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Saturday, September 30, 2006
Since work, theatre, home renovations, and dog duty still leave me at least an hour and a half of free time each day, I've started writing for GayGamer.net, a lovely little site about gay boys and their joysticks. For reasons that have not been made entirely clear to me, I've been asked to head up the movie section of the site (am I a film buff now?), and today, I made my first lovely little post. Yo, check it:
In a bid to prove once and for all that gay freaks are people, too, John Cameron Mitchell--better known to some of you as Hedwig--has at last given birth to a second filmic child: the highly anticipated, highly debated, not-yet-rated Shortbus. Generally described as a Robert Altman-meets-Chi Chi LaRue-esque story of love among the polymorphously perverse, Shortbus has generated lots of buzz for its mind-numbing amounts of nudity, but nearly everyone who's seen the film assures me that beyond all the naughty bits lies an engaging story of friendships and lives that intersect in meaningful ways. Why, it's a film for the whole family....
-- continue reading at GayGamer.net
Thursday, September 28, 2006
A couple of weeks ago, I found myself staying at a Hilton in Baton Rouge, bored out of my mind. The hotel wasn't officially open at the time, so it was lacking some finishing touches--notably wi-fi. Thinking that I'd be meeting and carousing until late, I didn't bother to bring a book or magazine or anything, so there I was at 9:00pm: my dinner engagement over and done, my lifeless laptop sitting beside me on the poly-cotton comforter, and nothing to watch on basic cable.
Then, I did the unthinkable: I opened the drawer of the nightstand, desperate for reading material. I expected to see a stack of cheap ecru stationery and a Gideon bible, but of course, since I was staying at a Hilton, the most prominent thing in the drawer was a glossy, paperback copy of Conrad Hilton's Be My Guest. I cracked open the virgin spine and dove in, but it proved to be such a craptacular self-love-fest (must run in the family) that I flung it to the far side of the room, opened the drawer again, and pulled out a forest-green Gideon bible.
Now, in case you can't tell, I'm not a bible person. I haven't willingly perused one of the damn things in years, if not decades. And of course, the bible I had in my lap was a King James Version, the dullest of the dull--certainly nothing I'd consider light reading before bed.
So instead of sinking further down the boredom spiral, I engaged in a round of bibliomancy, dropping the book on the bed and reading from where it fell open. And as fate would have it, it opened to one of the weirdest chapters in the bible: Judges 19.
Judges 19 starts out like a Monty Python script without a punchline: some guy's concubine sneaks out in the middle of the night and runs home to daddy. The guy goes to retrieve her, then winds up staying for several days at the dad's home because the dad keeps saying, "C'mon, just one more night...." Finally the guy grabs his ho and leaves. (Like I said, no punchline.) Then things get weird...
Heading home, the guy and the concubine stop for the night in Gibeah (bypassing the "city of the Jebusites", presumably because, like Homer Simpson, they don't believe in Jebus). Some old dude takes them in, and while they're all eating, a bunch of horndogs come a-knocking, demanding that the old guy hand over the traveler so they can "know" him. Just like in the story of Lot, the old guy denies their request, making a counter-offer of his virgin daughter. As generous as that might seem to you and me, the mob refuses. Apparently fed up and ready for bed, the traveler suddenly hurls his concubine to the slavering horde and locks the door shut behind her. Such a sweetie.
In a bisexual move worthy of Chi Chi LaRue's Big Switch #3: Bachelor Party, the mob is satisfied, going at the concubine like Bruce Villanch on a chic-o-stick. Finally, as dawn breaks, the crowd disperses, and the concubine crawls back to the old dude's house, collapsing on the doorstep, her fingers resting lightly the threshold like a bad soap opera death scene. The traveler gets up the next morning, finds her, and prods her to get up. She doesn't move, so he throws her on the back of his donkey; when he finally gets her home, he cuts her into twelve pieces and sends one to each tribe of Israel. Kinda like Old Testament fruit cake, I guess, but without the jelly bits.
Then, proof that the author of the chapter suffered from serious writer's block:
Everyone who saw this said, "Nothing like this has been done or seen from the day the Israelites came up from the land of Egypt to this day. Take note of it, and state what you propose to do."
Huh? "State what you propose to do?" You write yourself into a corner, and that's how you get out of it? ...Well, it'd never fly on the stage, that's all I've got to say.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, sums up my trip to Baton Rouge.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
New Orleans Police Department: Do Not Disturb
Criminals, cops and reporters all work odd hours -- usually. Last week, the chief spokesperson for NOPD admonished a reporter for waking her up "after normal business hours" -- with an email. While reporting on recent violent crimes in Bywater and Faubourg Marigny last Wednesday night, freelance journalist Allen Johnson Jr. received a call about a rumored barroom hold-up in Bywater shortly before 11 p.m. Johnson emailed Gambit Weekly editor Clancy DuBos at home around midnight to report the tip, and DuBos emailed Johnson shortly after 1 a.m. Thursday asking Johnson to confirm the report ASAP. Johnson then emailed Bambi Hall, director of public relations for NOPD, seeking confirmation of the reported hold-up. Hall responded by email at 8:37 a.m. Thursday with the following message: "While I don't mind fielding inquiries during normal business hours, your after-hours emails are quite intrusive while I am sleeping. If you could be mindful of that in the future, it would be greatly appreciated if you sent your requests between the hours of 7 a.m. and 9 p.m." DuBos said Gambit Weekly will try to encourage local drug dealers, burglars, thieves, murderers, rapists and armed robbers to confine their activities to "normal business hours" so that Ms. Hall is not disturbed by intrusive emails from reporters trying to do their jobs while she sleeps.
-- Gambit Weekly
So, apparently, Ms. Hall has:
a) delusions of grandeur;
b) a severe deficit of brain cells;
c) a thorough misunderstanding of "pull" information; or
d) a battery of 19th century torture devices attached to her person, all of which fire up when she receives new email.
Now, granted, the story might've been skewed a bit for Gambit readers, since Ms. Hall was criticizing a Gambit writer. But then again, maybe she's just dumb.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Well, it sounds pretty lame to me, but I figure someone around here might be willing to swear an afternoon's allegiance to the evil Benson empire in exchange for U2 tickets:
Friday, September 08, 2006
Yes, ladies and gentlemen: we open tonight. With any luck at all, the headline of our review will read something like, "Hate Crimes Have Never Been So Hilarious!"
C'mon down and join us, why don'cha?
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Over the centuries, New Orleans has been on many lists. Most unlikely cities. Busiest tourist destinations. Best place to catch yellow fever. And recently, places that persevere, even with idiots for mayors.
Well, today New Orleans popped up on another list--a good list, in fact. We only just made it, and we're probably hanging on by our last press-on nail (purchased at Rainbow Fashions on Canal Street before You-Know-What), but who cares? We're on it: the list of America's Smartest Cities.
Conspicuously absent: Houston, Dallas, Chicago, and the entire state of Florida.
I'm just sayin'.
Monday, September 04, 2006
Although the sky was clear and the humidity shockingly low, I spent most of Sunday indoors, working on our upcoming show. Luckily, the boyfriend not only attended the Southern Decadence festivities, but he did so with camera in hand. Have a look-see.
Friday, September 01, 2006
At this time of year, I'm usually roaming the aisles of Robert's Supermarket, stocking up on food, water, Purple Haze, and other necessities. That's not for reasons of storm preparedness--I'm a grade-A procrastinator as far as that's concerned. No, I stock up so I can barricade myself in our makeshift panic room (i.e. a bedroom equipped with an Xbox) and hide from the homosexual hordes that invade our fair city much as Ghengis Khan's motley crew stormed Samarkand--only Miss Khan probably smelled better. And she'd never be caught in aquamarine hot pants.
This year, however, is different. This year, Southern Decadence is a homecoming, of sorts. This year, we have an excuse to celebrate (as if we ever need one). And frankly, after 12+ months without many tourists, I'm kinda looking forward to yelling at idiots at once again. Besides, there aren't any Robert's to roam, anyway--at least not in my 'hood.
That's not to say I'm gonna be all slung up in the middle of the Fruit Loop, shakin' my money-maker with my gay brethren from Atlantahoustondallas. That's not even to say I'm gonna set foot on the street. But when Greg and his longtime boyfriend Xavier start a screaming match at 3:00am in front of my house because Greg wants to bring home a hustler or because Xavier accidentally flushed the 'tina down the toilet, I may not yell quite so loudly for 'em to pipe down.
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