|
|
Monday, November 29, 2004
So, like, what the hell is up with the media? First it was the New York Times, printing fabricated stories from a wunderkind newshound. Then came CBS and Dan Rather and the whole Bush military service mishegas. And now, apparently, ABC has dipped its toe in the shimmering, shallow waters of sloppy, sensationalist journalism with a 20/20 feature on Matthew Shepard alleging that drug abuse--not homophobia--was the real reason behind Shepard's murder.
It wouldn't be so bad if they'd grounded the segment in factual evidence, but they chose instead to use nothing but interviews--and of course, no one's under oath. Furthermore, the timing of the piece seems a tad suspicious, given the Right's current attack on GLBT rights and the media that (allegedly) promote them. Perhaps Karl Rove is boinking Elizabeth Vargas. Or John Stossel, for that matter... Um, ew. Strike that last bit.
Anyway, whether or not there's any truth in those interviews, there is certainly lots of conjecture and hearsay, which is to be roundly condemned. So if you feeling like sounding off today, why not send a lil' ol' letter to President ABC News President David Westin and 20/20 Executive Director David Sloan? It'll make you feel better. Or at least kill a couple of minutes in an otherwise dull day.
In case you missed it:
The Italian Senate ground to a halt Tuesday as a virus wormed its way through the upper house's computer system flashing gay pornography every time a terminal was accessed. Computers in the Senate chamber and the offices of every senator were infected. The system's firewall was helpless as it was overcome by the fast spreading worm. No matter what Senators or the staff did all that would come on their computers were hard core [sic] gay pictures.
-- 365gay.com, among others
Sunday, November 28, 2004
Suddenly, it's all become clear, the impetus behind this whole religious revival thing. On the one hand, we've got massive geopolitical turmoil and economic instability fostering a return to the safe haven of religion. And at the same time, millions upon millions of Baby Boomers--no longer the darlings of the anti-establishment--are growing old and gray, waxing nostalgic about going to church with their parents and worrying more and more about the afterlife. So basically, people everywhere are looking for "answers"--especially the generation that's currently at the height of its power and influence.
Goddammit. Don't that timing just beat all?
Saturday, November 27, 2004
TWO THINGS, PERHAPS RELATED
1. Remember after September 11, 2001 how everyone was raw and sensitive? How, everywhere you looked, there was a reminder of the planes and the towers and terrorism and all? And if you think really hard, maybe you recall that there was a Starbucks ad that caused some controversy around that time--a print ad that featured a dragonfly buzzing around two iced drinks with the tag line, "Collapse into cool." A number of people claimed that the image was too, too reminiscent of the attacks on the World Trade Center, and that, in fact, Starbucks was capitalizing on the images of September 11 to drive drink sales. [I know, I know: I was trained to pick apart things like that, to read into ads and essays and whatnot, and even I didn't see it.]
Well, yesterday I caught sight of a TV ad (I forget for what) featuring something much more graphic and direct: a plane cutting a wild swath through the sky, with folks in the plane's cargo bay dumping money out of the back. Three years after the fact, the ad's images of people on the ground, engulfed by paper falling thick as snow, made me stop in my tracks--and I'm not what anyone would call the sentimental type. And I thought to myself, "Where are the Starbucks protesters now?"
2. My friend David forwarded me the text of a speech given by Larry Kramer at Cooper Union a couple of weeks ago. It's typical Kramerspeak: judgmental, enraged, enraging, earnest (at times, embarrassingly so), wrought with conspiracy theories and vast, ludicrous generalizations, though as with so many polemic types (e.g. Camille Paglia), Kramer does manage to make a few good points.
But what interests me at least as much as Kramer's arguments is when he's making them: now, in the wake of the presidential election. And viewed side-by-side with the Starbucks example above, it gives me hope that, like the events of September 11, 2001, the tragedy of November 2, 2004 and the subsequent hysteria it's engendered will eventually fade, and life will return to normal (whatever that is).
Of course, Kramer would say that such a reading is sloppy and lazy and gives me an excuse to remain sitting on my ass instead of turning my sadness into rage. And maybe he'd be right.
Friday, November 26, 2004
Thankful
I'm surrounded by great cooks.
I'm up to my eyeballs in good indie porn.
Certain individuals will eventually die.
The Overstock.com lady hasn't shown up anywhere else.
E. F. Benson is still in print.
And the usuals: family, friends, health, hounds
Not Thankful
I can barely make a ham sandwich without supervision.
I'm up to my eyeballs in bad indie porn.
There is no fatwa on Karl Rove's head.
I cannot issue fatwas myself.
My dogs cannot knit sweaters from their sheddings.
Ray Freaking Bradbury was awarded the National Medal of Arts.
As for today, you know my philosophy: if it can't be bought on eBay or at a liquor store, it ain't gettin' given.
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
On Feb. 20, after seeing televised images of some of the gay weddings in San Francisco, [Cambodia's] King Sihanouk commented on his Web site, www.norodomsihanouk.info [direct link to post here], that as a "liberal democracy" Cambodia should allow "marriage between man and man...or between woman and woman." On Feb. 26, King Sihanouk followed up with a letter in which he disagreed that God absolutely opposes "gays"; rather, he wrote, "God, like Buddha, is compassion, indulgence, non-discrimination."
--Pacific News Service
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
Yiddish / Southern
Chutzpah / Gumption
Mishegas / Hogwash
Gornischt / Squat
Ongepatcheket / Citified
Knosh / Pick
Futzing / Piddlin'
Mensch / Good Ol' Boy
Bubbeh / Mamaw
Oy gevalt! / Christ on a cracker!
And there's more where that came from. Yo, check it.
Monday, November 22, 2004
Davies, whose 9-year-old son and 4-year-old daughter attend Spurger Elementary, said she viewed the day not a silly Homecoming Week activity, but as an effort to push a homosexual agenda in a public school.
"It's like experimenting with drugs," said Davies, who also has a 2-year-old daughter. "You just keep playing with it and it becomes customary. ... If it's OK to dress like a girl today, then why is it not OK in the future?"
--Houston Chronicle, courtesy of Gerald
Dear Middle America:
What the fu@k is wrong with you? Could you please lighten up a little? Or did that god of yours forget to give you and your ill-bred, inbred, porn-loving ilk a sense of humor?
If something doesn't happen soon, I'm coming after you. Or maybe not you. Maybe your friends, your family, your co-workers. You'll awake one day to a fresh pot of coffee and shuffle to the front door to retrieve the morning paper and there I'll be: featured on the cover (above the fold, of course), standing on the steps of your small-town city hall, drenched in the blood of innocents, pistols in both hands, shooting in vain at the dozens, if not hundreds, of armed policemen who have been summoned to subdue me.
And I'm not kidding.
Really. Not. Kidding.
It's not exactly "love thy neighbor," but then, neither is "god hates fags."
Kisses,
Richard
Sunday, November 21, 2004
If there were ever a party-giving smack-down between Dorothy Draper and Elsa Maxwell, my money would clearly be on Elsie: she was a loud, obnoxious, aggressively unattractive social climber who had nowhere to go but up--and up she went, by hook and crook. Luckily, the same folks who reissued Dot's Entertaining Is Fun! will soon be turning out Elsie's chef d'oeuvre How To Do It (not to be confused with Jean-Paul Gaultier's late 80s foray into house music entitled "How To Do That"), so the next time you're entertaining heads of state and Hollywood A-listers, you'll know just where to turn.
In honor of la Maxwell, here's a recipe from that book: Rosalind Russell's version of veal in sour cream. If you're not hung-up about keeping kosher and you happen to have a spare asbestos mat lying around the kitchen, give it a try--and do let me know how it turns out...
VEAL IN SOUR CREAM
(six servings)
Cook 6 pieces of bacon in a large frying pan and set bacon aside. Brown 3 pounds of boneless stew veal in the bacon fat. Cook 1/2 pound of sliced mushrooms and 2 large onions, chopped, in same fat. Mix 1 cup of white wine with 1 cup of sour cream. Put veal, mushrooms, and onions in buttered casserole. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Pour on wine and cream. Crumble bacon over top. Simmer, covered, 1 and 1/2 hours, either in a 325-degree oven or on top of the stove over a low flame with an asbestos mat under the casserole. For variety, a good addition is 1 and 1/4 pounds boiled ham, diced and browned with the vegetables. In that case, skip the bacon and use other bacon fat.
Saturday, November 20, 2004
I'm not much of a poetry person. It attracts too many awful writers. Poetry is a genre that's easy to work in, and even easier to work in badly. There isn't a college sophomore in America who hasn't read T. S. Eliot or Langston Hughes and scurried back to his dorm room to pen a regrettable sonnet about love or loss or loneliness. English teachers, I entreat you to warn them all: "It looks easy, but it's more difficult than writing a novel!"
Now there are, of course, exceptions, and Rita Dove is perhaps the most significant. I was introduced to her work during my undergraduate years--back when she was the US poet laureate--and I was instantly smitten. Her poems are concise but breathtakingly deep; narrative but enticingly abstract; approachable but full of meaning that's never fully unveiled. Shortly after that first encounter, she visited my campus, and I did the unthinkable.
I wrote a poem to Rita Dove.
Yes, I too fell prey to the lure of weighty, maudlin verse--blank verse, even. I pored over a page full of verbs and adjectives so pregnant with meaning they could've birthed quadruplets. After a day of wordsmithing, I typed up my opus, and I sent it to her. Ugh. Just thinking about it makes me cringe (not unlike a few other things I've mentioned before). She was kind enough to write back--and with a very personalized letter, too--but I could tell from the tone she was all, like, "That's cute and everything, but why don't you just leave the poetry writing to me?"
Luckily for all concerned, I found other outlets for my alleged creativity, and Rita kept writing. Now she's got a new book on the shelves, and apparently, it's stunning. If it's anything like her previous work, I highly recommend including it on your list of holiday gifts.
As a special bonus, here's one of my favorites. It's perhaps an odd choice for a guy--especially a gay guy--but there you are...
Medusa
I've got to go
down where my eye
can't reach
hairy star
who forgets to shiver
forgets the cool suck
inside
Someday long
off someone will
see me
fling me up
until I hook
into sky
drop his memory
My hair
dry water
--from Grace Notes
Friday, November 19, 2004
After much trial and error, after months of experimentation both fruitless and fruitful (and, it goes without saying, fruity), I have finally done it: I have cracked the secret code of the contemporary culinary elite! I and I alone will reveal to you the master plan by which modern chefs operate! Though contemporary menus appear complex to the everyday observer, to trained eyes such as my own, they consist of a finite number of ingredients, ordered by a facile mix-and-match formula so as to appear random and exotic.
The process is simple: in each category, match one item from column A with an item from column B. By the time you reach the bottom, you're ready to work as a sous chef at Balthazar. Bon apetit, my dears...
Take an entree of... |
A
Venison
Sweetbread
Cardoon
Squab
Capon
Lamb's tongue
Leek
|
B
flambe
a la poulette
meuniere
fricassee
en brochette
croquettes
kabobs
|
...and serve it with... |
A
Wasabi
Cardamom
Juniper
Madeira
Fennel
Anise
Pine bark
|
B
aioli
reduction
chutney
catsup
succotash
marmalade
moutarde
|
...alongside a demitasse of... |
A
Hare's liver
Giblet
Eel
Loganberry
Chicory blossom
Rhubarb
Quince
|
B
pie
ravioli
bruschetta
ratatouille
porridge
Charlotte
tartlette
|
Thursday, November 18, 2004
Quicker, quicker, your stories are so boring. You may be 6 years old, but I am not, so please make an effort.
Life Lessons from Karl Lagerfeld
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
Well, that was fun. Perhaps a little too fun, to judge from my throbbing head and general wooziness. If I didn't have such a lot of crap to do today, I'd go right back to bed.
I don't have any clips of Necromania to post for those who weren't there, but I can provide a couple of animation dealios to get your day started with a big ol' "WTF?!?" You can thank me later.
thing one
thing two
Links courtesy of Michael
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
TO DO LIST
All right, people, you've got three assignments today:
1. Emboldened by their victories on November 2, evangelical Christians suddenly think they're all 800-pound gorillas. Eight-hundred pounds they may be--what with the copious amount of deep-fried Twinkies they consume--but that doesn't give them license to bully the rest of America. (They should leave such things to their dear Commander-in-Chief.) In particular:
- The American Family Association is pushing hard against Procter & Gamble, alleging that the company is inherently evil for promoting tolerance in its workplace and advertising on shows that reach its desired customers. Counteract the AFA boycott by calling P & G Chairman A.G. Lafley at 513 983 1100 and telling him that you support their endeavors to promote equality and will continue to buy P & G products. Encourage your friends and family to do the same.
- The AFA is also working hard to nix Senator
Phil Arlen Specter, a rare voice of Republican reason, from leading the Senate Judiciary Committee. Please call your senator--especially if s/he is on this list--and urge them to support Senator Specter's bid for chairmanship. If you don't know how to reach your senator, visit www.congress.org for email and phone information. [Thanks, Tyler, for the correction. Apparently, I had rock and/or roll on my mind this morning.]
2. On a less politically divisive note, if you're in New Orleans this evening, why not join the [allegedly] cool kids for a screening of Ed Wood's long-lost porn film Necromania at 8:00pm at One Eyed Jacks, 615 Toulouse Street? You can enjoy a beer, a smoke, and a host of other vices as the boyfriend proves once and for all that Mr. Wood may not be the worst director of all time, but he's surely the most demented.
Monday, November 15, 2004
I'd make a lousy starfucker. Over the years, I've encountered a variety of celebs from the A, B, and C-lists, and most of the time my chain of thought has gone something like, "Did Jonno say he wanted a bourbon and soda or a boubon and water hey isn't that Sylvia Miles doing coke off Leslie Uggams' right breast oh look someone dropped a nickel." Either that, or I've been so preoccupied/drunk that I've missed seeing stars altogether--like when Julia Roberts and Lyle Lovett walked hand-in-hand right by me on Royal Street and my then-boyfriend Martin jabbed me so hard with his elbow that I nearly lost a rib (great for corsetry, bad for me).
Last night, as I came face-to-face with Jude Law and Sean Penn--who'd come to see our hothothot burlesque show--the same thing happened: "Where the hell did I put those extra wristbands did Dawn give me her comp list wow Jude Law is much taller and thinner than I would have imagined oh look someone dropped a quarter."
For years, I've harbored a secret hope that Liz Smith would suddenly appear at my door and carry me off to be her protege. It's just as well she hasn't though, because I clearly don't have the stuff.
Sunday, November 14, 2004
Another Flash distraction--this one of special interest to those design-obsessed individuals who can't flip through an issue of Vogue without stopping every few pages for a game of "Name That Font". (Not that I'm acquainted with people like that, but, well, you know.) Bone up on your sans-serifs, turn the volume way down, and get busy with FontFetish. [Link provided by J to the N O.]
Saturday, November 13, 2004
GRADOUX
Apparently, I'm biologically related to Eve Harrington. See, my sister was invited to open for Marc Almond at the Alternative Miss World pageant, but then Marc had a little accident, and Tiff suddenly became the headliner. She insists that it was all coincidence, but our mother did grow up here, and I'm wondering if maybe she passed on a bit of inside knowledge about the gris-gris to her daughter.... Not that it matters. I mean, hello? Subbing for Marc Almond? I'd step over my own grandmother for the chance. It's, like, every faggot's dream. Or at least, every faggot I know.
In the immortal words of Leo Sayer, last night I had the strangest dream. I was riding on this way-crazy, out-of-control plane thing--kinda like a Jet Ski, but it flew--and Nicole Kidman was riding bitch. We went into a tailspin and plummetted toward the ocean. Then I woke up. And I remembered that elementary school legend, the one that claims if you're falling in a dream and you actually see yourself hit the ground, you'll actually die. And I remembered how desperately I wanted to see that as a kid. Every night, I'd psyche myself up before bedtime, in the hopes that I could somehow maintain consciousness while I slept--the idea being that I could make my dreams unfold as I wanted and I could watch myself fall. There wasn't any suicidal drive behind it, I was just curious.
The boyfriend is dipping his pinky toe back in the non-porno blogosphere. It's a start.
If you're very bored and you have a speedy web connection and you have the volume on your speakers turned WAY DOWN, you might enjoy this little flash animation. Yeah, it's derivative, trying very hard to be the next All Your Base, but it's a pleasant way to pass the next 30 seconds of your workday.
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
[ click above to enlarge ]
So, a break from the politics.
Sunday afternoon as I was walking home from the French Quarter, I took a shortcut. Usually I follow Chartres Street back to the Marigny: it's pretty, and I often see friends, so there's potential for some social interaction. This week, though, I wasn't feeling chatty. I deperately needed a nap and opted instead to follow the levee wall that runs along the backside of the French Market, behind the local power station, and past several blocks of coffee roasting plants. It's not a glamorous walk, and even I--an intrepid perambulator, if I do say so--wouldn't take it at night, but it was bright and sunny, so I said, "What the hey?"
When I got to the diciest stretch--where the homeless and gutter punks sleep side-by-side--I noticed a curious flash of light reflecting off something shiny. A few steps later, I saw the source: men moving large, mylar-wrapped objects from the back of an 18-wheeler into an open minivan. A couple more paces and it was apparent that the objects in question were computers: large-ish desktop towers. I was shocked and excited to see [moderately] organized crime operating so brazenly in broad daylight. It was a total turn-on.
As I passed by, I made eye contact with the man moving the computers off the truck--a hot, hunky worker-bee who looked like he'd been doing this all his life. From the glance he shot me, it was all-too-apparent that he didn't give a damn who saw what he was doing. I don't think he would've batted an eye if I'd driven up with Wolf Blitzer and a CNN news van. But despite his gruff nonchalance, I waited half a block before I turned around and snapped a photo. I mean, I'm not stupid. Well, not much.
Sunday, November 07, 2004
One last comment on the election, and then I'll shut up. For a while. Maybe.
Yesterday afternoon, I was starting to let it all go. The weather was absolutely gorgeous, I drove around with my car windows down, I walked a bit in the Quarter, I spent some quality time with the boyfriend. All in all, life didn't seem too terribly different than it did a week ago.
Then I made the mistake of opening my laptop and rooting around to see if other homos were feeling the same way, which eventually led me to Andrew Sullivan:
But the most fundamental fact of this campaign - and one of the reasons it has been so bitter - is that we are at war. Our opponents at home are not our enemies. The real enemy is the Jihadist terror network that, even now, is murdering innocents and coalition soldiers in Iraq. Our job now - all of us - is to support this president in that war, to back those troops, and to pray for victory.... The past is the past. And George W. Bush is our president. He deserves a fresh start, a chance to prove himself again, and the constructive criticism of those of us who decided to back his opponent. He needs our prayers and our support for the enormous tasks still ahead of him. He has mine. Unequivocally.
I'm sorry Andrew, but have you gone completely nuts? When did your memory become so brazenly selective? It sounds like you've been spending too much quality time with Camille Paglia. Or Ralph Reed.
Bush deserves as much criticism for the war in Iraq as we can heap upon him. I'm still not sure why he was so gung-ho to invade the Fertile Crescent (for the oil? to vindicate daddy and his half-assed war? to create a distraction from the more complex problem of terrorism?), but he did so via a cadre of disposable underlings who misled the country with bogus stats on the Hussein regime. If he'd been a responsible, thoughtful president, Bush might have seen that there were more effective ways to, in his words, "make America safer" and quell some of the jihadist invective that's being spewn in our direction. For example:
Follow your own damn roadmap: Remember that "roadmap" thingy you put together as a blueprint for peace in the Middle East, Mr. President? Yeah, well, given that the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is the primary catalyst inducing otherwise sensible young men and women to strap on several pounds of explosives and blow themselves up, you should have stuck with it. Now, I know the ties between Israel and the US are complicated, and I know that Israel deserves a state of its own, and I know that leaders on both sides of the brouhaha have to save face. I understand all that, but for chrissake, put your foot down! Insist that Israel give most, if not all, of Gaza and the West Bank to the Palestinians so they can create a legitimate state. Insist that new Jewish settlements be curtailed. Put even more pressure to bear on the Palestinians (by way of financial incentives, perhaps--see below) to crack down on terrorist groups. And as for those evangelicals who want to see Israel kept as one glorious, contiguous state just so their vengeful god can come back to Earth and mow down the Jews--well, tell Karl Rove to whip up some new, previously unpublished chapter of Revelations for 'em to swallow.
Provide incentives, not just sanctions: Unless you've been living under a rock for the past 30 years--and I'm not saying you haven't, mind you--you know that the most effective means of training dogs, cats, and children is through positive reinforcement. The same goes for rogue states. Keep 'em in line by rewarding them for good behavior. Set your own criteria, but make sure some of that money trickles down to the common folk. If you find that other world leaders are wary of you, gussy up Laura and send her out to soften 'em up the way JFK did with Jackie. I mean, even freshmen poli-sci majors know that effective leadership means keeping your friends close and your enemies closer.
Promote secular education: C'mon, George. You're a dad. You know all about the formative years and how important they are. You understand that if you'd paid more attention to the twins when they were younger, they might not have all these binge-drinking problems, right? Well, the same goes for young people in other parts of the world. All that Wahabi education kids are getting in Saudi Arabi, Pakistan, and elsewhere is going to have some very unpleasant payoffs over the next 10 to 20 years unless something changes now. Encourage governments to set up strong secular school systems, and make sure they're free to the public. Poor children are the most in need of a good education--not only because education leads to better jobs and better futures for their own children, but also because without it, they stand a good chance of lapsing into the jihadist mindset so attractive to the poor. Poverty and religion are natural bedfellows, and their commingling can nuture some very unhealthy radical ideology. Hello? Just look at the support you got last Tuesday from undereducated evangelicals....
Fund your own public diplomacy departments: In case you've forgotten about pesky little Colin Powell, his domain (i.e. the State Department) has numerous divisions, one of which is public diplomacy. That's the department charged with promoting cultural exchange between the US and other countries in the hopes of increasing international understanding and tolerance. By all accounts, it's seriously under-funded. You want to win the "hearts and minds" of Muslims? Get 'em hooked on Christina Aguilera and P. Diddy. And while you're at it, why not send a few Muslim artists (Khaled would be nice) to the Red States, just so they can see that my bio-dad and his relatives aren't all armed with Zippo lighters and effigies of you.
So shame on you, Mr. Sullivan. You just wait and see if I offer to buy you another beer next time we cross paths. Unless, of course, you're looking especially cute, and then...well, we'll see. I mean, everyone makes mistakes.
Saturday, November 06, 2004
At one point or another, most New Orleanians develop a Marie Antoinette Complex (which, sadly, has nothing to do with brioche, big wigs, or brocade dresses). It's not a terminal condition; in fact, it may come and go quite frequently over the course of one's life. The Complex often goes unnoticed, until finally one day the other shoe drops.
You'll be going about your work, minding your own business, innocently making a pot of gumbo or red beans, depending on the day of the week and the weather outside. From next door, you can hear your neighbor listening to some jumpin' New Orleans-style funk on WWOZ. Needing a bit of a break, you collapse on the sofa, beer in one hand, remote control in the other, and innocently flip over to CNN--only to discover that the rest of the world has gone Stark Raving Mad.
I experience the Complex at least once or twice a year--usually when I visit relatives in Mississippi or Alabama. I'm fine on the drive over, while I've got my CDs and consistent access to NPR, but when I step out of my car, things get all weird. Like, alternate universe weird. People walk the streets in curious, acid-washed clothing. They watch something called NASCAR. They eat Twinkies--deep-fried Twinkies. And their music...well, it's charming, but it's something we don't get much down here. In all, it's like seeing an America I never knew existed.
The same thing happened on Wednesday morning, after all the votes had been tallied.
Here I am, chock-full of red blood, doing my thing, contributing to my community and occasionally, like Miss Antoinette herself, playing shepherdess in the privacy of my backyard, when all of a sudden the masses go and do something utterly befuddling. They pass laws that seem not just protective, but mean-spirited. They veer to the right--though only slightly--and elect officials that ran on platforms of inclusion but have done nothing but divide. It all reeks of the same hysteria that allowed Joe McCarthy to run roughshod over the First Amendment some 50 years ago.
I know I'm partially to blame, what with the constant flag-burning parties in my living room and the way I recruit ten-year-olds through my aggressive gay agenda. But I can't help thinking that the god of the Red Staters (who also goes by the names of Yaweh and Allah, mind you) is up there thinking, "What in My Name has gotten into you people?"
The one bright spot: Orleans Parish has an almost completely new school board, so when Heather gets to elementary school-age, her two mommies may well be able to send her to public school.
Thursday, November 04, 2004
So, Tuesday's votes were clearly troubling--if not for our simpleton of a president and his NASCAR-loving, fag-hating constituents, then at least for me. But what's a gal to do? Get the hell out of Dodge? Harper's Magazine makes it pretty clear that that's not much of an option. Hire a squadron of assassins to take out Karl Rove and Karen Hughes? Fun, perhaps, but there's probably more where they came from. A good old fashioned suicide bombing? We'll see.
In the meantime, try these on for size. I know they're silly and sophomoric. Sorry, but that's just where I am right now...
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
It's hard not to take this election very, very personally. It's clear that homophobes--toiling under the allegedly more compassionate banner of "social conservatives"--mobilized voters through campaigns wrought with homophobic invective. As a result, not only did Monkeybrain McGruff win another four years in office, but also anti-gay marriage amendments were written into 11 state constitutions. Maybe I've got a bit of martyr's complex going on, but I'm feeling very Helen Reddy/"You and Me Against the World" right now.
Isn't there someplace I can go for one of them free lobotomy dealie-os? I mean, where do all those Republicans get theirs? ...It'd just make my life so much easier. And it might help with this sudden urge I have to buy half a dozen handguns and start mowing down everyone with a Bush/Cheney sticker on the back of his SUV.
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
If (a) you're dreading the next 18 hours of election day-TV and (b) you dig on 80s-style LA/Euro rock (think The Romantics) and (c) you have a speedy web connection, by all means check out the Flash video for TISM's "Everyone Else Has Had More Sex Than Me". It's easily worth a good five minutes of distraction from all the newsanchor autobabble. Hell--play it once for each time you hear Tom Brokaw utter the word "poll," and it'll be midnight before you know it. [Via Screenhead, of course.]
Monday, November 01, 2004
And the word of the day is...Cyprian (SIP-ree-uhn):
Adjective
1. Of, or pertaining to Cyprus.
2. Lewd.
Noun
1. A native or inhabitant of Cyprus; a Cypriot.
2. A lewd person.
Just like teacher used to tell you: use it three times a sentence and it's yours forever. In this case, stick to the secondary meanings--they'll come in far more handy. For example:
Last night, as Lily Crystalle removed her shimmering brassiere while dancing en pointe, the mood of the men in the grand ballroom (and of many women, too) shifted from bemused and buoyant to downright Cyprian.
"Next on Oprah, please welcome one of the best-known performers of yesteryear, everyone's favorite troubled troubador, that Cyprian songstress of the South, Ms. Britney Spears-Federline."
"Sir, I assure you that in grasping your buttocks and shoving you headlong into the canned fruit display, I was only trying to prevent you from being run down by an errant shopping cart: my motives were entirely selfless, not Cyprian."
|
ppl.
etc.
|
