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Sunday, February 29, 2004
It seems all I've been posting lately has been political entreaties. I promise, I've got better stuff to discuss--well, insofar as a weblog that doesn't allow for comments can be a "discussion"--but for now, here's another one, courtesy of Maureen Dowd. If you don't feel like slogging through the whole thing, here's the gist of it: call the White House at 202 456 1111 and start bitching.
And for those of you who haven't read Mr. Rich's column on gay marriage, do yourself the favor.
More soon--including verification that I am, in fact, from a Southern family worthy of nearly any play by the late Tennessee Williams.
Friday, February 27, 2004
People, people: will someone please explain to the general public the difference between "dominant" (adjective) and "dominate" (verb)? If I see one more personal sexpage in which an idiot proclaims, "I let my girlfriend wear a strap-on because she is dominate in our relationship," I'm gonna freaking dominate someone's head. And not in the good way.
Thursday, February 26, 2004
Latest spampoem: mobcap dietetic blackbird hibernate.
Side note: my friends and I have been planning for years to write a musical called Mobcap! Not sure about the theme or plot yet--probably something a la Madame Lafarge, but who knows? Hell, if the fags-that-be can write a musical about the Donner party and get away with it, anything's possible.
Wednesday, February 25, 2004
Atone for yesterday's sins of the flesh with a 30-second political action: take this USA today poll and pass it on.
So yes, Mardi Gras was fabulous. Surprisingly fabulous. The weather held off for most of the day, the costumes were fantastic, and our walk to Rex with the Society of Ste. Anne took about half the time it usually does. Many tourists stayed away--presumably because (a) they come down just for the weekend not knowing that it's all about Tuesday, and (b) because they wussed out over the weather--which meant bars were very, very manageable. Great for us, bad for bar owners, but feh. Got home before sundown (eight hours of corsetry is enough), watched two episodes of The Simpsons, gave myself a girlie facial and took a long bath, finished the gayest thing I've ever read, and fell asleep before 9pm. All in all, very cathartic. Very catholic, too. Too bad I'm a Southern Baptist.
Saturday, February 21, 2004
For goddess' sake will one of you Texans please drop me a line? Rumors are flying left and right about your governor and his alleged roll in the hay with his secretary of state, so spill the beans, Mary! Vindictive homos want to know...
And for those of you noticing the time stamp on this post, no, I have nothing better to do on the Friday before Mardi Gras than sit at home and blog. Thanks for making note of my lame social life.
Thursday, February 19, 2004
I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Billy Corgan is the Sixth Spicegirl of the Apocalypse and must be stopped!
Sunday, February 15, 2004
I repeat: I'm so totally marrying Frank Rich.
Update: The ball (which is part of what's been keeping me busy) was pretty damn good: the costumes were extraordinary (if not as comical as last year), and the evening was mercifully short due to the last-minute cancellation of a couple of numbers, including one of Varla's that was apparently dependent on costumes that never arrived from the airport. I suppose the 8 hours I spent hovering dozens of feet above the ballroom floor, stapling bunting to the balcony ledge, paid off.
Friday, February 13, 2004
Yeah, I'm still busy. Why don't you enjoy the special Valentine's Day edition of Cat Town instead of pestering me?
Wednesday, February 11, 2004
Sorry folks, but I've got way too much on my plate today to come up with anything insightful or humorous or stupid or offensive or blasphemous to say, so why not while away the afternoon with a bit of digital activism by suggesting ever-so-politely to G. W. that he should think twice before opening his prim, twitching mouth in support of a hateful, short-sighted constitutional amendment that would keep fags and dykes from getting hitched?
I mean, if you put it that nicely, surely he'll understand.
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
On the off-chance that some of you New Yorkers have been living under a rock the past couple of weeks, I'd like to remind you that some of our dear friends will be performing at PS122 tomorrow evening (i.e. Wednesday), recounting for a room of complete strangers a few tales of the worst sex they've ever had. Let's just hope that none of us are on their lists.
Cockfighters, who estimate that there are about 100,000 people who breed gamecocks, contend that Louisiana could lose $206 million in business if out-of-state cockfighters can't bring their birds here to fight.
-- NewOrleansBusiness.com
Sunday, February 08, 2004
I'm sure most of you have noticed a weird trend in spam recently--messages with nonsense subject lines comprised of unconnected, often obscure or archaic words. Well, this weekend, three such emails arrived in my inbox with subject lines bordering on the poetic.
- leviticus empty sandalwood hebraic brushwork
- julia moraine incomparable conservatism gee
- and my personal favorite, ivanhoe
Update: you-know-who just sent me several more from his own inbox:
- honeycomb apparent inflationary intervention
- reject affix filmdom delineament antiquity
- collins anglican pelt afterword megalomania
- definitive railway fatten enthusiasm
- and his pick o' the day, grin hasn't raindrop aborigine
Wednesday, February 04, 2004
On the subject of Hollywood shenanigans, anybody want a gander at Tori Spelling's wedding registry at Williams-Sonoma? [Courtesy of a friendly local gal via Tribe.]
Update: Of course, I should have checked with Choire first. He had the Tiffany list, too.
Monday, February 02, 2004
From my dear friend, Jack: the original teleplay for The Golden Girls pilot, featuring Charles Levin as the ladies' gay maid, Coco.
Seriously.
Sunday, February 01, 2004
So I'm sitting here, not watching the Superbowl, not doing laundry, just hoping to watch The Simpsons in peace, and at the appropriate time, I switch to Fox, but Fox, as it turns out, is not showing the aforementioned animated series and has instead chosen to broadcast Independence Day for, like, the 30 millionth time. (I can only assume Mr. Murdoch's minions think that, being a popular Hollywood blockbuster, its potential demographic is entirely different from that of America's most popular sporting event.) I flip around a little, not really wanting to do anything other than lie on the couch and watch TV and laugh (especially after the spectacular-though-gruelling success that was last night), but nothing else is on, so I go back to the aforementioned sci-fi special-effects showcase.
A few minutes later, I find myself strangely affected by the film. All these shots of fiery destruction, of people dying left and right, separated from their loved ones with no chance to utter a final goodbye--it's the kind of mass-catastrophe stuff that's terrified me since childhood. (You-know-what only made it worse.) And I have this moment of morbid lucidity, and I realize that the fact of the matter is, although their deaths may not be as spectacular and cinematic as the ones I'm watching now, everyone I love will eventually pass away: my dogs, my parents, my friends...and I can't even think about him.
Then Fox cuts to a commercial, and I notice I have a tear in my eye, and that tips me off that something is rotten in Demark, because the only time I cry during movies is (a) when I'm watching Lana Turner vehicles or (b) when I'm exhausted and fragile. Then the commercial's over, and the movie cuts in with a post-apocalyptic shot of the Statue of Liberty's head, severed and lying among the smoldering remains of New York City, and the cynical, oh-my-god-couldn't-they-come-up-with-something-more-original me is back, and I realize that DramaRama just kicked my ass is all, and I need a good night's sleep. Within seconds, I'm seeing through, jaundiced eyes again--and, oh, the things I see:
- It's sad to watch people die. Especially pretty people. Especially, especially pretty people who have stirring, swelling, banks of amped-up violin players behind them. (Note for theatre types: you can put Albinoni's Adagio behind Neil Freaking Simon and have 'em weeping in the aisles.)
- If trapped in the Lincoln Tunnel during a nuclear-type blast, none of my dogs will be intelligent enough to follow me to safety. Hot, hot dogs they will be.
- Nothing is worse than bad child actors, except perhaps Jeff Goldblum. Even on a good day, he's only fit to do commercial voiceovers and play beleaguered scientists to whom no one will listen until things begin going tragically awry. Off with her head.
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