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Monday, August 30, 2004
Richard is getting very old and very gay. How many signs of bitteroldqueenitis can you spot in the following story?
Last night I was painting the living room windowsills a creamy, high-gloss white (1) in preparation for hanging the drapes (2) Jonno and I had custom-ordered (3) from a lovely, damask-y gold stripe pattern (4). After Antiques Roadshow (5), I began flipping through channels and landed on the Video Music Awards.
I happened to tune in just as Christina Aguilera was beginning her number, and the first thing that struck me, apart from the ease with which she straddled the baby grand piano, was her gold halter-dress (6) -- or rather, what was underneath: a pair of red, spandex, mid-thigh-length shorts. "Who the hell dressed her?" I wondered aloud (7). "And that wig (8)! Did the stylist (9) hang it out to dry on a clothesline?"
The performance was followed by a virtual parade of all things lame (10) --including an over-long, un-funny script with Queen Latifah, Jimmy Fallon, and the announcer, as well as a stupendously unspectacular "spontaneous" skateboarding festival avec Tony Hawk. This was all backed by some LED stage dressing that scrolled green light a la The Matrix, which in itself was pretty lame.
Not long after that, I turned my attention back to the windows and the curtain rods I was hanging, which came complete with oak leave finials (11). As I prepared to hang the draperies themselves, I pulled them from their container -- which hadn't been opened since we picked them up from the shop -- only to find that they had been cut completely wrong (12). Which led to my pondering of the age-old question: if a queen throws a hissyfit in an empty living room, does anyone hear her screech (13)? The answer, given a sudden burst of laughter from the sidewalk below my window, was apparently "yes."
Just before retiring for bed, around 10pm (14), I got a phone call from friends inviting me to a party, but all I could think was "A party at 10:00? On a school night?" (15). I brushed my teeth and hit the hay (16), finishing only a page or two of Uncle Mame (17) before I fell asleep.
Saturday, August 28, 2004
Just in case you missed it: Doctors Grow New Jaw in Man's Back.
Um, ewww.
And with that, I'm off to Mississippi, where, thanks to generations of inbreeding, such feats of physiology really aren't that bizarre.
Friday, August 27, 2004
I don't know how it happened, but apparently I've got a heart.
Now, when I was little, I was a total softie. I hated to see anyone suffering or even sad. Once, after we'd gone fishing up at my grandparents' farm (yes, I spent half my childhood on a farm), we'd stopped at my grandfather's general store to grab a Coke* for the drive back (yes, my grandfather owned the town general store). In the truck bed, there was a five-gallon bucket filled with bream we'd caught, which we were taking home for my mom to clean and cook. But while my dad and brothers were inside rehydrating and goofing off, the thought of those poor little fish being gutted got to me, so I grabbed the bucket, dashed across the road, jumped a cattle gap, scaled a couple of barbed-wire fences, dumped the entire bucket into an unused pond, and made it back to the truck before anyone had noticed. Afterward, my brothers were furious, but my dad and grandaddy just kinda laughed.
Since then, I've become considerably more bitter and jaded and impatient and aloof. I no longer have the time or patience for people who can't manage on their own. That includes the queen of disaster magnets, my mom (adoptive, not biological).
So what a shock it was when I got an email the other day from a friend I hadn't seen in years--a friend who grew up with me, who played on my little league baseball team, who spent a lot of time encouraging me to squeeze a tad more out of life than I ordinarily would've. It seems he's come home to Mississippi, sort of at a low point. Now, I know him well, and I've seen him hit slumps before, and I know he always bounces back. Still, he sounded so sad...
Well, long story short (Ed note: a little late for that), like everyone's favorite holiday greenie-meanie, my heart grew three sizes that day, and I cancelled as many plans as possible so I could drive up to see him this weekend. It won't be a long visit--just an afternoon--but I feel like I've just got to make the effort. Fact of the matter is, he's the polar opposite of Kirstie Alley: he's one of those people you can't help but love.
Don't that just beat all?
*For non-Southerners, "grabbing a Coke" does not necessarily mean purchasing an actual Coke. It could be a Sprite, a Tab, a Fresca, anything. Below the Mason-Dixon Line, "Coke" is the linguistic sibling of "Xerox," "Jell-o," "Dumpster," and "Rollerblade."
Thursday, August 26, 2004
I think I'm gay.
What has caused me to leap to such a startling conclusion, you ask? Well apart from my fondness for committing various lusty acts upon the bodies of other men, last night I dreamt of dancing with Liza Minnelli. We were at a fabulous party, and she was flirting heavily with me, lifting her kilt (yes, kilt) in my general direction.
Later on--after I'd been awakened by Jonno as he came to bed and laughed at by same after telling him of Liza's appearance in my reverie--I had another, in which Queen Elizabeth II and I were dashing about a schmancy hotel, dodging the paparazzi. As we hid crouched in an empty, fluorescently lit hallway, the queen, who was looking very chubby and wore a bad Joan of Arc wig, pleaded with me to get her a cocktail--a whiskey somethingorother (sour? soda? mayosa?). About that time, my dog, Gaston, stepped squarely on my nether region, and that was all she wrote.
So, yeah, between Liza and the queen, I think I may be gay. Or maybe it has something to do with the sizeable quantities of coffee, beer, and Chinese food I consumed just before bedtime. Or the fact that I'm sleeping with my boyfriend. Who can say?
Wednesday, August 25, 2004
I'm not a big fan of folks who support John Kerry first and foremost "because Dubya is a bully." These are men and women who, when seen on TV, have clearly spent most of their lives getting pushed around--largely because, like Woody Allen or Kirstie Alley, they give off a vibe so obnoxious that it incites hatred in complete strangers. In fact, if you could reach through the screen and across the ether, you probably wouldn't mind smacking 'em around yourself.
No, if you're going to hate G.W., hate him because he's a total moron. Case in point: the following poem (forwarded to me by my friend Jason), pieced together from recent Bushisms:
MAKE THE PIE HIGHER
I think we all agree, the past is over.
This is still a dangerous world.
It's a world of madmen and uncertainty and potential mental losses.
Rarely is the question asked: Is our children learning?
Will the highways of the Internet become more few?
How many hands have I shaked?
They misunderestimate me.
I am a pitbull on the pantleg of opportunity.
I know that the human being and the fish can coexist.
Families is where our nation finds hope,
Where our wings take dream.
Put food on your family!
Knock down the tollbooth!
Vulcanize society!
Make the pie higher!
Make the pie higher!
Monday, August 23, 2004
 So I'm sitting here on the sofa, answering email with the TV on and muted, and I look up, and CNN is doing a special on Britney. Apparently, they're comparing her to Madonna, because they keep intercutting footage from Britney's concerts with stuff from Madonna videos and, of course, countless frames from their publicity stunt-cum-lesbotronic lip-lock at the MTV awards. And while I can't hear the (inevitably banal) commentary, seeing the two over-preened pop tarts side-by-side, one thing is made abundantly clear: Britney will never be as interesting as Madonna because she lacks the latter's--dare I say it?--gravitas. See, with Madge (aka Esther), we know we're looking at a costume; she's always winking at us, as if to say, "You think this is outrageous? Just wait 'till next month!" When we look at Britney, though, what we see is what we get. She doesn't have the edge, the intelligence, the otherworldly glamour of Madonna, because after the show's over, we see her schlepping around in cut-offs and flip-flops. She's no different from the rest of us. And, fyi, Madonna would never be caught walking and smoking. Um, okay, could I get any gayer?
Saturday, August 21, 2004
Darling, if you're looking for a bit of amusement this Saturday morning, may I suggest you pay a visit to the Bright Young Things site? The "Splendidizer" feature is simply too, too divine! Try it with America's favorite dishwater-dull news source, CNN ("The blasted Olympics!"), the evil Mr. Buckley's idiot magnet, National Review ("Kerry is, and I don't want to be frightfully mean, lying about the frightful economy � the frightfully horrid Times proves it. Splendid!"), and, of course, the boyfriend's virtual smut hut Fleshbot ("God bless Mary Carey: if the blasted gal didn't exist, we'd have to take some cheeseburgers and a frightful stack of string bikinis and try to invent the priceless gal, darling!").
And for those out of the loop, as the kids say these days, Bright Young Things is a film version of my second favorite novel in the whole, whole world, Vile Bodies. Of course, my #1 favorite would have to be Myra Breckenridge, which, as you all know, was turned into a fabulous, though quite unwatchable piece of dreck back before most of you were born. Luckily, Mr. Waugh's work seems to be meeting a better fate. Huzzah!
Friday, August 20, 2004
So, we went out for dinner last night at Tommy's--an unfortunately named restaurant that consistently serves up some of the best food in town--and after two hours of butter-soaked, crabmeat-stuffed delicacies, followed by a heaping bananas foster and copious amounts of vodka, I was ready for bed.
As you might expect, my dreams were somewhat flamboyant.
I found myself at an amusement park with John Kerry, Dick Cheney, my uncle, and Kevin James. The park, of course, was just as unusual as our group. Sure, there were roller coasters and hamburger stands and all, but it was a sex park, which, like Disney World, was divided into little mini-parks--in this case, based on carnal habits: there was a straight section, a gay section, one for bisexuals, and squillions of fetish areas.
That, however, wasn't as weird as the costumes everyone was wearing, which were very reminiscent of Logan's Run, with tunic-like things for the women and full-body, Star Trek-esque jumpsuits for men. I can only hope we checked our street clothes at the door.
Anyway, somehow Kevin and I got separated from the group and ended up in the bisexual area of the park. He was obviously nervous and started stammering something about how he'd "never done anything like that before." Then along came a fembot--not one as real-looking as in, say, The Stepford Wives, more like Irona in the Richie Rich comics. And she started feeling Kevin up, and the next thing I knew, the three of us were in a cozy boudoir, and we were all rolling around in the sheets, and...well, I won't go into details--never one to dream and tell, me--but afterward, Kevin was in no particular hurry to get back to Queens.
Thursday, August 19, 2004
We had our first read-through of Bad Seed last night. It's going to be very, very funny, but godDAMN that's a wordy sonofabitch. If I could cut it down to one fat, non-stop hour of hilarity, giving everybody in the cast a couple of good moments in the spotlight, I'd be much happier.
In other news, here's a haiku for today:
Is it just me
or are there others who'd like to
page Dr. Gupta?
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
Despite its reputation as a Euro-esque party town, New Orleans is a lot like other American cities. We have a troubled public school system, boondoggled by bureaucracy and led by nincompoops. Our political officials and business leaders make weekly appearances on the evening news, talking about how we're poised to benefit from the next tech boom. And we host a thriving gay community, which has improved shoddy neighborhoods, boosted tourism, and continues to support a number of bath houses.
About that last bit: I've always wondered why lesbians don't have bath houses or sex clubs of their own. I mean, they obviously enjoy being together in all-girl environments--just as fags like me enjoy being in all-guy environments--and they like having sex. But when I picture women in erotically-charged, single-sex spaces, all that comes to mind is that absurdly funny scene in Desperate Living, where Mink Stole goes to the restroom at the strip club and gets hit on by a series of women who thrust their boobs through twin, chest-high glory holes.
So, what's the problem?
Part of it may be biological. When men finish doing the deed, they're literally spent: after climaxing, their interests shift to sleeping, eating, or shopping. They cum and go. Women, however, aren't so physiologically constrained. One of my friends--a lesbian who shall remain nameless--once joked that thanks to the female capacity for multiple orgasms and their ability to take a licking and keep on ticking, an all-girl bath house would be the human equivalent of a roach motel: girls would go in, but they'd never want to leave.
Of course, there's also the question of hetero bath houses. If straights make up 90% of the population, why don't they have more places where like-minded consenting adults can get their casual, no-strings freak on? I mean, sure, there are brothels--legal and otherwise--and there's the occasional hetero sex club, but on the whole, breeders seem to be doing a pretty crappy job in the pleasure palace department.
Luckily, things seem to be changing on the other side of the globe. Screw Pokemon--I say we import this trend.
Monday, August 16, 2004
Sunday, August 15, 2004
After about ten days away from New Orleans, it's time to go home.
It's been a great vacation--my first real break in five years. The weather's been great (we managed to miss the hurricane altogether). We've had no lost luggage, no missing hotel reservations. And best of all, we've gotten to catch up with several people we haven't seen in some time. Oh--and we saw our friend Ryan's production of The Septic Wives. If any of you venture up to Provincetown over the next few weeks, don't miss it.
Most surprising of all, Jonno and I have had a very pleasant time together. You see, under normal circumstances (i.e. during the course of everyday life), there are lots of spaces in our togetherness: I get up early, I spend my day at the office, we eventually see one another in the late afternoon, and then, as often as not, I run back out to rehearsal or meetings or something. Even when I find myself with an evening at home, we tend to separate, wiih him working on his laptop in the kitchen (his de facto office) and me on the sofa in the living room, watching TV and answering email. So, given the prospect of spending more than a week in each other's company, with relatively few distractions, I was afraid we'd start to get on one another's nerves. I was happily proven wrong.
I know happiness never makes for good reading--or good writing for that matter. I mean, there's a reason the New York Times doesn't run headlines like "EVERYTHING BETWEEN OTIS AND MAYBELLE IS A-OKAY!" You and I would rather read about death and tragedy and near-overdoses than smiling children and puppies. (NB: Oddly, it's the other way around in advertising, where kids and kittens rule the day.)
Nevertheless, there it is. I'll try not to mention it again.
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
Nothing much to do the past couple of nights in Provincetown, so we've gone to the movies. For those who haven't seen it, The Manchurian Candidate is well worth your time--nice acting, nice story, and some seriously detail-obsessed art direction (down to cheesy crawls running along the bottom of TV newscasts). The Village, however... Not to spoil anyone's fun, but, uh, basically, the monster is Santa Claus. Please save your money: we're putting together a community fund to take out a hit on M. Night Shayamalan.
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
The hackers, they can neither bring me down nor bust my vacation groove.
I only hope they enjoyed themselves and are now curiously aroused by the megs and megs of hot gay porn they found stashed on my server.
Monday, August 09, 2004
Okay, we're on our way to the Cape.
Hmm. That sounds really pretentious and clenchjaw and all. Let me try again.
Okay, we're on our way to Provincetown.
Much better.
Don't know how much web access we'll have out there. The site may be quiet for a few days. (Oh, how my mom and dad used to wish I'd be quiet for days, but alas, I have ze big mouth.)In the meantime, why don't you pay a visit to the costume exhibition currently showing at the Met. It's very fagulous.
Having a great time. Wish you were here. Etc.
Friday, August 06, 2004
So. I'm leaving. On the proverbial jet plane.
Of course, now, at the 11th hour, I'm having second thoughts.
Have I stashed away enough ducats for the trip? Have I packed? Have I finished all the projects I needed to finish? Have I gone food shopping for the house/dog/cat sitters? Have I tidied up so that I return to a clean house and not the dorm-like milieu I normally inhabit? Have I gotten my shots, my vaccinations? Have I left adequate stickynotes, explaining the various quirks of sinks, refrigerators, microwaves, and, most importantly, how to use the three remotes in tandem to activate the DVD player? Have I shaved and showered? Have I left a will? Have I, have I, have I?
I hope you're not waiting for answers.
Wednesday, August 04, 2004
 So, speaking of death, Henri Cartier-Bresson has passed on to that great darkroom in the sky. Frankly, I was never a big fan of his work. His technique is beautiful, to be sure, but it always feels calculated, like he's telling the viewer what to think. I mean, there's not much room for interpretation in a photo like Rue Mouffetard, Paris, 1954. Then again, he considered himself a photojournalist in many ways, and I suppose that's what photojournalists do--they tell stories. Still, it's not my cup of cafe au lait. That said, it was with a bit of trepidation that I attended a showing of his work here in New Orleans a couple of years ago. On the walls were the usual suspects: starkly beautiful landscapes; people in pain; people in love. But there was something else, too: a piece entitled Naples, 1963. In the photo, a man in a suit sits on another man's lap. He looks away from his friend, toward a nearby newsstand--one that the friend presumably owns. The friend holds the man's tie in his hands, caressing it, pulling the man closer to him. It is decidedly, tantalizingly ambiguous. I was stunned. Art doesn't have that effect on me too often. It happened at a Bill Viola show once. And the first time I saw John Currin's work. And a few other times. But not often. What's going on there, I wondered. The mood of the piece is hardly romantic--if anything, there's an undercurrent of tension. The man in the suit looks embarrassed The newsstand owner looks desperate. And to complicate the image even further, it's taking place on a city sidewalk in 1963. I began to fantasize that the man in the suit had once been a hustler, working the streets to pay his way through school, and the newsstand owner was one of his regular clients. Eventually, the boy earned enough to finish his degree and moved on to a good job in a different part of town. Every day, the newsstand owner, secretly, passionately in love with the hustler, looked up and down the streets for his paramour--nearly jumped every time he saw someone from a distance who could, might be him. But nothing. Then one day, the boy-turned-man, forgetting where he was and the life he left behind, strolled casually through his old neighborhood. The newsstand owner spotted him right away and was beside himself with joy, begged the man to come and sit on his lap. But the boy he'd once known was recognizably different: he worked in an office now, had a wife and kids. He couldn't be the person he'd been. And the moment captured on film is the awkward one--the one where both realize that things cannot, should not be what they once were. But you make up your own story. Anyway, I know it's hokey to say that something--a song, a movie, a cheeseburger--"haunted" you, but in this case, it's kinda true. I couldn't stop thinking about the photograph. Neither could Jonno. So, a few months ago, we took a big breath, tightened our belts, and bought it. Well, began buying it. It was sort of an installment plan. And I'm glad we did--we could never afford it now that the artist is deceased. But ultimately, I don't care about it's monetary value. I'm just glad I get to look at it every day. Maybe it's bourgeois, or snobbish, or naive to say this, but everyone should have something on their walls or on their bookshelves or on their stereo that affects them like that.
 I think about my funeral all the time. I kinda always have. Not that I'm a gothgirl gloombetty or anything, I just wanna have things cleared up. I don't want anyone else to have to worry or wonder after I'm gone; I want to leave behind a straightforward, point-by-point schedule of how things should go, who to call. Sort of like the list your parents leave you when they go on vacation, with the hotel phone, the cell phone, the insurance company, the doctor--but instead, the relatives, the cemetary, and so on. A nice, bulleted list. I can be such a Virgo. Only problem is, I don't know what I want. As poetic as it may be, I'm not really into the whole cremation thing. On the other hand, neither do I relish the thought of being sealed in a pseudo-wood vault and dumped in the ground, quietly rotting away until archaeologists of the 31st century dig me up as an example of a 21st century homosexual. And most importantly, unlike Juanita Moore's fabulously martyrific character in Imitation of Life, I hate the idea of anything involving horse-drawn hearses, assloads of lillies, and Mahalia Jackson. If my loved ones want to do something extravagant, I'd rather they spend money on themselves, not my fat, decomposing ass. So, what else is there? Apparently, quite a bit. Last night, as I sat in my living room answering emails and finishing off the aforementioned design projects, I had the TV on and muted, set to PBS. (Although we got full-on cable a few months ago--the first time I've had it since, like, 1986--I still tend to watch broadcast channels.) On comes POV, aka Point of View, a show that features documentaries and such from indie filmmakers, usually those of the way-left-leaning variety. Lots of stuff about poverty on the subcontinent, race relations in former imperial capitals, and lesbian horse trainers. You know what I mean. This one was different. Called A Family Undertaking, it centered around folks who prefer to care for their deceased relatives rather than hand off the bodies to strangers for preparation and burial. Of course, as an indie documentary, there was an implicit bias against the corporate approach to death, made obvious in footage shot at the International Cemetary and Funeral Association convention--essentially a trade show for undertakers, morticians, and others in the business of death. But beyond that agenda, there was something genuinely touching and, well, "right" about the whole home burial thing. Maybe that was the result of well-edited footage and some articulate hippies, but whatever--it's what I saw. Being that I live in Louisiana--the only state in the union that still operates under civil law, as opposed to the common law system of the other 49 states--home burial isn't as easy as it is in many other places. (Oddly, New York--where the boyfriend is from--has the same set of rules.) But it seems like there are probably ways to make it work. My only question is, should I saddle Jonno, who has an admitted aversion to the messier details of life, with preparing my body for burial and placing me in the ground?
Tuesday, August 03, 2004
Questions I Am Asking Myself Today
1. When did I stop believing that true theatre consisted of three-hour-long discussions about gender theory or the rainforest or conscientious objections to paying taxes?
2. How glad am I about #1 above?
3. How happy am I that I'm going on my first vacation (New York and Provincetown, for anyone in the area) in five years later this week?
4. How did I end up with four design projects (three graphic, one web) in my lap--all of which have to be completed before I leave?
5. Who was kind enough to send me the cutest t-shirt/comic book combo from jList but forgot to include his/her name and address so I can thank him/her in my own special way?
Sunday, August 01, 2004
Why, oh, why is it mere child's play to find complete files of the short-lived series Miss Muffy and the Muff Mob yet impossible to find anything--anything!--about long-running NYC cable access phenom The Mrs. Mouth Show?
Not that they have anything to do with one another, you know, except, well, they're both freaking funny. And you'd think anything funny would be online, right?
I don't know where I'm going with this, so I'll stop now.
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