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10:34 AM
Attention journalists: I know what you're thinking. No, seriously: I know what you're thinking. You see, I possess many special powers. For example, I can install window-unit air-conditioners. I can blend eyeshadow, making a smooth gradient that runs from the crease of my eyelid to just below my eyebrow. But perhaps best of all, I am journalistically clairvoyant--that is, I can accurately predict, to within a phoneme or two, the exact report that you will file on any given story. Using this last power, I've glimpsed the report you intend to file from the streets of New Orleans next Tuesday morning, and let me just say, it sucks. In fact, it's so full of inaccuracies and half-truths that I've taken the liberty of rewriting it--leaving a little room for your personal tastes to shine through, of course. It's still got that canned, cheesy tone you blondined broadcasters love so much, but it's far less likely to get you pummeled by the locals hanging out just behind your left shoulder in the hopes of getting glimpsed on national TV. So grab a bloody Mary, fill in the blanks, and laissez the cameras roulez.
I know, I know. You can thank me later....
6:56 AM
Given that his administration has actively encouraged Americans to worry about security for the past four-and-a-half years--even creating a huge, ineffective, bureaucratic empire called the Department of Homeland Security to drive the point home--I can only assume y'all see some irony here, too.
2:50 PM
Courtesy of my dear friend, Sister Reyna Terror, here's a short list of affectionate nicknames for the City Too Scrappy Not to Love: 1) Fema Town 2) Stinkoville 3) Land O' Fun 4) Hell's Toolshed 5) Moldberg 6) Death's Little Cottage By the Sea 7) City of Litter & Onions 8) God's Used Tampon 9) Village of Crazy Hope 10) Land of Opportunity 11) Ti-Jean's Junk & Bait Shop 12) Place de Toits Bleus 13) Stadt der Angst 14) Land of Joy, Gold, and Candy...um...and Money 15) Boîte d'Enfer 16) Hotel Purgatario 17) Hobotown and last but not least, 18) Newer Orleans Says Rayna: "This is what happens when I lose three straight games of paperclip tennis. Playing myself."
7:42 AM
To the Atlanta queen in the Lexus who just cruised me not once, not twice, but thrice in the course of my two-block walk to the local deli: What is wrong with you? Okay, first of all, you're in the business district, and it's noon. This is not the backside of the Quarter, this is not the corner of St. Louis and Burgundy at 3am. This is neither the time nor the place to be cruising for a quickie. It's beyond gauche, sweetie, it's just plain weird--like trying to place a to-go order at Commander's Palace.
Second, I'm in business clothes. I'm wearing a tie, for chrissakes. Not that tie-wearers aren't occasionally up for a bit of fun. And not that suits and ties and sock garters aren't among my personal fetishes. But for future reference, you'd probably have better luck cruising guys who dress like Kevin Federline. Third, I've been sick for the past two days with some kinda stomach crud, and I'm functioning at only about 75% or my usual capacity. Did you not notice my glazed eyes, or my unsteady walk, or the way I kept pinching the bridge of my nose in the hopes of holding my throbbing brain inside my head? I mean, under normal circumstances, I'd take your come-ons as compliments, but given that I'm pretty sure I look as awful as I feel, it's a tad creepy. Do you have some kind of Misery fetish? Fourth, a Lexus is a little highbrow and obvious for cruising. It just screams "corporate lease," and the thought of knocking boots in the company car, among laptops and sales brochures and Bob from Accounting's misplaced thermos, is a serious turn-off. Try something nondescript--a Civic, for example--or at least something generically faggoty like a Jeep. Fifth, if I didn't give you the eye on your first slow drive past me, what makes you think I'm gonna change my mind on your second or third time around the block? Such optimism is unseemly. Don't get me wrong: this doesn't mean I'm not thankful for the attention. At my advanced age, I consider myself lucky to get the occasional "Watch where you're goin', buddy!" Still, there's a fine line between "flirty passerby" and "potential psychopath," and baby, you crossed it.
12:30 PM
Recently, a friend o' mine asked me to write down some of my thoughts on Brokeback Mountain. Instead of an essay, I thought to myself, why not pen the sequel? After all, what successful movie doesn't have some kind of sequel in the works? Ultimately, however, that effort proved too long, so I went back and wrote something more appropriate. I still like my script though, so I thought I'd share it. If anyone wants to escort it from the page to the stage, as they say, you just let me know... BROKEBACK II: THE REUNION (In New York, at the Roxy, circa 1990. Go-go boys, thumping music. Supermodels Linda Evangelista and Tatjana Patitz are canoodling on a swing over the dance floor. Camera pans to the VIP room in the back. We see ENNIS sitting on a Wedgwood-blue sofa, wearing some vaguely ludicrous Gaultier attire. He’s getting a lap dance from a very young man. A chorus of drag queens is chanting “Happy birthday! Take it off!” in time with the music. JACK quietly enters the room. Almost immediately, ENNIS notices him. He shoves the go-go boy to the floor and bolts to his feet. The DJ’s record scratches to a stop, and everyone in the place turns to look. You could hear a tab of ecstasy drop into a pile of cotton balls it’s so quiet.) ENNIS: (Softly, moving toward JACK) Jack? Jack Twist! You’re alive! JACK: Hell, yes, I’m alive! I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for nearly a goddamn decade to tell you. ENNIS: But...but how? JACK: Lureen made the whole thing up--all that shit about the tire and all. We'd done got a divorce, and she was as mad as an old wet hen. Wanted some revenge, I guess. ENNIS: Why, that cockgobbling bitch! …Hell, somebody pass us a coke spoon—we got some celebratin’ to do! JACK: Coke spoon? ENNIS: (Pulling a tiny spoon from a powder blue bag) Ain’t it divine? It ain't really meant for coke--it’s just one of them old saccharine spoons. Tiffany hadn’t made ‘em in years, but they minted a batch just for lil’ ol’ me! I gave ‘em out as Christmas presents. You want one? JACK: No, thanks. ENNIS: I could have it engraved! I know the best little ol' jewelry shop on 47th Street. They got a staff of nothing but pygmies from the rainforest—-smallest hands in the world, I kid you not! JACK: I said no, thanks. ENNIS: (Turning to the nearest drag queen) Esmerelda, please grab Jack a campari and soda--hold the twist! (Hugs JACK) Oh, I crack myself up! Now run along, dear, and bring it to stall number three—it’s my birthday wish, so you can't refuse me! (Squinting toward the DJ booth) Go ahead, Kenny dear. Play on! (Music picks up where it left off. ENNIS drags JACK to the men’s bathroom. They cut to the front of the line, ENNIS pounds on the door of stall number three. Sandra Bernhard and Ingrid Casares emerge, swigging orange juice and laughing uncontrollably. They air-kiss ENNIS. JACK and ENNIS enter the stall, and ENNIS locks the door behind them.) ENNIS: (Rummaging in his Issey Miyake handbag) Now give me just a second, I need to touch up my face. Old gray mare ain’t what she used to be… JACK: Ennis… What the hell done happened to you? ENNIS: (ENNIS bristles. Pause.) I turned fifty. So did you, might I add. (Holding JACK’s face up to the light) Ugh! Darling, be honest with me: you've never used a drop of moisturizer, have you? (Not waiting for an answer) You simply have to try this new eye gel from Princess Marcella Borghese—don’t you just love saying that? Say it real fast with me: Marcella Borghese! Marcella Borghese! Marcella Borghese! JACK: Stop it, Ennis! ENNIS: Hush! (Peeks over top of stall) I’m known as DJ Superstar Laff-a-Lympics now. You'll ruin my cred! JACK: Look what you’ve turned into…. ENNIS: (Cutting JACK off before he can finish the insult) A fabulous creature of the night? Well, thank you, sweetie.... (Pulling out a compact, powdering his nose. Pause.) You know, it wasn't easy for me.... After you died--I'm sorry: allegedly died--I kinda went off the deep end. I moved to Jackson, turned some tricks, and quickly became known as Jackson’s other hole. Before long, I became shallwesay especially friendly with a hideously wealthy rancher, who died a few years later, leaving me his estate outside Cheyenne, a home in Southampton, and a penthouse here in the city. I sold the Long Island place--Sally Jesse Raphael bought the house next door, and try as I might, I just couldn’t bear the thought of her tottering over at all hours, asking to borrow a cup of catsup for one of her infamous late-night sandwiches. For five or six years now, I’ve lived exclusively in the city, and I must say, I’ve done rather well for myself, don't you think? (Leans in to kiss JACK). JACK: Except now you're a goddamn faggot. ENNIS: (Slowly pulling a cigarette from his bag) Funny but as I recall, you were always the one craving a nice hard cock up your ass. (Lights up, exhales) Or does memory cruelly deceive me? JACK: Look at you, with your drugs and your face powder and your eye gel and your Camp...uh, Campichi-- ENNIS: Campari. JACK: Whatever. And your go-go boys! You ain't nothin' but a bitter old queer! ENNIS: Maybe so, Jack, but you know what? Those drugs? They're paid for. The face powder is paid for. The eye gel and Campari are paid for. And yes, the go-go boy is paid for--quite dearly paid for, might I add, considering that I shouldn't have to pay for my own hustler on my own birthday.... And you? How are you doing, Jack? JACK: This ain't about me. ENNIS: Oh, I think it is, Jack. Because deep-down, you know that you're just like me. On the inside, anyway. You're an aging, bitter, useless queen, and you can't handle it, can you, honey? That's not to say we don't have our differences. (Fingering JACK's dime-store cowboy shirt) Clearly, we do. But we're more alike than you'd care to admit. (JACK doesn't say anything) ...Well, thank you so much for stopping by, Jack. It was the best birthday present I've had all day. Really, it was. We'll have to do it again sometime. I'll have that spoon ready by then--promise! Now I have to get back to the party, but you take all the time you need, sugar--all the time you need. (ENNIS tosses his cigarette in the toilet) Smoking is such a nasty habit, don't you think? But then, all the best habits are.... Ta-ta! (ENNIS exits the stall, air-kissing half a dozen people on his way back to the VIP room. JACK sits on the toilet, head in hands, as someone in the next stall shoves an appendage through a gloryhole. Fade out.)
7:35 AM
ON MY MIND 1. Tragic national disaster? Check. Significant ruination of beloved American city? Check. Vibrant cultural scene that has inspired thousands of artists over the past 300 years? Check. Hundreds of those artists from around the globe offering to help New Orleans rebuild? Check.... And the best king that Orpheus can round up is the forever-irrelevant Steven Seagal? 2. If you missed Wednesday night's screening of Hexing a Hurricane, not to worry: you can watch it from the comfort of your own Barcalounger very early on March 3rd (details and interview with the filmmaker here). Frankly, it's the only piece I've seen about "The Incident" that I'd feel comfortable sending to people outside New Orleans. It's authentic and hopeful and articulate and persuasive and a bunch of other stuff that Andy Cooper--cute though he may be--just can't muster. 3. Of all the crazy good shows that have gone on in recent months and are scheduled for the next few, I can personally guarantee that none will match the sheer 9th Ward (that's Upper 9th, y'all) debauchery of the Lundi Gras party with Mr. "Organ Grinder on a Mission" Quintron and butch/femme electroclash dyke-otomy Peaches. Tickets are apparently going, like, way fast.
3:34 PM
I'm still busy. For the time being, why not amuse yourself with Jonno's photos from the Krewe du Vieux parade last Saturday night? Or, if you're the angst-ridden sort, perhaps you'd prefer to peruse the New York Times' latest assortment of curious Katrina documents? Laugh or upchuck: it's your choice.
4:06 PM
Yes, I've been extremely quiet this week. Like many people in New Orleans right now, my metaphorical sisters and I have been busy doing it for ourselves. (Note: that's the first and only time you'll see Annie Lenox quoted here.) Until I resurface, why don't you amuse yourself with the genius new "Birds" clip over at Pleix? Ça m'amuse énormément.
9:47 AM
Okay, I don't wanna hear any more bitching and moaning about "Oh, what's going on down in New Orleans? Why don't they have a plan for rebuilding yet?", because four-and-a-half years after the fact, New York is just now getting around to rebuilding Ground Zero. And, yeah, I know that September 11 and Hurricane Katrina were vastly different events affecting vastly different cities, and I don't wanna get into a Battle of the National Tradgedies or anything, but c'mon: don't give New Orleans grief about rebuilding dozens of square miles when New York hasn't even pulled together a plan for a couple of city blocks.
1:44 PM
Having endured two nights of insomnia and now truly unable to think straight (ahem), today I'm enlisting the aid of a guest poster: a wacky, lovable Close Personal Friend whose caffiene addiction is almost as gnarly as my own (note the internal dialogues). He wrote this the other day in response to my Big Easy/Big Apple bits, and I'd been meaning to post it anyway, so, well, here 'tis. Meanwhile, I'm gonna try to catch some disco winks in advance of tonight's Radical Faerie/St. Brigid Ball. See you there--and save a chicken dance for me....
11:48 AM
We interrupt your normal whiny, bitchy, queentastic weblog for a bit of good old-fashioned star-buggery: Former New Orleanian Wash West has made a double-play at the Sundance Film Festival, winning both the Grand Jury Prize and the Audience Award in the Dramatic category for Quinceañera, a film he co-wrote and co-directed with his boyfriend, Richard Glatzer! Though born across the pond in Leeds, Wash got his professional start here in the Marigny/Bywater, conceiving, writing, and filming the cult classic Squishy Does Porno, which had a terrifically insane and insanely glamorous premiere in 1995 at the Cine Royale, Canal Street's last full-on porn theater. (Sadly, the world may never see that combination of sequins, glitter, and M. C. Tracheotomy in a centaur costume again.) The video is out of print, but I've got copies, in case you're interested...
8:48 AM
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