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Thursday, September 30, 2004
REGINA: They say there are children born into the best families, with every advantage of education and discipline, that never acquire any moral scruples. It�s as if they were born blind�-you couldn�t expect to teach them to see.
CHRISTINE: And do they...look like criminals?
REGINA: Sometimes they do. But often they present a more convincing picture of virtue than normal folks.
CHRISTINE: But that�s...horrible.
BRAVO: I�d like to examine the evidence. Until then, there�s not much sense discussing it.
REGINA: Well, I�d like to discuss it with you, Mr. Bravo. This clinic I frequent came long ago to the conclusion that there are bad seeds�just plain bad from the beginning, and nothing can change them.
And this, ladies and gentlemen, is the sort of over-the-top schlock we've been dealing with for the past four weeks. Do join us, if you can--it's going to be delicious....
Wednesday, September 29, 2004
 I'm sorry, but the soapbox is sticking around for another day or two. I was all prepared to write about the weather or the Voynich manuscript or porn's restorative effects on the elderly. Then I got an email. I've mentioned before that I subscribe to the American Family Association newsletter; as far as I'm concerned, it's the best way to keep tabs on the not-so-secret, oh-so-evil empire. Every week I get a couple of emails asking me to harrass this person or tell off that company. It's all very interesting. Yesterday, however, the AFA asked me to boycott Procter & Gamble because they had the audacity to advertise their products--in a gay magazine, no less. Given the impending passage of so much hate-filled legislation across the country and the increasing likelihood of another four years of frat boys in the White House, I guess it just set me off. So, instead of ignoring the missive or fuming in silence, I think action is required. Care to join me? Here's what you can do: See the ad for yourself. I'll admit, it's a little racy, a little suggestive, but then, it wasn't meant to run in Highlights freakin' magazine!Go out and buy a handful of Procter & Gamble products--Crest toothpaste, Tide detergent, or Pampers diapers, for example. Call P&G Chairman A.G. Lafley at 513 983 1100 and assure him that you and your friends will continue to make such purchases. While you've got him on the phone, let him know that the AFA is a bunch of right-wing nutjobs. And compliment him on his tie--CEOs just love that kind of thing. For extra credit:
- Hack the AFA website. Photoshop Don Wildmon's face into some hot, Brazilian bisexual three-way porn pics, and post them to the index page. Funnel all of the AFA's online donations to the ACLU--I mean, who'll know?
- Stake out a spot in front of your favorite Pentacostal church and hug a person of color (or a cracker, if you're a person of color yourself).
- Invite Don and his family to a service at the local MCC. Make sure to do it on camera, preferably in front of representatives from network and cable news media. If he balks, hint that there might be fruit cocktail with marshmallows after the sermon--I bet he'll come around.
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
Oh, for the love of....
It's not just me, right? It's frustrating, isn't it? To see intelligence and articulateness losing out to a comfortable, Andy Griffin-style twang and a handful of down-home half-witticisms? I just don't understand.
Even if I wanted to, it's apparent that I could never be a politician myself. I mean, I'd never consider myself an intellectual, but I do enjoy debate. I can appreciate the nuances of complicated issues. On the color scale, I personally believe that life is a hell of a lot more gray than it is black and/or white. But according to the latest poll numbers, that ain't what NASCAR fans wanna hear.
Not that Kerry's lost. If the press would stop giving GW the benefit of the doubt with regard to his incessant grammatical slip-ups and impossible leaps of logic, Kerry might very well kick George's butt in the coming presidential debates, which could definitely help his numbers.
What Kerry really needs, though, is a new, homey, well-lit 30-second spot--the kind filled with golden light and healthy seniors and, most of all, hordes of shiny, happy children. He needs copy that'll explain the importance of debate and discussion and the impossibility of easy answers. He needs to critique GW's reliance on platitudes and empty, boilerplate rhetoric and offer plans of his own. Given Bush's accomplishments (or lack thereof), this ought to be a fucking cakewalk, people!
Dear goddess, I'm soapboxy these days. Decaf, maybe?
Monday, September 27, 2004
Last night, as I was toting half a dozen bags of groceries into the house under a perfectly clear sky, it dawned on me that if I were to hop in my car and drive just a few hours to the east, I probably wouldn't be able to find a grocery store that was even open, much less one with adequate supplies. And then I remembered that barely a week ago, we were in a similar situation right here in New Orleans--similar, but not the same.
I recall thinking then--back during Ivan, as Jonno and I were sitting around just waiting for the storm to hit, unable to do anything or go anywhere--I remember thinking, "Damn, those folks in the Midwest don't know how lucky they are, with their 24 hour stores, their consistent electricity, their unwavering DSL." Now the storm's passed, life's back to normal, and our 24 hours of hardship are all but forgotten.
To the east, though, it's different. Floridians, Haitians, and thousands of others across the Gulf of Mexico and the Carribbean are beyond simply envying folks outside the various hurricane paths, beyond appreciating the rarity of a normal day. Hell, Jonno and I stayed at a hotel during Ivan so we wouldn't lose power for a minute; the thought of being without electricity--not to mention food or drinking water--for weeks is almost beyond my sheltered comprehension. The worst such experience I ever endured was when Frederic hit, but even then, life was back to normal in four or five days.
And to all you granola-crunching, hackysack-kicking Kucinich supporters, yes, I know that there are parts of the globe where vast numbers of people do without power and running water and food for much, much longer--entire lifetimes, in fact. I fully understand that even the worst suffering in America can't compare to the troubles people experience in Somalia or Bangladesh.
All I'm saying is that I'm feeling guilty and lucky and thankful and helpless all at once. Maybe making a donation to the Red Cross would help.
Saturday, September 25, 2004
 Of course, I'd be remiss to talk about Amanda Lepore without also mentioning her mentor in body modification: the increasingly disturbing, the always fascinating, Ms. Jocelyn Wildenstein. Being, in the end (heh), a guy from small-town Mississippi, I was denied the opportunity--some would say, privilege--of growing up with women like Jocelyn. Until recently, plastic surgery, divorce, and Judaism were topics my family and other respectable Southern Baptists discussed in hushed tones after dark with the curtains drawn. In fact, were I not inspired by Harriet the Spy to hone my eavesdropping abilities, I might not have heard about la chirurgie en plastique until I reached graduate school, where Orlan was all the rage. As it happened, though, I got wind of the concept one July afternoon between fifth and sixth grades when my mother and Aunt Grace were "visiting" in the kitchen over a pot of coffee. I told them was going over to a friend's house, but I hid in the dining room so I could listen in. (I was worried that my parents had plans to ship me off to school and wanted confirmation.) Sadly, most of their nattering was of the tedious, dull variety of which my mother is so fond. Mom is sweet, yes--even pretty. But a conversationalist? Never. Just as I was growing weary of their chit chat about distant relatives I neither knew nor cared about, my mother brought up the topic:
MOM: Now Gracie, you know I'm not one for gossip, but did you hear about what ol' Libby Monahan has gone and done to herself?
GRACE: No, indeed not. Tell it!
MOM: Shhh! (Looking over her shoulder to make sure they're alone. I hold my breath and cringe. After a long moment, she continues.) All right...you know how she and John Ed just love to go up to Gatlinburg every summer? Say they wouldn't miss it for the world?
GRACE: It is pretty up there, I'll give her that.
MOM: Well, I have it on good authority from her cousin Lizabeth Ann that they skipped Gatlinburg altogether last month and made a bee-line for Nashville.
GRACE: What on earth for?
MOM: (Whispering so low I can barely hear her) Surgery!
GRACE: What kind of surgery? It ain't cancer, is it? Oh, that poor, poor thing...
MOM: No, Gracie, not cancer.
(From behind the long runner covering the dining room table, I see MOM put her hands to the side of her head and pull the skin of her face taut.)
GRACE: You gotta be kiddin'!
MOM: No m'am, I am serious as a heart attack.
GRACE: Libby Monahan had (whispering again) plastic surgery?
MOM: Just like in that Elizabeth Taylor movie where she told everybody she was going on a vacation, but really ran off to this clinic and let a whole football team of doctors take off her face and put it back on again.
GRACE: Sweet Jesus!
MOM: Can you believe? ...Did you see that thing, by the way? That movie? It was "pure d" awful. Just disgusting what ol' Liz is doing these days.
GRACE: Nuh-uh, never saw it. You know I get squeamish about medical things. Doctor Rayburn had to sedate me just to put in my partial.
In an environment like that, Jocelyn would've raised more than a few eyebrows--and not in the surgical way. In fact, odds are pretty good that her cosmetic hubris would've inspired a mass uprising a la the torch-wielding mob at the end of Frankenstein. She never would have stood a chance. Of course, she wasn't always a mutant. I guess it all began as a way of staying young and pretty for her hubby. Or maybe years of powdered bleach eventually took a toll on her brain. Or maybe she was just really inspired by a trip to the Bronx Zoo. Whatever the case, these days she's definitely got a unique look. And that's my take on Jocelyn--or, as my friend, Jon, likes to call her and those of her ilk, "Jocelyn Wildenstein, brought to you by DuPont."
Thursday, September 23, 2004
 Aurally FixatedIf you're one of the two folks out there who don't read the boyfriend on a daily basis, you may have missed Amanda Lepore's fabulously outgoing outgoing message. Funny: she looks like such a wallflower...If you're one of those politically minded iPod freaks who seems eternally occupied with sending texties, here's a few ditties to put a spring in your step and a smile on your lips--assuming you enjoy clever comic jabs at the current Commander in Chief.On the other hand, if you're not the politically sensitive type, you might prefer a visit to comic genius extraordinare (and my homegirl) Miss Shirley Q. Liquor. She doesn't have as much free stuff on the site as she used to (hell, bitch-on-the-rise has figured out a way to charge $50 for a phone call), but you can still find "Ebonics Airways," which had Jason, Jonno, and I giggling all last weekend.
Monday, September 20, 2004
So yesterday, as I was walking down Broadway, anticipating yet another afternoon-long shopping extravaganza in my hands-down all-time favorite communo-capitalist emporium, I saw a gaggle of gay men slip into Sephora, and it suddenly hit me: all that 60s/70s crap about women burning bras and not shaving their legs and throwing their makeup in the garbage, just so they could be "natural" and "unaffected" and (they thought) equal to men? Well, it backfired. Or flipped. Or got spun on its head. Nowadays, fuzzy-legged womyn have gone the way of the dodo, and their antitheses--metrosexuals--roam the streets with lipstick lesbian galpals, all of them tweezed, moisturized, and botoxed, eternally on the lookout for the Next Great Tanning Salon. Oscar Wilde would love it: we've said, "Fuck nature, we'll take artifice any day of the week--provided we can squeeze it in between pilates class and spinning."
I'm sure others have come to the same conclusion and noted it more cleverly, succintly, and humorously, but whatever.
Oh, and for those who missed it, last night's concert was incredible. In fact, I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say it was infuckingcredible. I'm tempted to call it a defining moment for certain members of a certain generation of Young Queer Americans, but maybe that's pushing it. Hell, just get the cd (produced by the formerly blogtastic and always extraordinary Julian Fleisher) and judge for your freaking self.
Update: Dan, Chris, and Andy have posted their thoughts on the K&H show, as well as a couple of pics. Given the vast number of blogosphere luminaries in attendance, there'll undoubtedly be more as the week goes on.
Sunday, September 19, 2004
There comes a point in every faggot's life when he has to wonder, "Do I stick around and fight this out, or do I just pick up my toys and go home?" I suppose that now is one of those times.
Summoning the earnestly questioning voice of Carrie Bradshaw yet again: What's to be done when folks just can't be persuaded? Are there some people with whom we simply can't communicate? And what happens in a democracy when the vote doesn't go your way?
Saturday, September 18, 2004
Yo, Alanis, this is irony: sitting here at Starbucks on Eighth Avenue (which, if you know me, is in itself ironic), I've seen Ivan dump more rain on New York in the past 15 minutes than he did over the course of his entire visit to New Orleans.
Friday, September 17, 2004
Ivan's Wrath: A Teeny-Tiny Photo Essay
Bunny Didn't Budge
1024 x 768. Open edition. Sold with matching banana bush.
Morning-After Glory
1024 x 768. Sold with signed, limited-edition sample of RU486 (placebo only).
Scene From an AOL Homepage
1024 x 756. Comes on CD ROM with complementary animated gif set.Hmmm. All that low-pressure must've affected my Kinsey rating, 'cause I feel somehow gayer than I was before (if you can imagine). I mean, I don't think I ever posted a cat pic before Ivan swished through. P.S. New Yorkers, if we don't see you over the next couple of days, we'll definitely meet up on Sunday.
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Because the Powers That Be have asked us not to cross-post our Metroblog entries, and because I generally do as I'm asked, I'll simply refer you here for my closing (or near-closing) remarks on ye olde hurricane.
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
 Thanks for the emails of concern, y'all. You folks will be pleased (and others will certainly be pissed) to learn that Jonno and I have wussed out and taken a hotel room for this evening. After much debate about the inevitable loss of power at our home and the rarity of power loss in the Quarter, we decided it would be best to relocate for the night--not least of all because the boyfriend's work schedule doesn't let up for hurricanes and this hotel has DSL. To be fair, most of the reluctance about changing locations came from me. That grizzled "I lived through Camille/Frederic/Andrew, and I'll make it through this one" mindset has clearly been ingrained in me--courtesy of my father, no doubt. I take some solace, though, in the fact that our shameful retreat doesn't constitute a bona fide evacuation: I mean, we're only ten blocks from the house. I am, however, annoyed--not about the move or the wretched timing of this damn hurricane, but about the open-ended curfew put in place by our very fuckable yet very conservative mayor. I mean, we're at a hotel in the middle of the French Quarter fercryinoutloud, and we can't go across the street for a drink with our fellow 'mos? Where's the fun in that?
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
  What To Do About IvanOption #1: Stay I've never evacuated from a hurricane zone before, so why start now? We live in a 150-year-old house that's survived numerous hurricanes, including one of the biggest ever to hit the city directly, and it's still standing.At the moment, Ivan is expected to hit a good distance to the east, meaning not only that we're on the "good side" of the hurricane (for those who've never been through one, the east side of a hurricane gets the brutal first wave of storms as they spin counterclockwise off the Gulf), but that we stand a chance--albeit slim--of missing the bulk of the storm altogether.The only place I could feasibly go in an evacuation is Mississippi, which will likely get hit just as badly as New Orleans.The highways are jammed: to get anywhere reasonably safe (i.e. two hours to the west), I'd have to spend at least six hours on the road with car full of three dogs, a cat, numerous suitcases, and one slightly grouchy boyfriend. For months now, we've been planning a very special trip out of town for a very special event, and if we leave, I'm afraid we wouldn't be able to get back in time for our flight out Friday morning.I want to teach myself to bake, and since I have a gas stove and several days off from work, what better to do?Option #2: Go Even though the temperatures aren't as brutal as they've been, living without power for any stretch of time (which is a near certainty at this point) is no fun in New Orleans.Between the lack of air conditioning and the nervous clatter of our dog Ruffin's nails on the hardwood floor as he scurries from hiding place to hiding place, sleeping tomorrow night won't be easy.My dad's house is newer and loses power less frequently than ours.There's always a first time for everything--including hurricane evacuation.Well, the "stays" outweigh the "gos," so I guess we'll be sticking around. Just don't be surprised if I'm quiet for a couple of days. Wish us luck.
Monday, September 13, 2004
 Porno moment of the day: yesterday afternoon, while I was trying to be all butch and do some work around the house, this hot, trashy coonass, who looked like the sort of guy who spent his evenings dancing atop the bar of the Corner Pocket, knocked on my door and asked if I wanted to buy some powertools. Seriously. Hot.
Saturday, September 11, 2004
An hour or so ago, I was about to post something really silly, really ridiculous, but I made the mistake of looking up. Or, not mistake. I just looked up from my keyboard to the TV playing silently in front of me. NOVA was on--a Saturday afternoon favorite--but it was a very old episode, one about the collapse of the World Trade Center. And I thought, "Jeez, how many times are they gonna show this one? I mean, it's a poignant documentary, but c'mon..."
I'd completely forgotten, of course.
Despite the fact that I'd seen the piece no less than three times previously, I turned up the volume and began watching. I couldn't stop. You know the analogies. And when I finally remembered today's date, I shut my laptop and bumped up the volume some more. Despite my reluctance to be sentimental about anything, despite my attempts at iconoclasm, I guess I have limits. In a weird, childish way, I guess watching the episode was my way of paying some kind of respect, or at least chastising myself for being forgetful.
Sure, I have more connections to New York than some people I know, but far fewer than others. Fact of the matter is, I live over a thousand miles from the city, and I knew no one who died on the 11th of September, 2001. So, on the one hand, I'm awed by the impact such a distant event has had on me and by the level of empathy it's aroused. On the other, what right do I really have to feel connected to it, being, ultimately, a guy who lost nothing truly significant that day?
Friday, September 10, 2004
My friend, Elizabeth, tipped me off to this tidbit of info about my home state's recent shenanigans:
One week after complaints were made about an unclear highway sign, state transportation officials have made it easier to understand by adding one punctuation mark. Recently, members of a veteran's group said they had received complaints about the highway sign advertising the Mississippi Vietnam Memorial in Ocean Springs. The sign originally read "Miss Vietnam Memorial," causing some to wonder if there's a woman named "Miss Vietnam" and why the city has a memorial for her.
--Duluth News Tribune
Note, however, that I had to go all the way to yankee territory to get the full story: there was nothing to be found on any of the major Mississippi-based websites. Could this mean that my fellow Mississippians are finally shedding their cavalier, "Hell, that's the way we do things around here" ways and developing a sense of shame? Or is it merely another example of folks not being able to laugh at themselves?
Side note: if I were ever to become a full-time professional drag queen, I've always thought I'd assume the name of "Miss River Bridge." Here in New Orleans at least, I'd get lots of free publicity.
Thursday, September 09, 2004
Recent Experiments
Mixing absinthe and root beer
Sober before? Yes
Sober after? Yes (sadly)
Inspiration: Ran out of bourbon, vodka, Tab, Fresca; not up for beer
Dork rating [1 to 5]: 4 -- Only dorks regularly stock absinthe and Tab
Idiot rating [1 to 5]: 2 -- Frankly, it still seems like a reasonable drink
Success rating [1 to 5]: 2.5 -- I'm alive, but the aftertaste, she lingers
Lesson learned: Drink anisettes straight; root beer is a crappy mixer
Substituting pork rinds for croutons on my salad
Sober before? Yes
Sober after? Yes, but drunk on deliciousness
Inspiration: Hunger; boyfriend unwilling to venture to grocery store
Dork rating [1 to 5]: 2 -- I guess it did look a bit silly
Idiot rating [1 to 5]: 1 -- More pork on a salad? What's dumb about that?
Success rating [1 to 5]: 5 -- After I call Wendy's tomorrow, I'm gonna be rich! Rich, I tell ya!
Lesson learned: a Southern upbringing has its rewards
Tuesday, September 07, 2004
So I'm getting a little camera-happy around the house and garden. So sue me.
Monday, September 06, 2004
 What? Just because I have a few problems with Decadence doesn't mean I can't enjoy the festivities...
Sunday, September 05, 2004
So, yeah, that thing I said about making just one post about Decadence? I lied. What I have bemoaned so often in private, I have officially gotten off my own chest. Now if only the thousands of squealing, sterroided, hemorrhoided, semi-nude homos flooding the restaurants, shopping plazas, and streetcars of my fair city would just put something on their own (chest, that is), I could sleep soundly.
Friday, September 03, 2004
Straight from left field
I have made peace with Paris Hilton. I now appreciate her selfless, Florence Nightingalesque efforts to drag little Nicole Richie up from the bowels of obscurity into the duodenum of semi-obscurity. As of today, I applaud this benevolent, well-dressed creature that walks among us--well, among some of us. Rock on, gold dust woman! (Call me, Par, if you need help on that last allusion--it's a tad before your time.)
Long before Amelie wondered it aloud to the world, I often asked myself: "How many people in my neighborhood are having orgasms right now? Is the frequency such that you could say that I'm never more than a block or two from someone in ecstasy? How big a geographic area would I have to include to make such a statement? Uptown and downtown? Orleans parish? The Greater New Orleans Metro area? How far do I have to go to make sure that someone in my vicinity is always going over the edge?" I like the thought of one continuous, sexy, sometimes-awkward, sometimes-painful, sometimes-onanistic, screaming orgasm. I like thinking that, if I had the ears of Superman or Spiderman or whichever one could hear shit, I could always tune in to someone yelling "Ohmygodohmygodhereitcomes!" I'm less gleeful at the thought of applying the same idea to people dying (one continuous, final exhale) or automobile wrecks (like a 24/7 Mel Gibson movie with real blood).
Yo, it's official: the New Orleans Metroblog has officially launched, featuring yours truly and ten folks he's never met. Of possibly interest: my first and perhaps only comments about Southern Decadence 2004 and the curiously coincidental Southern Baptist convention.
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
 Yesterday, I attended a meeting--a very long, not very engaging meeting with colleagues from around the state. Not surprisingly, about ten minutes into it, my mind began to wander. Just before we broke for lunch, one of my co-workers turned to me and asked "Are you all right? You keep wincing like you're in pain." She was absolutely right: my eyes were all squinty and I was biting my lower lip. It's the same face my gastroenterologist would see if he carried out his examinations in the missionary position. But I wasn't in pain. I was wincing at something else--or rather somethings else. Since I had nothing better to occupy my attention during the afternoon session, I used that time to catalogue these facial tics into four different groups, based on their various points of origin:
- Wince Type #1 was the result of recollected embarrassing moments. This happens quite a bit when I have nothing better to think about--I start dwelling on drunken passes I made, or drunken statements I made, or just generally being drunk. My favorite half-memory involves passing out in the men's room stall of a restaurant and having to be carried out by my friends after the place closed. (Hey, it was college.) Ouch.
- Wince Type #2 was the result of me contemplating sex with some of my peers. Now, in a similar situation, normal people might glance about the table, focus their attention on an attractive man or woman, and commence daydreaming. Not me. For some masochistic reason, when I do it, I pick out the most unappealing folks in the room. My horrific sexual fantasies are like flabby, pasty, clammy train wrecks: disgusting, but I'm compelled to look. Eww.
- Wince Type #3 came from imagining the body odors of the folks inspiring Wince Type #2. I mean, if you can't reach it, how can you clean it?
- Wince Type #4 was of a different sort altogether and involved cell phones ringing. There's nothing like a hideous ringtone going off in the middle of a quiet conference room to make me cringe--mostly in embarrassment for the phone's owner. Ringtones are a marker of taste/class, and there's something inherently sad and declasse about folks who still use the 'Ride of the Valkyrie' ringtone in 2004. As they rush to the hallway to take the call, I imagine them saying to themselves, "Damn, I gotta upgrade to a phone that plays chords." Of course, none of this would be a problem if they'd just set their phone to "vibrate" like sensible people.
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