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Sunday, October 31, 2004
You know that feeling where it's like you've been run over by a Mack truck? Where you're vaguely feverish and your muscles ache and you just can't seem to wake up, no matter how much coffee you drink? Kinda like if you were living in a bubble--a big, big bubble that looked exactly like your kitchen or living room or bathroom, only fuzzier?
That's how I'm feeling today.
No, I'm not hungover. Those who know me know full well my feelings about the local Halloween shenanigans: Not. My. Cup. Of. Chai.... Last night I went to the theater, and after the show, I came right home. Seven hours later, I rolled out of bed (having forgotten to re-set my clock, thankyouverymuch) feeling like I'd been gang raped by the LA Lakers. And not in the good way.
So that's as much as I can manage today. If you're truly bored, you can have a go at this. I'm heading back to bed.
Friday, October 29, 2004
 So, Timothy Greenfield-Sanders. The photographer behind the ostensibly edgy coffee table opus XXX: 30 Porn-Star Portraits. Last night, HBO aired a documentary about the making of the book called, half-cleverly, Thinking XXX. And so, I'm thinking... In the mainstream media, porn can be discussed in one of two ways: (A) Porn is what desperate, drugged-out child abuse victims do to support their narcissistic needs and their 17 unwanted kids, or (B) Porn is a fabulously liberating, beautiful means by which people just like you and me express themselves on camera for the enjoyment of others. Generally speaking, I can tell in a matter of seconds which way it's gonna go--often before the program has even begun. CBS? A. Fox? B. Drs. Laura or Phil? A. Dr. Ruth? B. Given that this special was being aired on HBO--which, as we all know, is often a mere penetration shot away from Spice Channel territory--and that it centered around an artiste and his elaborate, high-priced, high art creations, I could see where this one was headed long before I looked up from my improvised dinner of...well, let's just leave it at "improvised." In case you missed it, here's what you were meant to walk away with: "Omigod! She's so normal! I have a dog just like that! Wow, he had a really rough life, but he's come through it just fine! I had no idea that women were the real money-makers in straight porn! There sure are a lot of pornstars from the Czech Republic! I do the same cardio routine when I work out! Older women and men can be sexy, too! If I hadn't masturbated so often to her nude, sweat-drenched image, I could totally see her at a shopping mall and think she's just a regular person! Oh, look at all these smart, funny people like Gore Vidal and John Waters talking about porn and not blushing--if they can enjoy it, so can I! Sweet Jesus, Karen Finley is really turning into a whiny grandma of the Catskills!" Which is to say that I have the same problem with the documentary as I have with the book: too much talk. In the book, there are all these essays, and the documentary features all these interviews, and honestly, I don't fucking care. My days of giving a shit about Judith Butler and Eve Sedgwick and other Smart Sex Theorists are long gone, people. I like the book because it's an art book. It has pretty pictures of pretty people. I don't need the blah, blah, blah to justify owning it. And why the hell did they need a documentary in the first place? So Mr. Greenfield-Sanders could talk about his work? He barely gets a word in edgewise. The only truly interesting thing in it is the massively endowed camera used to take the damn photos. Well, that and the fact that they used Peaches' "AA XXX" for the lead in. She will always and forever rock.
Thursday, October 28, 2004
MAN SUPERGLUES CONDOM TO PENIS
Proving once again that it's just as much fun to laugh at people as it is to laugh with them.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
 It's funny: you think you're invincible, like nothing can hurt you, like you're all immortal and shit, then something goes tragically, horribly awry, and you realize that in point of fact, you're nothing but a big ol' meatbag. Yes, that's me in the photo. (It's the best I could do with the low-end camera on my Palm; if you didn't know what you were seeing, you might assume I was one of the pinheads from Tod Browning's Freaks.) It's a shot of my chin. The muddled bit around the tip is where I cut myself wide open last night--like, seriously. Stab wound-deep. I wish there were a glamorous story to go along with it--you know, a high speed car chase, a knife fight on the deck of a yacht, an attempted mugging in which I turned the tables and beat the holy hell out of my assailant while screaming, "You're getting whipped by a pansy, boy!" No such luck. Fact of the matter is, I was setting up for an event yesterday afternoon, and as usual, I was running behind schedule. I dashed into the venue, arms loaded with crap, and proceeded to slam smack into a bench, which was placed conveniently at knee-level and was conveniently black, making it invisible to someone like me whose eyes were only beginning to adjust from afternoon glare to interior gloom. I went flying and caught myself with my chin. Perhaps a hand or arm would have been more sensible, but then, no one's ever accused me of being the practical type. Ultimately, I was fine. Sure, it was a little jarring, but I got right up and continued on my way. Staff at the venue were kinda freaked out and rushed over to help me, but I was all like, "Just get me to my co-workers, I'm running late." Then I noticed the blood. Floor, shirt, tie: covered. Thirty seconds later, I was in the men's room, assessing the situation. The jittery staff (one of whom seemed less than keen on treating a bleeding faggot) brought me alcohol swabs, spray clotter, and butterfly stitches--none of which really solved the problem. Eventually the bleeding stopped enough so that I could wash out my tie in the sink (it's a favorite of mine), but it was all too clear that I needed bona fide medical attention. Like, the kind you get at an emergency room. I washed up as best I could, checked in with my colleagues to make sure that everything was on-track, and left. Four hours later, I arrived home with eight new stitches, a sore shoulder, a bruised calf, and a prescription for Vicodin. And only three days to go before the big homo Halloween weekend. If that ain't perfect timing, I don't know what is.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
I'm the worst sort of voter: I'm a single-issue kind of guy. This election, as in most, my vote's going to the candidate with the best record on queer rights.
I know that's not ideal. Nor is entirely honest: if I were really going for the most GLBT-friendly person on the ballot, I'd be voting for Nader or some other fringe nutjob, but I'm not stupid.
Generally speaking, my theory is that presidents--hell, elected officials in general--don't have too much individual effect on sprawling issues like the economy or health care, so where candidates stand on those topics is almost negligible. On less complex, more polarized issues, though, elected officials can exert real influence.
How very disturbing, then, to read this:
In an interview on Sunday with Charles Gibson, an anchor of "Good Morning America" on ABC, Mr. Bush said, "I don't think we should deny people rights to a civil union, a legal arrangement, if that's what a state chooses to do so." ABC, which broadcast part of the interview on Monday, is to broadcast the part about civil unions on Tuesday.
--New York Times
Which makes me wonder:
(a) If GW had a more pro-gay stance, would I be weighing my vote more carefully?
(b) Am I being a nelly Uncle Thomasina by getting giddy at the prospect of legal civil unions instead of being angered by the dubious, pale line of distinction that GW and others are drawing between the unions and marriage?
(c) When civil unions become common (as eventually they must), how long will it be before the courts find them the equivalent of separate-but-equal marriages, and, following precedent set in Brown v. Board of Education, allow homos to marry?
(d) When will the day come (as eventually it must) that the social issues that matter to me stop being issues and disappear from party platforms?
(e) When "c" happens, what social issues will be of concern for future generations?
Sorry, it's just one of those pensive, over-caffienated, under-rested mornings.
Monday, October 25, 2004
I've been a thrift-store shopper for a long, long time. Sure, for a while back in junior high I may have been a little squeamish about cast-off clothing, but then Molly Ringwald showed up and, well, you know, things changed.
Still...even after all these years of sorting through bargain bins and fingering overcrowded racks of soiled sportcoats, there are some varieties of thrifting I simply can't endure: discount grocery stores, for example. You see, secondhand clothing can be cool: it's like playing dress-up, like living the life of a complete stranger, literally walking in someone else's shoes (though truth be told, I've never had much luck with thrift-store shoes, thanks to my very curious gait). Secondhand food, though, is so obviously a necessity. It lacks the style, the glitz, the personality of an abandoned seersucker suit or a discarded Pucci-print chemise. Maybe it's just me, but there's something unbearably depressing about buying canned yams manufactured by a third-tier co-op in rural Montana. It's sad and lonely and reeks of poverty. It's the food you'd eat as an illegal immigrant or if you were on the lam in Guatemala.
Just a thought--you know, in case any of you were already planning out your Chriskwaanzukkah presents or anything.
Friday, October 22, 2004
To the reader who wrote in to say that I'm "a big fat girly man," let me repeat: I'm not fat! I'm just big boned....
But enough about me--today is all about the boyfriend, who celebrates another year on Planet Earth this lovely October 22.
Thursday, October 21, 2004
Dear New York,
Hey. How you doin'? I haven't heard from you in a while and...well, I just wanted to check in. I guess you've been pretty busy. Same here, same here....
Listen, I know it's not a great time for you right now. Winter's coming on, and even with all the nice leaves on the trees, I know you're worried about the months and months of wind and rain and snow and darkness ahead. I understand that you've got financial worries, too--hell, you're paying $20 to see artwork you've been used to seeing for free. And I won't even mention the subject of baseball. I'm so, so sorry.
I just want you to know that I'm here for you. I'm sure that sounds insincere coming from me, but just the same, it's very true. We've had some great times together, you and I. Some rough ones, too, but hey--water under the bridge. I'll do whatever it takes to make you feel better.
All I ask in return is that you send me Frank Rich. On his knees. With a wedding ring. (What's with that look? We'll take a trip to Boston.)
I know what you're thinking: he doesn't swing my way. Just trust me, I know what I'm doing.
If Frank's unavailable, that's cool. I understand. You can send me Derek Jeter instead. I'll make do.
So call me. Seriously, call me. Or email, I'm pretty good with that. I'll put some nice chicken soup on to boil, okay? Talk to you soon.
Love,
Richard
P.S. If Derek's not available either, I could handle Jon Stewart. You know I've got a "thing" for him to begin with, and to clinch the deal, last night he used the term "MILF Hunting" on national television.
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
"I didn't realize - and maybe this explains quite a bit - that the news organizations look to Comedy Central for their cues on integrity." When Mr. Carlson continued to argue, Mr. Stewart shut him down hard. "You are on CNN," he said. "The show that leads into me is puppets making crank phone calls."
--New York Times
Cute and funny. I know I wouldn't kick him out of the newsroom.
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
I'm always the last to know.
That's not necessarily a bad thing. Case in point: Star Wars. When it came to my lil' ol' town when I was a wee laddie, I had no idea what it was about. One of my friends just asked if I wanted to go, and being your average grammar school kid eternally on the lookout for something to do, I naturally said yes.
Now, if I'd walked into that film fully aware of what I was about to see, my expectations might have been too high. As it was, however, I emerged from the theater with a completely new appreciation for cinema and special effects. Being clueless about the whole thing obviously worked in my favor.
The same goes for Dungeons and Dragons. If I'd known in 7th grade that the cool kids considered D&D a game for the terminally unhip and socially challenged, I'd have cast a more jaundiced eye on Miss Cooley, the quirky lady with the impish grin who taught a small class of "gifted" students in a closet-sized classroom in the junior high basement that reeked of formaldehyde. (Note: I wasn't terribly gifted myself, but my school had a policy that students had to take either P.E. or band, and since I wanted nothing to do with either, my father arranged for me to enroll in the gifted program instead. Thanks, daddy.)
As it was, however, when Miss Cooley began putting us through the paces of hit points and charisma levels and 20-sided dice, I was completely charmed. D&D lacked the pizzazz of Defender or Pac Man, but it was way better than Candyland or Mousetrap or any boardgame. For the next six years, I was hooked.
So it is without [much] irony that I can say today, Happy birthday, D&D!" In turning me into a social pariah, you provided me with many enjoyable hours during my most acne-prone years.
Sunday, October 17, 2004
 Yes, ladies and gentlemen, as of tonight, they're baaack!
Friday, October 15, 2004
I could be getting out the vote. I could be pressing flesh and working a room. Or at the very least, I could be striking and spiking ('cause I've worked in theatre before, and I know the lingo).
Instead, I'm thinking about the 32-page Memorandum of Understanding drawn up by the Bush and Kerry camps to govern the presidential (and vice presidential) debates. Specifically, I'm wondering...
- Did the Memorandum insist that both Bush and Kerry wear dark suits? 'Cause John Kerry's clearly a "winter" and can pull that shit off, but GW's advisor oughtta be shot--it's painfully obvious that he's an "autumn," people! I think a nice russet-colored crew-neck sweater would have better captured the healthy ruddiness of his cheeks and the bloodthirsty glint in his hawkish, beady eyes. Not to mention the effect such things could have on one of his key demographics: I mean, everybody knows that a sweater is the key to a soccer mom's heart.
- Did the Memorandum insist that both candidates wear white shirts? 'Cause even with their expensive, sporty, fakebake tans, the shirts came off looking cheap--like button-down, oxford-cloth, Hagar-sales-rack-crap. They made Kerry and Bush look like nothing so much as gigolo waiters on the Riviera, each hoping to suck the money--and, as a necessary evil, certain bodily fluids--out of lonely, well-heeled widows and widowers.
- Did the Memorandum insist that tie choices be limited to red and blue? And did it indicate which candidate could wear which color to each debate? See, I was under the impression that green is the new orange, which, a few short years ago, was itself the new black. And, frankly, I'd rather have a fashion-conscious president who's a little more sartorially adventurous instead of a leader whose complete commitment to 80s-esque power ties is bound to encourage behind-the-back laughter from allies we really need right now--notably the French, Italians, and Germans.
Now, if none of this is set out in the Memorandum, what does that say about men's clothing and power? That the only way to convey gravitas is via a navy suit and monochromatic tie? Count me out, Mary--I'll hang with the aesthetes.
Of course, if I were so inclined, I could sit down and actually read the damn thing, but why would a lazy schmoe like me wanna do something like that?
Thursday, October 14, 2004
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
I don't take enough pictures. I never have.
Now, I'm not a terribly sentimental kind of guy. I'm not really materialistic either, in the sense that I don't need things like ticket stubs or pressed boutonnieres or scrapbooks full of photographs to make me feel complete or to document my half-lived life. I'm generally fine with my memories, thank you very much. In fact, most of the time I find photos to be a let-down: in my head, I've got a clear picture of past events, warm and gooey and happy, but then I pull out a photo and it's somehow different, it doesn't look right. What can I do? Argue? Photos don't lie, and that's their shortcoming.
Still, I wish I had a few pictures of my friend Jay.
Jay moved to New Orleans not long after I did. He was the ex-boyfriend of my then-boyfriend, Martin. Out of the blue one day he called us and said he was tired of Tampa and wanted a change of scenery. We offered him our sofa for as long as he wanted to stay--and what a stay he had....
Jay flourished here. As a drag artiste working in the genderfuck style, Jay--or Goddess, as he was better known--was celebrated for his quirky performances and his faux-messy, Kiki-esque antics. He was a beautiful dancer, too, classically trained in ballet, with an arabesque to make Nijinsky weep. He may not have always remembered the words to the songs he was lip-synching, but you couldn't help but watch.
In person, Jay wasn't too different--funny, giddy, always cutting up. The messiness offstage, however, was all too real. Smoking and drinking 'till dawn seven nights a week isn't terribly healthy for anyone, let alone folks with compromised immune systems.
Anyway, Jay left New Orleans a few years back, and to be honest, I hadn't thought of him much until this morning, when I received phone calls from two different sources verifying that he had passed away. And as I listened to the frustratingly vague details of his death, something in me snapped. Suddenly I was very sad and very angry that I never took a single picture of him on the stage at Lucky Cheng's as he churned out his own rendition of Bjork's "It's Oh So Quiet" for the upteenth time. That I never snapped a pic of him perched on his barstool upstairs at the Pub, downing shots with the bartender, Roberto. That I have not one photo of him at all.
All I can do is sit here at my desk and listen to Sinead O'Connor's "Red Football" and imagine Jay spinning deliriously atop the stage at MRB like a whirling dervish on too much meth, the thin, shiny heels of his PVC stilettos creeping closer and closer to the edge of the platform until it looks like certain doom, when suddenly he hurls himself into the air and lands with his back pressed against the upstage, mirrored wall in a gesture as grand and as final as Isadora Duncan tossing that tragically long scarf over her delicate shoulder as she stepped into her Bugatti for the very last time.
We'll miss you, Jay. Wherever you are, I hope you're turning it out.
Monday, October 11, 2004
Not surprisingly, John Waters, a Baltimore native, is an admirer of the sometimes blood-splattered dioramas.... "Even the most depraved Barbie Doll collector couldn't top this."
--New York Times
Friday, October 08, 2004
A Dozen Passing Thoughts
1. Q: How do you drive a Dane crazy?
A: Drop her off at the Robert's by my house and force her to read the checkout ladies' nametags 'till she starts climbing the produce displays. (Note: Does not apply to Brigitte Nielsen, who's clearly already nuts.)
2. Courtesy of my favorite nonprofit, the American Family Association, I received a link to this PDF list of AFA ass-kissers running for public office in Louisiana this November. According to the email, Msr. Wildmon & Co. would really appreciate it if I printed it out and distributed photocopies to my nearest and dearest [non-dancing, non-drinking, missionary-style-loving] friends. I'm tempted to do just that--after making some minor changes, of course...
3. ...Oh, screw it. Like I've got time for ten more of these. We open tonight!
Thursday, October 07, 2004
Well that brightens my day a bit. We'll see if it lasts.
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
For those of you who haven't yet discovered the most recent additions to the Gawker/Nick Denton fine family of blogs, may I suggest a gander at Kotaku and/or Screenhead? It's thanks to them that I recently experienced the most boring videogame in the history of the world (Yar's Revenge excluded, of course) and the most disturbing art project I've ever seen--and honey, I've seen plenty.
May goddess have mercy on our souls.
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
There's an article in this month's National Geographic about the Phoenicians and how their vast, vibrant society was soundlessly absorbed by other cultures along the Mediterranean. The reporter tagged along with a couple of scientists using DNA tests to find descendants of the Phoenicians, and the magazine published a two-page pull-out featuring portraits of potential candidates. The pull-out was interesting because, although I don't really have the same facial features as the (mostly Lebanese) men shown there, I do have the same eyes. It kinda makes me wanna just hop on a plane and go door-to-door in Beirut, looking for my bio-father.
But that's not why I brought up the article. No, I brought up the article because I fell asleep reading the damn thing, and when the boyfriend woke me up several hours later as he rolled into bed, he saw what I'd been reading, and without skipping a beat, he began singing "My Phoenician guy...Oh!" (to the tune of Grace Jones' always popular "My Jamaican Guy").
Now that, ladies and gentlemen, is love. Or delirium. Or a particular variety of psychosis. Who can say, really?
Sunday, October 03, 2004
Earlier this weekend...
RICHARD: I dunno, Jonno. I mean, they're your family. What do you think your mom, your two aunts, and your 80something-year-old grandmother would like to do on the first day of their vacation in New Orleans?
JONNO: Well, since the burlesque show isn't up yet and Bad Seed doesn't open 'till next week, I thought we'd take 'em to see Koyaanisqatsi.
RICHARD: O...kay.
JONNO: What? You gotta problem with that?
RICHARD: No, dear.... I think I'll have a little drink now.
Friday, October 01, 2004
So, I'm cautiously optimistic:
1. With the overlookable exception of geriatric GOP posterboy Bob Novak, the general concensus seems to be that Kerry had an edge in last night's debate. Personally, I couldn't watch it--I would have been holding my breath for the entire thing, and honey, I ain't Flipper--but I have it on good authority that Mr. Heinz done good. Now if someone could just steer him away from the snowboarding and windsurfing and fake-bake tanning salons, we just might get back on track.
2. The Federal Marriage Amendment tanked in the House yesterday. I'm sure we haven't heard the last of Ralph and Don and their flying monkey minions--not by a longshot--but hopefully, they've been grounded for a while. Why don't you see how your Representative voted, then send 'em a note either thanking them or condemning them for their position on this divisive, distracting issue?
3. Fuck Cheerios: I woke up singing "Never Say Never". I don't know if I was dreaming about Debora Iyall or my junior high foibles or something more erotic, but it was a damn good way to start what's going to be a very long day.
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