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Thursday, June 30, 2005
Meanwhile, on the homefront...
Harrah’s to unmask $15M nightclub
“We are going to start redefining night life in New Orleans,” said Harrah’s spokeswoman Sandie McNamara.
The casino hosted members of the press this afternoon for a preview of the club, which opens tomorrow evening at 6 p.m. Masquerade, which is in the former Jazz Court, is designed to be more of an attraction than a nightclub.... Male and female cocktail servers double as performers, slinging trays of drinks one minute and then sashaying to sing and dance on several small circular stages dotted around the club.
Harrah’s calls the concept “bevertainment.”
-- Biz New Orleans
By "redefining," Harrah's apparently means adding new words to the hideously inflated dictionary of marketing.
Bevertainment? Seriously, people: that's the worst neologism since "appeteaser"--though it's still not quite as bad as "cheesoning".
On the upside, maybe the club'll draw some of the vile frat rats out of the gutters of Bourbon Street (where the entertainment is definitely of the "beavertainment" variety) and across Canal. Then, all we'll need is one well-placed explosive device....
So apparently, my friend was wrong. According to several of you--whom I'm trusting with the same blind faith I used to place in my alleged friend--the ending of War of the Worlds is, and I quote, "textbook Wells." Which doesn't make Stevie any less schmaltzy or Tom Cruise, PhD any less psychotic; it simply means that their tendencies cancelled one-another out, and they managed to create an engaging bit of big screen entertainment. This time.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Hump-Day Tidbits
- Remember how I was talking about our little Valley of the Dolls fundraiser and encouraging y'all to come? Well, please don't. There's no more room at the inn, if you know what I'm sayin'. Wish us luck...
- Apart from the whole 2257 thing, today's major aggravations include Jenny McCarthy's unwarranted 16th minute; the pairing of my nemesis Bob Dylan and the Ebola of coffeehouses, Starbucks; and picking a silverware pattern for the feeding spoon of my best friend's new baby. I mean, I've always been partial to Buttercup, but what if little Lottie (love the name, right?) is more of a Francis I or--heaven forbid--Repousée?
- Out of the blue, someone sent me a link to this animation about the whole Social Security conflamma. After watching it, I think I'm more confused than ever, but then, that's the nature of the beast, n'est-ce pas? And besides, the colors are pretty.
- Little-known fact: I once had a date with Andrew Cunanan's roommate.
Friday, June 24, 2005
POTENTIAL SPOILER: WAR OF THE WORLDS
[consider yourself warned, bitch]
Maybe this is old news to everyone else, but to me, it's brand spanking new: last night a friend fed me some very disturbing dish about the upcoming Steven Spielberg/Tom Cruise lovefest otherwise known as War of the Worlds. Said friend--who works in the media and who, in less than 24 hours, was able to find and burn a copy of Patty Duke's gruesome, ill-conceived Valley of the Dolls album, so you know he's well-connected--informed me that la Spielberg had taken certain liberties with the story's conclusion. Specifically, the whole aliens vs. mankind, battle-to-the-death thing is gone, replaced by a dark comedy of miscommunication that reminds me of that episode of Three's Company where Jack overhears half of a telephone conversation in which Chrissy seems to be planning the extinction of mankind, but in reality she's just asking Janet if she'll help pull together a bake sale for the local leper colony.
So anyway, near the end of the film, the aliens apparently start communicating with the humans, and they're all, like, "Omigod! We are, like, so totally sorry about all that noise and destruction and death and stuff. It's just that, you know, your atmosphere is different than what we're used to, and we got a little freaked out. Kinda like, high, you know...." They go on to explain that they were recently booted off their home planet, and they're really just looking for somewhere else to settle. Then, everyone walks off, hand-in-hand (or whatever kind of extremities these outer space varmints have), toward the battle-scarred-but-rebuildable horizon. So, basically, it's an hour and 56 minutes worth of Dakota Fanning, Tom Cruise, and endless rounds of "Kum-By-freaking-Ya."
If my friend's right, I'm starting a collection to take out a hit on Stevie. (PayPal can handle that, right?) I mean, Schindler's List was bad enough, but stoned alien retirees...?
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Um, is anyone else a little concerned that Bush's ratings slump might encourage him to shift gears and focus on something that'll re-galvanize his base--say, a gay marriage amendment, perhaps?
Monday, June 20, 2005
It's gonna be pretty quiet here in sturtleville for the next few days. Between a three-day conference in Baton Rouge and rushing back to New Orleans every night to rehearse several different shows, I doubt I'm going to find much time to write. So in the meantime, do yourself a favor:
- Take half an hour or so and read what is perhaps the best short story ever written: Nicole Krauss' "The Last Words on Earth."
- If you live in or near New Orleans, make plans to join us at One Eyed Jacks next Wednesday, June 29, for a knock-down, drag-out (and I do mean drag) reading of Valley of the Dolls. It ought to be a real gas, as the kids say nowadays.
I'll see you later this week....
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Locker Room Trysts Bedevil Health Clubs
In other news...
- Green Cheese Theory of Moon Fails in Lab Tests
- Majority of Americans Like Sex, Survey Says
- Hydrogen, Oxygen, Merge, Form Water
- Obstetricians Confirm: Britney Not a Virgin
Seriously, honey: don't you think "bedevil" is going a bit far? I mean, why do you think homos (not this one, but some) have such a reputation for kickin' physiques? They slog through the first workout for the reward of the second. And gyms ain't about to crack down on the shenanigans too much--we represent too much of their clientele...
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
REFLECTIONS UPON FINALLY READING ABOUT 17 PAGES OF FIGHT CLUB,
INCLUDING A PLEASANTLY BRIEF BUT NEVERTHELESS CURIOUS
INTRODUCTION BY THE AUTHOR, AND SIMULTANEOUSLY TRYING TO WRITE
A PARODY OF THE HARDY BOYS AND NANCY DREW THAT INCORPORATES
ELEMENTS OF CLARE BOOTHE LUCE'S QUEER CLASSIC, THE WOMEN
"The first rule of Dandy Gelatine is that you don't talk about Dandy Gelatine."
These are the words I hear as I come to. Frank is saying them to no one in particular, which probably means they're intended for me.
I'm lying in the trunk of our convertible, hogtied, but with my arms and legs behind me. The rope is nylon, so it doesn't hurt, but the position is weird. I roll slightly to the right side, which is better. Frank pretends not to notice. He removes a cotton swab from a box hidden beneath the spare tire.
During the Inquisition, Spaniards would tie detainees' arms backwards, straight out behind them. Then they'd attach ropes to the prisoners' wrists and hoist them into the air. Turns out, that's a pretty effective way of getting information. Stubborn detainees were dropped a foot at a time. The pressure of the coracoid process grinding into the subscapularis was so intense that about half of the prisoners passed out before they could utter a single "Dios mio." Eventually, the Spaniards eliminated the practice because the data they extracted wasn't always reliable. People will say a lot of crazy things when their shoulder is being cracked open like a lobster claw.
Frank unscrews the cap from a brown glass bottle, holds the swab to the bottle's mouth, turns it upside down. He leans over me, folds my ear forward, dabs the cotton against my skin. I smell whiskey, though I'm not sure if it's coming from Frank or the swab. In fact, it's both. He presses the cotton into my neck, and it stings. Excess bourbon oozes down my neck where it mingles with sweat, getting sticky. Frank hisses in my ear:
"The second rule of Dandy Gelatine is that you don't talk about Dandy Gelatine."
For the moment, I'm content. Not comfortable, but content. It's almost like I dream it: Frank leaning over me, holding me.
Frank's muscular body blocks the sun from my eyes, and I see Nancy standing about ten feet away, examining a rhododendron with the Gorham Buttercup magnifying glass her mother bought her for her birthday. She won't even need to register when she gets married.
Nancy looks up from her sleuthing, glances at me with pity. And more: anger, jealousy, lust. But what she says when she opens her mouth is, "The Countess de Lave has been here. Those are her tracks. See? Only Bugattis have that kind of axle variation on a right turn."
Bullshit, like most of what Nancy says.
Frank is still leaning over me, but his hand is limp. He whispers, "I know, Joe. I know." I breathe him in one more time and he closes the trunk again.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Good news for all the huddled, lovelorn masses yearning to knock boots: I have it on good authority that you will find love on Flag Day.
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Some will argue that self-published novels are the height of vanity. Some will argue that self-published novels are just plain sad. Some will even go so far as to say that the worst literature ever written by human hands (if we are to believe that Suzanne Somers is human) has been of the self-published variety.
Some will, but not me.
I for one love the idea of gays writing. Writing is a wonderful distraction from the quotidian queer rigors of shopping for spandex square-cut shorts. Writing gives gay men the opportunity to employ the full range of the Phoenician alphabet, instead of merely limiting themselves to the letters E, G, and K. And of course, in penning gay romance novels with gay characters and gay sex, gays create strong, positive, virile, gay literary role models who are gay.
All I'm wondering is:
- 1. Are gay men really interested in romance?
- 2. If they are, where in holy hell will these two faggots find queens willing to read that crap?
Side note: You know the homo race has become boring and middlebrow when we show up on the sale rack at your local airport Waldenbooks.
Friday, June 10, 2005
With my current schedule--full of work, home improvements, three shows in production, and two in the works--it's rare that I'm inclined to post twice in one day, but David Brooks' opinion piece in yesterday's New York Times did the trick.
Read the damn thing for yourself. Go ahead, I'll wait.
. . .
See what I mean?
Now, despite my leftish tendencies, it's an established fact that I appreciate Mr. Brooks. I know he's technically a Republican, but he does a good bit of thinking for himself, and he seems perfectly comfortable veering away from the party line on occasion. This article, though...
I mean, yes, there are great things happening in the field of HIV/AIDS therapies, both in Africa and elsewhere. Yes, people are living longer than they'd ever thought possible. And yes, in the fifth paragraph from the end, Brooks dutifully includes the standard we're-not-out-of-the-woods-yet language, but that perfunctory caveat takes up a mere four sentences of the article.
The rest of the piece is filled with new-dawn assessments and silver-lining testimonials like, "For some, H.I.V. brings death.... For me, H.I.V. brought life into my home." But even that pablum pales in comparison to Brooks' egregiously neat and tidy conclusion: "Many [doctors in southern Africa] are backed by money from the President's Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief, finally doing the work they've always dreamed of doing. We could be on the verge of a recovery boom." For Brooks to paint such a thoroughly rosy picture, as though we've come completely out of the tunnel and around the bend, is naive. It's not only naive, it's offensive.
What Brooks skims over is the fact that only a tiny percentage of those needing assistance have access to it. He skims over the fact that current treaments are far from foolproof and that infection rates are not always falling. He skims over the fact that the Bush Administration's oft-lauded (well, by the Bush Administration) African AIDS initiative often imposes strictures that limit the ability of HIV/AIDS service organizations to work in other cultures.
Mr. Brooks, I know you're not a great intellectual--nor do you aspire to be. You'll never be a Frank Rich or a Thomas Friedman, and you're clearly comfortable with that. And honestly, I don't mind so much when you write your cutesy puff-pieces on New Orleans or New York or Italian cuisine. But please: the Book Report approach to AIDS is just plain wrong.
Okay, this is a poorly written story about far too many things--school prayer, school boards, media circuses--but the whole bit about Tangipahoa Parish as the epicenter of the biblical apocalypse is absolutely freaking priceless. I couldn't make this shit up if I tried, people:
The Tangipahoa Parish School System is the first system in the state to test a biometric fingerprint system that scans children's index fingers to credit their lunch accounts as they move through the cafeteria line, school system spokeswoman Cindy Benitez said.
School officials never asked for parents' permission to scan the fingerprints of their children, Suzie McGovern of Loranger told the board....
Before the meeting, McGovern and parent Janice Fairburn of Loranger acknowledged religious concerns about the scanners. The Book of Revelation talks of a "mark of the beast," which is a sign those people are damned. Some Christians believe that the fingerprint scanners are close to assigning their children a mark.
-- The Advocate
Does it really surprise anyone that Tangipahoa happens to be the home of Kentwood, Louisiana and, by extension, Britney Spears? I mean, if anyone's a candidate to assume the titles of "Mother of Harlots and Abominations of the Earth," it's Brit-Brit, right?
Thursday, June 09, 2005
So, Donald Wildmon wrote me this morning. Well, okay, he didn't write me personally. It was more of a mass email kind of thing, and frankly, I doubt he even wrote the letter himself. He probably got an assistant or intern to do it--but not the hanky-panky kind of intern, mind you. Even if Don had a working penis, I'm sure he's far too Republican to have sex with anyone other than his wife, mistress, or stepson.
Anyway, it seems Don wants me to write Kraft Foods and complain about its sponsorship of the upcoming Gay Games. He's already written the company himself and received a bitch-slap of a response from Mark Firestone, Kraft's Executive Vice President:
Diversity is more than a word many people like to say. At Kraft we truly respect all kinds of differences. And diversity is not a selective concept. By definition, it’s nothing if not inclusive. We respect diversity of ethnicity, gender, experience, background, personal style and yes, sexual orientation and gender identity. Recognizing, respecting and valuing these differences helps us be a more successful business and a workplace where all employees can realize their full potential. (Emphasis almost certainly la Wildmon's)
Below that quote, Don included a link to the letter he wants me to send, plus a link to some photos from the last Gay Games that offend his wee, beady eyes. Best of all--and of significant interest to many of Donnie's readers--each photo is tagged www.ChrisGeary.com, letting closeted gay Baptists around the globe know exactly where to find more cheesyhot gay smut, what with its half-naked men and implied erotic action and such.
So, why am I telling you this? Because I want you to do something, of course:
1. Write a nice note or place a phone call to Kraft and applaud their diversity policy. The digits are...
Roger K. Deromedi, CEO
Kraft Foods
3 Lakes Drive
Northfield, IL 60093
Primary Phone: 847 646 2000
Fax: 847 646 6005
E-Mail: rderomedi23@kraft.com
2. Contact Don Wildmon and thank him for starting your day with a photo of jiggly gay ass:
Donald E. Wildmon
American Family Association
P.O. Drawer 2440
Tupelo, MS 38803
Phone: 662 844 5036
Fax: 662 842 7798
Or drop him an email here
I sometimes wonder how Donnie finds the time to dig up all this stuff. Then again, having visited Tupelo numerous times, I suppose that once you tire of the lynchings, there's nothing to do there but surf for porn.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
I'm not sure whether the Louisiana legislature deserves a reaming, a reacharound, or some combination thereof. In a matter of days, they've demonstrated startlingly progressive ideals on the one hand, countered by disastrously misguided social policy on the other:
PANEL BACKS BAN ON BIAS IN STATE JOBS
Homosexual and bisexual state workers would win new employment protection under a bill approved by a House panel Tuesday despite charges that the measure is part of a political agenda promoted by homosexuals.
-- from The Advocate
REJECT BAN ON CONDOMS
It is difficult to understand how the Louisiana House of Representatives would eliminate, without discussion or debate, the state's cheapest activity to prevent a terminal and tragic but preventable disease [ed. note: not to mention unwanted pregnancies].
But that's what happened when lawmakers adopted an amendment to the state budget offered by Rep. Gary Beard, R-Baton Rouge. It forbids the Office of Public Health from using federal dollars to buy and distribute condoms.
-- also from The Advocate
So, did someone drop schizo germs in the Capitol Hill water supply? Did my super-secret mind-control ray finally start to work (at least on half of the House)? Or did all the real legislators high-tail it to Vegas for the week, leaving a horde of malfunctioning robot clones in their stead?
Then again, maybe this is just the legislature's way of saying, "Discriminating against homos in the workplace isn't cost-effective. We'll get the job done much faster if we simply help them kill themselves."
And BTW, no, I don't make a habit of reading The Advocate. I do, however, subscribe to the daily newsletter from the Coalition for Louisiana Progress. Perhaps you should, too.
Monday, June 06, 2005
Glimpsed in the window of the crazy woman who lives on the corner: today's proverb, scrawled in red crayon and Scotch Taped to a broken pane...
Old age and treachery will triumph over youth and skill.
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Contractors warn of impending cement shortage!
If they're really hard up, I can show 'em a dozen abandoned parking lots that are theirs for the asking.
Friday, June 03, 2005
In response to recent emails....
- I don't know how the Yoko Ono thing came up. Maybe she's been on my mind because our new housemate used to work for her, and I can't imagine the crap he had to put up with. Or maybe it's because I've recently had run-ins with screeching, needy, uninspired artists who've reminded me of her somehow. Or maybe it's because I've been secretly programmed to kill her. Who can say, really?
- If Matthew McConaughey is gay, he manages to keep it to himself. Although there was plenty of male eye-candy on the set the other day, Matty wasn't interested in anything but the ladies--and not, like, in the "Oooh, I love your sports bra" kinda way.
- Of course we're all going to see the Biloxi Little Theatre's production of Hedwig and the Angry Inch next weekend. It's an odd but distinctly right-on choice for the theatre, and it deserves some support. Plus, an insider tells me the show's damn good. We've got 14 in our party right now--anyone else wanna tag along?
Thursday, June 02, 2005
I have seen the future and it is crappy.
By "future," of course, I mean a new film being shot in New Orleans, and by "crappy" I mean not worth the 75 cents I just spent on some stale-ass vending machine pretzels.
Seriously: Matthew McConaughey, I don't understand your success. You're an overly tanned, long-in-the-tooth Ashton Kutcher. Given the abundance of younger, more talented stoners in H-wood, I can only assume that you keep getting work because you're hung like Milton Berle.
And what the hell are you doing in this milquetoast mishegas, little Miss Carrie Bradshaw? Come back to the five-and-dime, SJP, SJP. I mean, I'm sorry about the whole Joss Stone/Gap conflamma--I know it was a big pastel-colored blow to your ego--but now you're just being silly and self-destructive.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Let's get one thing straight: I do not hate Yoko Ono because of her music. I mean, yes, it's lamentable. Yes, it's laughable. But it's not her most grievous offense.
No, I hate Yoko Ono for her participation in one of the art world's worst movements: Fluxus. Fluxus was allegedly Dada for a new generation. On paper, it was free-wheeling, free-thinking, and free-spirited. But in reality, it was just untalented, stinky hippies making bad, sloppy art that museum preparators would grow to loathe. And Yoko Ono, not surprisingly, was the Fluxus poster girl. (Well, she would have been, if she'd gotten her act together and had posters made.)
So the next time you ask your mother or father or aunt or cousin to visit the museum with you and they respond "No, I've got better things to waste my money on than watching saggy-breasted women roll around in paint," you can thank Yoko. She and her cronies have ruined it for the rest of us.
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