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Friday, March 31, 2006
NOTES FOR A FRIDAY MORNING
1. I don't care how cute your ass is or what kind of neat tricks you can do with it: no self-respecting English-speaking homo is gonna nail you if you haven't bothered to spellcheck your allegedly badass blackletter back tattoo:
Can you make that out, folks? "End Racesm." That's what it says. In fact, that's what it says forever.
Now, I could give the guy the benefit of the doubt. Taking into account the giant fan on his wall, I could assume he's really Japanese--and since so many yankees are apparently wandering around with misspelled Japanese tattoos, I guess a reversal would be fair. Or I could assume that he really hates road racing (whatever that is). But I'm not the generous sort--today or any day--so I'm just gonna assume he's an idiot.
2. I know I said just the other day that I was all about Oblivion, but now I have two new, even better distractions: a videogame about Emily Dickinson (?!?), and Viva Piñata, a game in which, as my dear friend Jason says, "You play a piñata that can hunt and raise piñatas to create--guess what?--more piñatas."
3. Who knew that our new housemate had a blog? Furthermore, who knew that he was involved with Common Ground, one of the many grassroots groups in town to take part in the rebuilding of New Orleans? He seems like he's dealing with their respectable element--the healthcare side. Let's just hope he doesn't get involved with the subgroup protesting the partial closure of St. Augustine Church, 'cause most of those children--correction, out-of-town children--ought to be walloped into the middle of next week. And not in the good way.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Fasten your seatbelt, Mary: faggotry returns to One Eyed Jacks next Wednesday as our lil' ol' theatre company presents a staged reading of All About Eve, every homo's favorite bedtime story about bad girls getting exactly what they want.
When Flynn first floated the idea by me, I was tickled pink, but then I got a look at the script: 110+ freaking pages! My, how they did go on in those days.... Luckily we've been able to pare it down to 50, and the red pen hasn't stopped yet. Eventually I'll have it down to 15 syllables and a chorus of the chicken dance.
Side note: if you'd like to come--and I certainly hope you will--you might wanna get your tickets now, 'cause they're selling faster than Coty Airspun Powder at a crossdressers' convention.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
This is perhaps the only full-length photo of me and the boyfriend at the St. Anne parade. About two hours after this was taken, I hiked my nelly ass home, parked on the sofa, and got cozy with Peggy, Errol, and Henri as they narrated yet another Rex Ball.
But enough about that. Tell me, truthfully: does that bustle make my ass look fat?
Monday, March 27, 2006
Transcript of an Internal Monologue
That Took Place from 7:55pm to 9:00pm on Friday, March 24,
During a Performance of Medea at Tulane University
I am so looking forward to this. When was I here last? Dancing at Lughnasa? That was ages ago. I never thought I'd enjoy Irish theatre, but--omigod, look who it is! And over there! It's like old home week around here--and some homes are older than others....
Holy crap, sweetie! Did you get lost on your way to the hooker convention? What the hell were you thinking when you left the house? Seriously: with tits that big, there's no need to advertise.... I have a high threshold for raunch and sleaze, but somehow, you've managed to cross it.
Okay, there go the house lights--better shut up. I'm talking to you, booze breath, right in front of me. Try consuming the scotch after the show next time....
Hmmm, the shadow puppet thing is kinda interesting. Not sold on the alleged music, but I'm sure some undergrad put it together, so whatevs. Maybe it's what the alternative kids are listening to these days. Whatever happened to the Cocteau Twins? Did Liz Frasier just give up?
Damn, this is a serious blackout. That stage is awfully high--I hope they put down enough glowtape. Me, I'd fall right off, 'cause I have the worst night vision in the--oh, there we go.... They must be the chorus. Greek chorus, Kabuki style. Not exactly the most original thing I've ever seen, but I'll let it go.
Why are they shouting?
I can't believe it: they're still shouting.
Why. The. Hell. Are. They. Shouting?!? I thought this hotshot director was all about Suzuki method and crap, but you coulda fooled me. Where's the nuance? I mean, didn't he see War of the Worlds? Wasn't he paying attention?
Note to director: if you're gonna be all hardcore and angsty with people shouting and shit, you can't have actors with lateral lisps. Wendy from South Park as Greek chorus? Not effective. ... I can only hope that things get better once the action starts.
Medea in barbarian attire. Well, isn't that original? Still, she has an interesting look to her. Of course, that's probably more to do with her bone structure than--OMIGOD! Now, why is SHE shouting? Are they going to keep this up for the whole show?
What the hell is going on with the showgirl-in-a-wheelchair routine?
Okay, now they're just being ridiculous. Everyone is shouting. Is this some kind of a joke? Are we supposed to take them seriously? They don't even know what they're saying! They're like a bunch of Ethel Mermans, standing downstage center and belting tunes.... Someone needs to tell that schmuck of a director that just because he's really into body control and stuff doesn't mean he can skip the text of the play. The play is worth nothing if it doesn't tell me a goddamn story! ... And really: how can a play have a climax if all the actors start of screaming? Where can they possibly build to?
For goddess' sake, bitch: just kill the fucking children and ride off in your little dragon chariot. Now. Please.
I'm tempted to stand up and shout, "She's in the attic!", but I don't think many people would get the joke.
Oh, thank you. Thank you, goddess. It's over. Thank you. My eardrums couldn't take another minute. I hate each and every one of you on that stage. I mean, I understand you're undergrads and all, but at some point during the rehearsal process, one of you should have stood up and said, "This is a load of crap!" ...But of course, I hate your director even more.
Good, I'm not alone: I can tell from the post-show chatter that I'm not the only one who feels as though an hour has been stolen from my life. Where's the goddamn bar?
Friday, March 24, 2006
BLACK LIST FRIDAY
If you were to knock me out and lay me on a cadaver table and cut me into slices of even thickness like a holiday ham or a low-rent Damien Hirst art project--not that you would, but if you did--and you put me under a microscope, you'd find that I'm composed of the following elements, in order of prominence:
Oxygen: 61%
Carbon: 23%
Hydrogen: 10%
Wheat Thins: 2%
Beer (the good kind): 2%
Beer (the bad kind): 1%
Puppy dog tails: .5%
Sweetbreads: .3%
Magnesium, boron, germanium, and potting soil: trace
In the past 24 hours, however, something has shifted. You might almost say I'm suffering from a chemical imbalance (and you wouldn't be the first). Today, I consist of nearly 99% pure rage.
The good news is, that rage is [probably] not directed at you. The bad news is, I can't legally assassinate any of the folks to whom it is directed. I can, however, name names--or, since most of said folks are strangers to moi, I can offer reasonably detailed descriptions of them and their random acts of idiocy. I therefore give you the following list of people who must die immediately:
1. The woman in the silver dualie with New Jersey plates who was trying to parallel park the damn thing (a) in the Quarter (b) in a space six inches shorter than your average Geo Metro.
2. The big-boned secretary in the Hawaiian print blouse who lit a Virginia Slims Menthol 100 and stepped into traffic just as my light was turning green. (If the cancer doesn't kill you baby, I will. And quicker.)
3. The owner of The Darkroom. He knows why.
4. The blondined queen who cut in front of me at the deli and grabbed the last roast beef po-boy with pepper jack. (I, however, got the last Tab, which provided a modicum of consolation.)
5. The three leading mayoral candidates, each of whom said he'd attend my event last night and each of whom bailed. (I did, however, get Virginia Boulet and James Arey, both of whom are very nice, despite their, shall we say, longshot status.)
6. The three dumbasses from Texas who decided to block traffic on Royal Street during rush hour so they could unload a crappy Sanyo stereo and speakers into their new FEMA-sponsored digs. I mean, who has stereos anymore?
7. The hooker and john who were having a very animated discussion involving a broken beer bottle and allegations of the former's abuse of controlled substances--all while I was innocently attempting to navigate the sidewalk at 6pm last night.
Anything you can do to avenge my good name and my mental well-being would be thoroughly appreciated. I'm just sayin'.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
A friend of mine is what modern kids might call a techie--a hardcore techie, to put it plainly. And for Chriskwaanzukkah 2004, this friend gave me a totally hacked, flagrantly pimped-out, fully loaded Xbox.
This was a not a good thing. In fact, it was a very bad thing.
You see, Richard was not only a D&D junkie in junior high and high school, but he was also a big ol' freak for video games. And although he hasn't been too involved with them since college, when the aforementioned Xbox came along.... Well, like any addiction, it wasn't too hard to pick up the habit again.
Thus began my death sprial. Now, I'm going to pick up speed.
You see, for the last year, I've been playing this one particular RPG (I'm still not finished, folks!), and this month they're releasing the sequel. Unfortunately, it looks good. Depressingly, maddeningly good....
(Wiping sweat from forehead. Drumming fingers on desk.)
Aw, screw it. Who am I kidding? I'm ordering a 360 today and calling in sick for the month of April.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Not 15 minutes after I made yesterday's post about the state of my refrigerator, I got an email from my mom containing a bona fide recipe for spinach and cottage cheese casserole--which was followed a few minutes later by an email from my sister urging me to substitute ricotta for the cottage cheese. Who knew I had such practical people in my life?
Then I received an email from Renya, who recently found herself in a predicament similar to my own. Ever the industrious one, though, she took the bold step of penning a cookbook for folks like us....
And here they are: Recipes for the Domestically Distracted! Creative and easy dishes to prepare for the individual who forgets to care. Just look inside! Anything goes! Colorfully illustrated for the perpetually stoned!
Here's just a sample:
Apple & Light Bulb Salad Surprise
Ingredients: Apples (any kind), light bulb (one or more -- burned-out is okay)
1. Chop apples finely and add to medium-sized bowl.
2. Place light bulb(s) into paper lunch bag and break into pieces with several sharp taps of heavy spoon.
3. Empty paper lunch bag into bowl of finely chopped apples.
4. Add two tablespoons of mayonnaise (optional)
5. Stir briskly. [Ed. note: For added maudlin effect, watch Breaking the Waves, The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant, or anything of comparable suicide-inducing bleakness while stirring. Every so often, mutter, "Is this why I went to college? Is this what my life has become?"]
6. Enjoy!
* * * * *
Savory Peanut Butter Lasagna Snackers
(accompaniment with beverage of choice a must)
Ingredients: Half-box leftover lasagna pasta, peanut butter (any quantity), sugar (brown, white, or confectioners).
1. Snap each piece of lasagna pasta into as many 2x3-inch tabs as available quantity will yield.
2. Use existing peanut butter to coat each tab -- thickness of peanut butter layer may vary.
3. Sprinkle generously with variety of sugar available.
4. Enjoy!
Other favorites, such as Hearty Beer and Raisin Bran Medley, Zesty Paprika Eggs & Olives, and Stale Cheese and Friskies Bake are also highlighted in Recipes for the Domestically Distracted. Shop Amazon now to order your copy, and start learning to live with yourself!
Monday, March 20, 2006
Remember syllogisms from college? For those who didn't have the pleasure of taking Philosophy 101 (and I hope there are at least a few of you), syllogisms are exercises in deductive reasoning. As in:
1. Men play football.
2. Richard is a man.
3. Therefore, Richard plays football.
As you can see, syllogisms can lead you to draw a lot of crazy conclusions. Some, however, can be very accurate:
1. Dogs are messy.
2. I have four dogs.
3. Therefore, my house is a wreck.
Now, why don't you try your hand at it?
1. Jonno organizes trips to the supermarket.
2. Jonno has been gone for two-and-a-half weeks.
3. Therefore, _____________________________.
There are, of course, any number of valid responses, but if you said something along the lines of, "Therefore, Richard hasn't had a fridge that looked this desolate since that semester in college when he discovered [name illicit substance here]," you're correct.
Seriously people, I've just taken an inventory of the fridge, and I've been able to divide it into three basic food groups:
1. Beverages
2. Condiments
3. Spinach
You don't believe me? Check it:
I guess it's cool and all, being able to survive on Saltines and Sweet and Low for days on end, but I'll be very happy to see Jonno home again.
Friday, March 17, 2006
While I'm camped out in the City That FEMA Forgot, the boyfriend is kicking up his heels at every queer clambake along the western seaboard--including, most recently, the shockingly tame, tastefully dressed gay porn awards. The good news is, he's taken pictures. The bad news is, they're tragically demure and totally safe for work. Like, grandma safe. I'm as disappointed as you are....
Thursday, March 16, 2006
For anyone who was curious about the concert: yes, it was kickin'. I even jumped up and down to the beat--but of couse, I kinda had to if I wanted to see over the fat, fat girl who decided to climb up on the go-go box directly in front of me. (I was angry at first, but several bourbon-and-waters later, I mellowed.)
Here are a couple of pics, courtesy of my friend, Robert:
Nina Hagen performing on her 52nd birthday.
Richard, strangely oblivious to Cutie McSweetcheeks, the go-go boy.
(Who, as fate would have it, is a friend of the boyfriend.)
Not pictured: shots from the insane wedding reception held at the club the following night, featuring Japanese anime/punk icons Peelander-Z in a free concert to honor the newlyweds. Also not pictured: mom and dad of the bride rocking out onstage at same.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Call me naive, but I had no idea that New Orleans' newly arrived population of migrant workers was so thoroughly industrious.
Sure, sights like the one above have become commonplace now: gas stations teeming with groups of men, all waiting for work. Contractors come by in dualies and Suburbans, select a couple of go-getters, and drive them off to parts unknown.
(Side note: growing up, I received daily assurances from an uncommonly paranoid mother that I would be dismembered, shoved in Mason jars, and found under the footbridge at the municipal park if I were ever so foolhardy as to accept a ride from a stranger, so to me, this fly-by-night system of employment seems eerily unsafe. Sketchy at best. But then, I've got a 9-to-5 job and a roof over my head, so who am I to criticize anyone else's methods of getting work? And hey, compared to Anna Nicole Smith's shameless forays into self-promotion, these folks are pretty harmless.)
Today, however, as I was filling up my tank, one of these guys took a different approach. Instead of the usual, "You looking for help?" and such, this man--and he was, in fact, a man of at least middle age--asked, "You working today?" I nodded and smiled and looked back down at the gas pump, trying to bring the conversation to an abrupt conclusion. Then the guy dropped his voice a bit and asked, "You want to relax?" I looked up and found him sporting the single-most lecherous grin I've ever seen on a human being--and believe me, I've seen some lecherous looks. Despite the sizeable language barrier that separated us, the dude's intention was perfectly clear: he wanted to go back to my place, or a deserted alley, or a Port-O-Let, and exchange a little boot-knocking for cold, hard cash.
I passed.
The guy who drove up 15 seconds later, however, didn't. Before he had even switched off his car, my new friend dumped me like a bad check, sidled over to the new arrival, and boom: done deal. Here's a shot of them getting into the guy's Mercedes:
All of which makes things even more vexing and complicated for my poor lil' ol' peabrain. Like, in addition to being treated like dirt by hordes of shifty contractors, now these guys have to worry about Jeffrey Dahmer types, too?
Of course, the Sebastian Venables of New Orleans aren't entirely safe, either....
Friday, March 10, 2006
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it's true: after 20+ years of adulation, I'm finally getting my chance to see Nina Hagen perform live.
Nina, in case I don't get to meet you backstage tonight--although my friend who's producing the damn thing has more or less assured me that he'll introduce us if I, you know, perform a, um, favor for him--let me just say that I'm a huge fan. And all that stuff I said about your penchant for clairvoyant space aliens? I take it back. Well, kinda. I mean, it's a little kooky--and not in the healthy, eccentric, Diana Vreeland way. But whatever: if you wanna run your own psychic UFO hotline, that's your freaking Geschäft, I suppose. Boogie on down to the beat of your own drum machine, that's what I say.
On a related note, your web designer must be shot. Or perhaps defenestrated? Drawn and quartered? Tarred and feathered? Well, you're German--I'm sure you'll think of something....
Thursday, March 09, 2006
In response to yesterday's lament about being the only dick in the office, I got this from a close personal friend, who, as fate would have it, is also a homosexual among women. He, too, is tired of being asked to change lightbulbs and empty garbage cans and deal with rude customers, because, as he says...
I'm a big ol' FAGGITY-FAG-FAG-FAG!! Aggressive people make me all trembly and a-twitter! I don't want to go tell those Junior Latin Kings to get their aggressive, ready-to-kick-my-faggity-face-in feet off the table! If the 200-pound, big, stinky crazy man drops off to sleep in the Reference Room and is drooling on the almanac he's using as a pillow, then I say let sleeping whack-jobs lie! Don't expect me to move 'em, sistah! I'm busy touching up my mascara, and cutting out feltboard bears for storytime.
And another thing -- ALL MEN IN THE PUBLIC LIBRARY PROFESSION ARE FAGS! ALL OF US!! EVERY LAST LITTLE POKE-BONNETED, SAUSAGE-CURLED, NELLY-OLSEN ONE OF US!! Sure, we shave our heads and grow goatees, but that's just to appear like wise, monk-like functionaries of a dusty, papery deity with three searching eyes and the head of an owl. We're eunuchs, people! And any man in the library profession who takes issue with me and tells me that he's all man and that I'm all wet has only forced himself to forget the day he gave 'em up to the man with the cord and the scalpel. Me, I keep mine in an olive jar in the freezer. How about you, Mr. Vin Diesel in Cataloguing? Top drawer of the nightstand, sugah? In a sequined sachet? Next to your dog-eared paperback copy of Valley of the Dolls?
What's my point in this diatribe? To have it acknowledged at last that I am not a man. Not a taciturn, burly unit of muscle and dominance, willing to do security duty, tote boxes up and down stairs, climb up on a ladder to change a fluorescent light rod, nor haul away stacks of sooty newspapers. Nor yet am I a woman. As a gay librarian, I want it understood at last that I AM A LADY!!
All said in the manner of Lady Emily Howard, of course.
And yes, like all librarians, he drinks a lot of coffee. Does it show?
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
I am officially tired of getting stuck with all the P-jobs.
Several years ago, one of my co-workers made a list of all the little jobs around the office--jobs that aren't assigned to anyone in particular but which have to get done nonetheless: watering the plants, fixing the Xerox machine, setting up booze for special events, and so on. The miscellaneous stuff no one thinks about.
On one side of this list were the V-jobs (i.e. Vagina-jobs), and on the other side were--you guessed it--the P-jobs. We're a pretty laid back bunch, and we're none-too-PC, so we all thought it was kinda funny. Every so often, as an onerous task reared its head, someone would invoke his or her biological privilege (e.g. "Don't look at me! That's clearly a P-job!"), and we'd all have a good laugh.
Unfortunately, it is no longer a laughing matter.
Today, as I sat at my desk attempting to respond to a dozen emails and craft half a dozen grant applications--all of which are due in, like, a week--and going grayer every passing second, I heard a co-worker down the hall. She was moaning and cursing and sighing (not in the good way). Then I heard her all-too-familiar plaintive cry: "Richard! My mouse won't work!"
Ladies and gentlemen, it's 2006: who the hell doesn't know how to fix a goddamn mouse? Or open a bottle of wine? Or any number of things that involve crouching, lifting, and potentially getting schmutzed? I don't care that I'm the only guy in our five-person office; if I weren't here, surely one of them would figure out how to change the toner cartridges in the laser printer.
Of course, I know I'm partially to blame. I was raised in the Deep South by very traditional parents, and I'm a total softie to boot, so when someone asks me to do something--especially a woman--I'm usually more than happy to lend a hand. Now, however, I'm beginning to feel a bit used.
Maybe I should feign a dislocated shoulder for a couple of months. Anyone got a sling (not the fun kind)?
Sunday, March 05, 2006
So, the boyfriend's away for a month. We're thinking of it as a pseudo-vacation, although he'll be working the whole time he's gone. If there were a word comparable to "summering" and "wintering" to describe taking up temporary residence in spring ("springing" obviously doesn't cut it), that would be what he's doing.
You see, life in New Orleans requires a good bit of patience even in the best of times, and these, alas, are not the best of times. That's fine for me--I grew up in moderately large, moderately loud family, so I learned to play the waiting game--but the boyfriend.... Well, it's probably good for him to be somewhere with fully funcioning banks and bookstores and supermarkets and not so many FEMA workers who, six months later, still haven't mastered the concept of one-way streets.
As I drove Jonno to the airport on Friday afternoon, he cracked his window a bit, reached over and pushed in the cigarette lighter, pulled out a smoke, waited for the lighter to pop, and lit up. It was a perfect Proustian moment. Watching and hearing and smelling the whole process, I was zapped back to my childhood, piled into a maroon Oldsmobile diesel station wagon (this was before vans and, subsequently, SUVs became de rigeur) with mom, dad, my brothers, and dozens of paperbacks (I was an insatiable reader before college and grad school made books seem tedious), driving toward Disneyworld or Savannah or Gatlinburg or Dallas or wherever the parental units decided we ought to go on our family vacation. In the passenger's seat, mom would crack her window and pull out a Virginia Slim. Dad--a devout nonsmoker--would instinctively roll down his own a bit and sigh. Mom would push in the lighter and fiddle with the 8-track, then there'd be the pop and the scent of seared tobacco, sometimes accompanied by a little crackle as the cigarette lit. For reasons unknown to any of us, her nicotine cravings peaked when we were stuck in traffic on a blacktop road that was bubbling from the 95+ degree heat. The effect was stifling, but somehow comforting, too. I'm an avid secondhand smoker to this day.
That has nothing to do with anything, by the way--least of all Jonno leaving--but it's Sunday and nothing's happened yet except that one of the dogs puked in the kitchen, but I didn't think anyone would want to hear about that.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Maybe I'm partial 'cause we're related and stuff, but my sister's new video seriously rocks!
Fo' sho, fo' shiggity.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
For the three of you who expressed interest in my other thoughts on Brokeback Mountain, here ya go.
[NOTE: that linky-poo is, like, so totally Not Safe For Work. Not that you look like the sort of person who cares about such things. I'm just sayin', you know.]
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