good news: Jonno and I will be in NYC for a conference next weekend, so I'll get to lay my bleary, bloodshot eyes on several of you. Jonno et al. are supposed to be working out the details of a Saturday night bar-crawl, since I'm no good at those sorts of things. Stay tuned.
The bad news: homos constitute some of the first fatalities of 2002, a group of three having been ceremoniously beheaded by one of America's most important political allies. Happy friggin' new year.
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