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It's 5:30am. In an hour and a half, I'll be dangling from the ceiling of the Municipal Auditorium, hanging crepe de chine streamers and silk swags for tonight's ball. Why do I risk my life in the service of such faggotry? For the unabashed glamour of it all, of course. Well, that, and because I'm a faggot.
5:27 AM
The most shocking thing in this article is not that Deborah/Debbie Gibson has doffed her high-80s porkpie to reveal a different sort of pie in Playboy, nor is it that Tiffany did the same not so long ago (however did we miss that?). No, the most shocking thing in that article is that bitch claims she's 34.
9:54 AM
 What the...? What in the name of all that is good and holy are you doing here? You and your slack, slack jaw had best be getting over to Goodwill or Red White and Blue, or--and goddess, I'd love you for this--Freddy's to find me full-length formal skirt and a new goddamn corset! I have three balls--count 'em: three!--over the next week, and not a stitch to wear! Now I know how poor Widow Hubbard felt when she opened the door to her empty armoire or pie safe or whatever it was.... You there, the snickering one with the glasses and the tired Urban Outfitters t-shirt: having three balls, whether formal or scrotal, is no laughing matter. Having only one--now that's a tragedy. And FYI, if any of you would care to accompany the boyfriend and me to two of these--the Mystic Krewe of Satyricon's Bal Masque on Sunday or the Radical Faerie Coronation Ball next Wednesday--do let us know. <nellyvoice>I'm sure sssssomething can be...arranged.</nellyvoice>
9:41 AM
I understand that Jews were the primary target of Hitler's "Final Solution." I understand that, regardless of why people were sent to the death camps, a day like today should be used to mourn those who perished and celebrate those who survived. I understand that the 60th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz is not necessarily the best time to push a progressive social agenda. Still. Wouldn't it be nice if somewhere in all the speeches made today by all the world leaders, someone acknowledged the thousands of homosexuals who died in the Holocaust? Wouldn't it be swell if just one of those speakers--perhaps, Dick Cheney, who ought to know first-hand about the discrimination GLBT persons face right here in the land of the free and the home of the brave, much less under the totalitarian Nazi state--denounced anti-Semitism, racism, and homophobia? Wouldn't it be lovely if all this talk about how prejudice is bad and tolerance is good didn't imply, "except when it comes to homos"? Wouldn't it be a wonderful surprise if we weren't cut out of the discussion altogether? Maybe that'll happen. Maybe it had already. I don't know. I haven't read transcripts of the speeches. But if history is any guide, odds are better that that kind of talk will get left in the snow.
7:40 AM
So, I know that some of you have issues with the HRC, and admittedly, I'm not completely cool with everything they do, but I think this is something we can all agree on. Apparently, certain jerks/pragmatists in the US Senate have decided to re-introduce the "Marriage Protection Amendment." (I guess all that "political capital" they've been talking about spending is really more like a Macy's gift card with a rapidly approaching expiration date.) Senators like mine may not be swayed by a volley of emails, but maybe they'll understand that not all of their constituents are card-carrying members of the American Family Association.
7:21 AM
8:05 AM
Why so quiet, you ask? Because someone was sweet/kind/cruel enough to give Jonno and I an XBox this weekend, and we've since been...otherwise engaged. Expect a fatter, lazier, more A.D.Delicious Richard in 2005!
8:33 AM
W's ...our duties are defined not by the words I use, but by the history we have seen together. "Though they're both pretty scary, ain't they? Heh, heh..." And then there came a day of fire. "I've been reading a lot from Revelations lately. Can ya' tell?" For as long as whole regions of the world simmer in resentment and tyranny prone to ideologies that feed hatred and excuse murder, violence will gather and multiply in destructive power... "I'm not gonna name names, but y'all know who I'm talkin' about: all those towelheads over there in the hot, hot desert. Simmer...that's a good one, Karl!" Freedom, by its nature, must be chosen, and defended by citizens, and sustained by the rule of law and the protection of minorities. "'Cept for fags, dykes, and she-males." All who live in tyranny and hopelessness can know: the United States will not ignore your oppression, or excuse your oppressors. "Unless y'all live in Burundi, China, Colombia, Cuba, Democratic Republic of Congo, Indonesia, Liberia, Myanmar, Nepal, Nigeria, Rwanda, Saudi Arabia, Sudan, Tibet, Venezuela, or anyplace else that ain't on the 'Axis of Evil'." Those who deny freedom to others deserve it not for themselves; and, under the rule of a just God, cannot long retain it. "But, uh, you might not wanna ask the friends and family of them 226,000 tsunami victims whether God is just..." And all the allies of the United States can know: we honor your friendship, we rely on your counsel, and we depend on your help. [Insert frog joke here.] Americans, at our best, value the life we see in one another... "Then again, at our worst, we're a seething mass of consumerism, greed, and bigotry." ...and must always remember that even the unwanted have worth. "And by 'unwanted,' I mean 'fudgepackers'." And our country must abandon all the habits of racism, because we cannot carry the message of freedom and the baggage of bigotry at the same time. "Darkies are fine. Unless they're fudgepackers." History has an ebb and flow of justice, but history also has a visible direction, set by liberty and the Author of Liberty. "Except when it comes to fags gettin' married. We're gonna put a stop to that right now." When the Declaration of Independence was first read in public and the Liberty Bell was sounded in celebration, a witness said, it rang as if it meant something. "Then it cracked."
7:09 AM
Today, some people are celebrating. Some--like the group here in New Orleans that's mounting a jazz funeral for democracy--are in mourning. Most, I would imagine, are just going about their daily routine, content to know that miles away, pomp, circumstance, and the American political machine are still thriving. Me, I'm somewhere in-between. Since November 2, 2004, I've traipsed through denial ("I'm pinching myself, but nothing's happening"), anger ("Jesus H. Christ, I'm off to Canada"), depression ("Huh? Wazzat? Just pour daddy another lil' drinkie-poo, baby"), and bargaining ("Okay, I'll give him privatization of Social Security if he'll back off the fagbashing"), and finally sashayed toward grim acceptance. Right now, I guess you could say I'm hopeful: hopeful that GW will avoid hurling us into another war we can ill-afford; hopeful that Condoleeza Rice can mend some bridges with our former allies in Europe and elsewhere; hopeful that Dick Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld will be caught in flagrante by photographers from the London Times, the New York Times, the National Enquirer, and National Geographic. But then, maybe I'm being too optimistic. Which is why I'm kicking off round two of Bush fils with a politely worded letter to the Big Cheese, letting him (or at least the lackey who reads his email) know that, well...I've got my eye on him. Not that I expect the Big Brother technique to work terribly well on a man who helped engineer the Patriot Act, but it's worth a shot. Why not give it a try yourself?
7:55 AM
 No, what you see above is not a vidcap from Chubs, Cubs, and Bodyrubs (Brawny Media, $24.95 plus shipping), nor is it a hidden-camera snapshot of Rotary Club initiation hijinks. No, ladies and gentlemen, the image above is just one of 22 photos documenting Iraqi prison abuses by British soldiers. How nice to see that the international game of one-upsmanship is on again. It's been far too long since the heady, fiercely competitive days of NSYNC vs. Take That.
7:36 AM
 Yes, ladies and gentlemen, America [almost] has its first-ever lesbian Secretary of State! Eh? What's that? ...Oh, yeah. Sorry: African American lesbian Secretary of State. So many labels to remember. Kinda makes Clinton's brazen appointment of boy-kisser James C. Hormel as ambassador to Luxembourg (if "brazen" and "Luxembourg" can be used in the same sentence) pale by comparison. I just wish Condi would occasionally smile at these hearings. Turn that frown upside-down, Madame Secretary! You're on top of the world! True, a slightly more attractive target for assassins--especially attractive with that vampy red lipstick--but on top of the world nonetheless.
8:04 AM
--The Guardian, New York Times, Al-Jazeerah.info, Deutsche Welle
Funny: Fox News and CNN seem to have ignored this story altogether...
9:36 AM
But... Well... I... Holy crap, how the hell do you respond to that? Bush is essentially saying, "You can't punish me for anything that happened in my first four years because 'the people' [Ed. note: well, 51% of them] re-elected me." Which is not only offensive and arrogant and completely infuriating, but also, like, employs some impossibly freaky logic. Just look at it the way his argument flows:
Hello? Even sporting events don't grant you that kind of clean slate. Say Venus Williams is playing, oh, I dunno, Jennifer Capriati at some tournament. And Venus is wearing these really ugly shoes and a low-slung top and a miniskirt that grants the entire world a view of physical terrain previously know only to her gynecologist. And Venus has a couple of bobbles here and there, and her boob pops out a la Miss Jackson on one particularly tough overhead, but in the end, she whips Jennifer's ass and moves on to the semifinals. She is not, however, completely out of the woods:
But then, all this comes from the man who led us into what Jon Stewart quite aptly calls "Mess-O-Potamia," based not on logic, but rather on some half-baked intelligence cobbled together by GW's unnerving, single-minded desire to oust a delusional dictator. If the whole "Iraqi Freedom" thing isn't a textbook example of faulty logic, I dunno what is.
8:10 AM
[Shamelessly Sibilant Sturtelian Ethical Aptitude Test] 32. Which of the following situations is most ethically egregious? P.S. Yes, I'm aware that The Cum Crooner would make an excellent title for an adult film catering to the world's gargling fetishists. I'll get right on it.
7:46 AM
This is a joke, right? I mean, New Orleans isn't really hosting an ass conference, is it? Or rather, an äss conference? Not that we ain't got some junk up our trunks, 'cause we do, baby. We do. [Thanks for the tip-off, Tyler.]
2:06 PM
 Southern men have this thing about their bodies. Or maybe it's American men in general. Or at least white men. Whatever: for certain segments of this country's male population, when it comes to clothes--particularly beach attire--hiding the goods is very important. It's not a modesty thing. Modesty is Muslim women taking the veil or Pentacostal gals wearing ankle-length skirts. Modesty is me buttoning up my shirt an extra notch when I go to see Jonno's grandmother. No, if Amerihonky beachwear was modesty-driven, it stands to reason that white men would cover up their beer guts and bare arms, too. As it is though, they're all-too-content to show off above the waistline. It's a macho thing, I guess. These guys wear big, baggy swimsuits to hide the fact that they're not well-endowed--or perhaps to hide the fact that they're very well endowed. They follow a set of implicit rules that men in the rest of the world never picked up on: "Don't draw attention to your crotch, buddy, 'cause I don't wanna start comparing. I don't even wanna look at it 'cause it makes me uncomfortable, looking at your schlong." Same thing goes for hiding the ass. Size-envy and homophobia, wrapped up in one sartorial package. That's why the Hispandex site has intrigued me for years. These guys--mostly Hispanic, but sometimes Eastern European, too--aren't shy about showing off. I get the feeling that in Puerto Rico or Moscow, finding an oversized pair of Jams would be nearly impossible: just racks and racks of Speedos. The thought of my family visiting such a beach or, conversely, a busload of these guys descending on the Mississippi Gulf Coast, is enough to make me squirm. In a good way.
7:22 AM
Poetryfagitis is a well-documented condition that commonly affects young males age 14 - 25. Despite my steadfast efforts to avoid that demographic at work, at play, and everywhere in-between, I have apparently contracted a mild but persistent case of the disease. Now, to the casual observer, I may appear the very picture of health. And in point of fact, I suffer from only one symptom: an unusual, nagging--nay, consuming--obsession with a fairly obscure poem by Charles Bukowski called "Party Girl" published alongside an interview of the poet (conducted by Mr. B's acolyte, Sean Penn) in the September 1987 issue of Interview magazine. I am well aware that a poem about party girls--much less one by macho asshole Bukowski--seems an unlikely object of fascination for someone afflicted with poetryfagitis. All I can say is that I originally read the piece long ago, during my semi-carefree fagolescence, so maybe it has sentimental value. Having suffered for weeks, I've come to the conclusion that the only way to cure myself is to dig up the poem, photocopy it or print it out, and post it on the bathroom mirror so I can read it every day. Unfortunately, it ain't that easy. There's very little of Bukowski's work online, leading me to believe that webgeeks love the occasional Byron/Keats/Shelley ode but look far less kindly on work written after 1900 (unless, of course, said geeks have written it themselves). Hard copies are hard to come by, too: generations of GloomBetties and GothBobs from Decatur Street to Avenue A have ravaged libraries in vain hope of following in Bukowski's allegedly reckless, booze-filled footsteps. Whatever shall I do? Starting next week, the checkout counters of 7-11s across America will feature empty pickle jars with Xeroxed pictures of me. Below will run the caption: "Poetryfagitis isn't pretty. Won't someone cut this queen a break?"
1:32 PM
Two Non-Contemporaries for One Very Gloomy Day
9:39 AM
Unless it's sex, death, or murder, I just don't have time for it. That didn't really hit me until night before last when I was talking to a friend about the basic divide in 20th century theatre [Ed. note: Yes, I am (a) dull, and (b) a theatre fag], which essentially comes down to Bertold Brecht vs. Antonin Artaud. And Brecht was all like, "Ach! I'm gonna turn up the lights in the theatre and talk directly to the audience so they'll know they're at a play and they can really think about the issues onstage instead of getting caught up in the emotional story. Ya?" And Artaud was all like, "Mon dieu! Dude, that is so not what theatre is about. I'm gonna create a terrifying, wordless spectacle with no logical narrative. I'm going to get at their gut, not their brain. Enculeur!" Now, I used to like the Brecht stuff. I used to think that sort of approach to art could create social change. [I know: whatever, right?] But one day I woke up and I said, "Damn, she's preachy, ain't she? Screw that condescending bitch!" So maybe it's intellectual laziness on my part. Maybe it's my unwillingness to really think about issues and things. Maybe it's my natural impatience, my inability to focus on complex arguments for too long and see all the nuances. But for whatever reason, I'm totally on the Artaud tip these days. I want to see news broadcasts full of death and destruction artlessly captured on fuzzy home video. I want to see ain't-life-grand sunny days turn suddenly black with gore. I want pornography that's pure animal rutting. Screw all this conceptual stuff: I want theatre and dance and photography and everything else to be sexy, painful, horrifying, sad. I want to be totally aroused or nauseous or dizzy or furious or some combination thereof. Tell me: is that too much to ask?!? . . . Whew. Sorry about that. I've seen too many Agnes Martins the past few days, and it's starting to get on my nerves.
9:20 AM
In case any of you missed it...
[Link courtesy of Elizabeth]
7:23 AM
 Lifeless bodies aren't usually what I'd call entertaining. I mean, corpses? Pretty depressing. Roadkill? A driving hazard. Stuffed animals? Good for luring sorority girls to their untimely deaths, but otherwise useless. Gonzo taxidermy experiments featuring Frankenstein-esque pastiches of formerly living things, however, can be damn funny. And a TV series featuring a family of mannequins--though not technically "lifeless"--is freaking hilarious. Or at least, it looks hilarious. Hell, I'd buy the damn thing. Today's sturtlewisdom: "One day in the monastery, a novice stumbled down a flight of stairs and landed in a pile of dirty chamberpots. In great pain, the novice looked up to see Master Lu standing above him, smiling. And the Master said, 'It is good to laugh with others, but far better to laugh at them.'"
7:21 AM
 At long last, some pics from New Year's Eve. There aren't as many as I'd like--Jonno took a couple before most people showed up, then put the camera aside until most everyone had gone--but whatevs. As for my attire, I was initially going for the whole "Miss Jane Hathaway Ornithological Expedition" thing, but due to a lack of planning on my part and the fact that someone seems to have misplaced our one and only set of binoculars, it came out looking more like "Normal Fell Porn Star Retiree." Not that I have anything against Norman Fell or retired porn stars mind you, but, well, you know....
11:49 AM
Today's post is brought to you by guest contributor, Mr. Steve. Hello, boys and girls! I'm Mr. Steve! Richard was feeling a little oogey-woogey this morning, so he asked me to step in and pen today's post! How exciting! Of course, I wouldn't wish illness on anyone--not even a certain b-level cabaret singer who stood me up twice last week--but I'm happy to have the chance to say hello and share some of my patented Mr. Steve Wisdom (seriously: patent pending!)! My topic for today is gym etiquette. Now, I know what some of you are thinking: "Mr. Steve, don't be such a fuddy-duddy! There's no need for gym etiquette! Gyms are where you're supposed to let it all hang out!" And that, my dears, is the problem. When I visit my local gymnatorium, I'm horrified by the fashion choices of my fellow health enthusiasts! The place is littered with with men in skimpy shorts straight from the pages of International Male, and they aren't wearing underwear! Honestly, if they were all to do one good headstand, I could glimpse the religion, creed, and national origin of everyone in the room! Please understand that Mr. Steve is in no way, shape, or form a P-R-U-D-E. I just think some things are best saved for the sauna! It's as though these men haven't learned the basic rules of drama--and since Mr. Steve attends a gay gym, you wouldn't expect that to be a problem! I can't say it enough, fellas: don't give away the goods up front! (Pun intended!) Let me caress you with my eyes from the Smith Machine. Give me the occasional "come hither" glance from the leg press. But don't get your ya-ya's out on the yoga mat! It's far too indelicate! Far too direct for the unforgiving fluorescent light of the weight room! Tease me! Play a delicate game of cat and mouse, until I follow you discreetly into the wet area of the locker room, taking surreptitious looks at your meaty manhood, crowned by its regal pelt! That's the way Fanny Brice would have done it--god rest her soul--and so should you! That is the way and the means of true revelation! Of course, there are some men who simply can't stand wearing undergarments. I fail to comprehend why such men can't wear beach culottes with built-in pouches to restrain their manly bulges, but if you are such a one--if you can't abide anything less than "going commando"--at least do us the favor of wiping up after yourself! I cannot tell you how many times I've come out of "child pose" only to find my nose and forehead matted with a thick layer of curly hairs of every imaginable shade! There is, of course, an exception to the underwear rule: my personal trainer, Jose. To the casual observer, Jose's passion for lycra shorts and skin-tight tank tops might seem shamelessly inappropriate to the point of sexual exhibitionism, but to those of us under his tutelage, he is an inspiration! When he spots us on the bench press, by god, yes, we will do as he says and lift that heavy, heavy bar one last time. We will do one more hamstring curl as his large, veiny hand rests on our buttocks, pinning us to the machine. We will eke out a final cable pull, as he stands directly behind us, his torso nuzzled against our back, his breath on our neck, his hands on our biceps, guiding us through the final motions of the rep. Hallelujah! His body is the land of milk and honey, and honey, we are so there! Well, that's all from Mr. Steve today! I hope to see you all the next time Richard visits death's door! Bye-bye now!
8:05 AM
Asked about the similarity of such prisons to the torture chambers once run by Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein, President Bush replied, "Well, we don't plan to release anyone from our prisons."
7:41 AM
I lied: I will draw upon my astounding auguring abilities to make a baker's dozen of prophecies for 2005. Or, in homie-speak, I'm gonna drop some crystal ball shit on yo' ass, bitches, so listen up:
10:07 AM
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