Saturday, September 30, 2000
It's Gay Pride weekend in New Orleans. Nearly every other queer community on the planet holds Pride in June to commemorate the anniversary of the Stonewall Riots, but after years of following that plan, New Orleans' Pride organizers had become discouraged by the light crowds. They assumed the problem was the weather--June's not usually scorching, but it's not usually pleasant to be outside for long periods of time then either. So a couple of years ago, the Pride Committee moved the event to September/October (theoretically, to coincide with National Coming Out Day), assuming they'd have a larger turnout.
I think I can say they were mistaken.
Pride is held in Armstrong Park now, closer to the Fruit Loop--Ground Zero for gay bars and clubs. Spatially, it's bigger than it used to be when Pride was held at Washington Square in the Marigny, but the crowd's essentially the same size. And, of course, the gay parade still sucks--but to be fair, I guess it takes a lot to impress the New Orleanaise when it comes to parades.
So, anyway....
My first thought for the day is this: despite the fact that New Orleans has a long and colorful history as a homosexual haven, homosexuality doesn't mean much here, politically or socially. In New Orleans, the most significant factor in determining your social worth is how many generations your family's been here--and of course, bound up in that, how you rank economically. If you're of a certain class and you've got three or more generations worth of New Orleanians in your photo album, you hang with certain people; they may be gay, they may be straight, but what binds you together--the identity that galvanizes you--is class. It works the same for most other minorities--in the African American community, for example: the Honores, the Glapions, the Hazeurs, they know they sit high in the pecking order and they aren't afraid to let you know it, no matter who you are.
Second thought: homosexuality, when normative (e.g. on Eighth Avenue in New York, on Commercial Street in Provincetown, at the corner of Castro and 18th in San Francisco), is boring. It is herd-mentality incarnate, from the hackneyed political rhetoric to the rainbow shoelaces. Or maybe that's just me and my homosexual "got-to-be-different" gene, afraid of the fact that I've been totally assimilated... Yeah, that's probably it.
Final thought: tonight's episode of The Simpsons revolved around Mr. Burns long-lost son (played by Rodney Dangerfield). But that's not important. What's important is that it ended with a massive street party scene, with every citizen of Springfield dancing to Journey's "Anyway You Want It." It's a song I haven't heard much since it came out in 1980, and it brought back a creepy wave of nostalgia: bad-ass, long-haired, beer-swilling girls driving Buick Regals up and down the main drag of town with their excitingly redneck boyfriends; the first time I kissed another boy and the conflicting emotions I felt as my lips rubbed across the stubble of his adolescent beard; my constant search for homosex in my hometown and the simultaneous fear that I'd one day be outed--not to my parents or even the general public, but to my friends (I guess like most teens, my parents were at the bottom of my list of concerns). It made my stomach churn. In a bad way and a good way.
Pretty scattered today, huh?
Friday, September 29, 2000
Grrr.
Why "Grrr," you ask?
"Grrr" because it's 5:30am and I woke up about half an hour ago with my heart racing like I'd just run the 100-yard dash in world-record time and of course I can't go back to sleep, so I'm up and I'm not going to get to sleep again 'till at least midnight, the thought of which exhausts me.
"Grrr" because I've been working on a film festival and the projectionist just came by yesterday to test out his equipment and as it turns out the projection area is about 1/2 the size it should be and now I'm left scrambling either to find a new lens for the 16mm projector (about as likely as finding a set of eight matching absinthe spoons in the "ear" pattern in mint condition lying in a Tiffany-blue bag on my doorstep this very morning) or to move some of the screenings to a smaller venue.
"Grrr" because there are two houseflies circling my computer and I keep trying to spray them with the compressed air I use to dust my keyboard, hoping it'll freeze 'em just like that fly-nap stuff my friends used to use in biology class but of course, like most of my schemes, nothing interesting happens.
On the other hand...I finally located a scan of one of my favorite paintings. The one and only time I went to France, I was roaming the Musee d'Orsay (which hosts one of the world's largest collections of Victorian art) and I stumbled (almost literally--Victorian art can be painfully boring at times) into a gallery completely dominated by Jean Delville's The School of Plato, an outrageously lush painting of twelve scantily clad, sylphlike men, languidly lolling at the feet of an equally willowy Plato, who bore a striking resemblance to most modern depictions of Jesus Christ. It was weird because, like, (a) it was totally gay, (b) it was totally blasphemous, and (c) it was hanging in a major museum and was therefore validated as one of the premier pieces of Victorian art, like, ever. Which makes me pause and say, yo, Victoria, wassup wit' you and your obliquely lovesexy regime? Women were closing their eyes and thinking of England, but men got to pierce their dicks and lollygag half-nekkid with other men? Y'all was some freaks, indeed....
Anyway, I didn't have the chance to get a postcard of the piece, but I thought, no biggie, it's a major painting in a major museum--I'll find one eventually.
Wrong.
Either the painting's proven really difficult to reproduce, or (my guess) the museum's not quite ready to vaunt it as a prize collection piece, because it's an impossible-to-find image. It's not even featured in most of the Musee d'Orsay books and catalogues I've happened to come across. So when I found it the other day almost by accident, I was pleasantly surprised.
Wednesday, September 27, 2000
Around four o'clock this morning, Jonno and I parked my father's butter-yellow 1972 Mustang on the upper floor of a parking garage. I turned around to look for the elevator, and when I turned back, I saw a police officer arresting my boyfriend.
To my surprise (and yours, too, if you know Jonno), he was handling it quite well, chatting and joking with the officer. When I asked Jonno what had happened, he said that the officer had simply asked him how things were going, but when Jonno responded with a quote from Allistair Crowley, the officer knew something was suspicious and searched the car. There he found a couple of stems from a bud my boyfriend had been smoking, and that, ladies and germs, was all she wrote. My boyfriend was in cuffs and I started scrambling for a lawyer.
What struck me as the most odd--aside from Jonno's complacency--was the fact that a New Orleans Police Officer was abel to correctly identify a quote from Mr. Crowley. But before I had time to give it much thought, I awoke to find my boyfriend curled quietly beside me.
Then, at around 5:30, I found myself at my old elementary school, wandering the grounds and enjoying Mayday celebrations with my close personal friend Megan Mullally. We were discussing the school's desperate need for a paint job and the capital campaign they must be running to maintain the building.
I'm dreaming of capital campaigns. I think I've been a fundraiser too long. Any suggestions for new career choices?
Strange Dreams, indeed, Ms. Anderson.
Tuesday, September 26, 2000
The more I think about it, the stranger it seems: why should scent have such an overwhelming influence on memory? Something I see might occasionally remind me of something else, or the sound of an old song might bring to mind the friends I had when it first played, but smells... The memories I associate with the scent of hairspray or musty corridors or night-blooming jasmine can be really overwhelming. Almost knocks me down, at times.
Like the other day: I came home and it was moderately hot outside and the air conditioner in the living room hadn't been on and our house smelled exactly like my friend Ken's house did when I was 12 years old. A warm smell, not completely clean, but not filthy either. Fried food permeating every porous surface. It smelled like home--not really my home, but someone's.
Saturday, September 23, 2000
Scarier than Satan is right. For all three of you out there who've never seen Kiki and Herb in concert, this'll give you a taste of what to expect when you do (and you will, Mary).
The most interesting part for me is the fact that Justin's apparently been asked to teach a course in my old department at NYU (Performance Studies, not Performance Art, as he's quoted). I'd love to be a fly on the wall for that one: battle of the egomaniacal freaks is what that'll be. Having seen both Justin and the profs at NYU first-hand, I'm not placing any bets on who'll come out alive....
Wednesday, September 20, 2000
Our Director must have had really good sex this morning. She's practically singing. Rock on, gold dust woman....
Tuesday, September 19, 2000
Wah! Mommy make it stop! Can someone please turn off this internal clock thing before I single-handedly put Westclox out of business?
Maybe I can get a prescription for sleeping pills and get addicted to them like Hollywood bimbos of the 1950s. Or my mom.
The worst part of it all was that I was actually having a fairly entertaining--if exceedingly faggoty--dream: I was working at a summer theatre camp for high school kids, and I was directing the camp's production of Twelfth Night. All the kids who had auditioned for the play were really very good, but one of my old grad school profs (I guess he was running the camp, but I dunno) kept whining about how important it was for me to play the role of Orsino so I could "anchor" the show. (This prof, FYI, had a habit of casting himself in student productions, which irritated all of us to no end.) I adamantly refused.
So I had all these kids there and it was shaping up to be a great rehearsal and then I realized that two of my kids were kinda weird, but I couldn't put my finger on the actual problem. Then I saw that they were actually pie plates--walking, talking pie plates, but pie plates nonetheless.
That's when I woke up.
Sounds like the sort of scenario my boyfriend might whisper into my ear just to watch me squirm as I slept....
Sunday, September 17, 2000
For those of you who know him, this'll be funny: a snap of Eric Pelito in the NY Times. No, he's not the focus of the story--in fact, he rarely is. But he always seems to be loitering convienently nearby....
Saturday, September 16, 2000
As a child, I thought the worst possible career anyone could have was that of garbageman.
Then I grew older and I attended a liberal arts college, where it became apparent that garbagemen are doing really honest work, and that the worst possible career anyone could have is actually that of accountant.
But now I know several accountants--in fact, my fraternity big brother turned out to be a very good one--and I kinda like them. So I was left without a career to demonize.
Until today.
Today I decided that the worst possible career anyone can have is that of Halloween costume model. Don't believe me? Next time you go to Wal-Mart or the seasonal Halloween superstore, take a good look at that Rocky and Bullwinkle Natasha dress and matching wig. Look closely at the woman modeling the costume on front of the $40 package. Look deep into her eyes. See what I mean?
I'll bet if you held it to your ear, you could almost hear her whining in a thick, fresh-off-the-plane-from-Tennessee accent: "I thought this was supposed to be an A&F ad, y'all. They said I'd be working with the Brewer twins. Isn't that Bryce Webber guy supposed to be taking the pictures? Hell, y'all--now I ain't never gonna be famous like mama promised...."
Okay, so how do I turn off this internal alarm clock thingie?
Friday, September 15, 2000
Woo-hoooooo! Check the time stamp on this one, kids!
It's not insomnia this time--I've actually got a load of stuff to do this morning. But the scary thing isn't really the time of day; it's that even though I went to sleep around midnight, I didn't need an alarm clock to wake up at 5:30. It just happened. I guess it's a genetic defect. I may not be responsible to a fault, but my body is.
Fuck Bubbles: I'm hardcore.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.........
Thursday, September 14, 2000
I'm baaaaaack...
...back on my own computer, that is.
Reuinted and it feels so gooood.
On an unrelated note, Eric Orner makes me laugh:
To all the exceptionally kind, concerned individuals who've written me in the past few days (and even those who haven't):
Yes, I'm alright (said in the voice of that old woman at the end of "I Before E Except After C"). No, I'm not considering suicide.
I have, however, considered contracticide, adrepicide, and a general spree of idioticide (i.e. killing contractors, advertising reps, and idiots, respectively). I've also weighed the pros and cons of carrying out a city-wide water poisoning campaign specifically targeted at artists, including any graphic designer so completely consumed by the art/design of his work that he can't even consider the practical concerns of printing and mailing the damn thing. Of course, such folks might be covered under idioticide.
Basically, work's been hairier than usual these past couple of weeks, meaning my eyebags are a little more noticeable and my beard's a bit greyer. And my computer at home is still modem-less 'cause I haven't been able to get to CompUSA to score a new one yet (I hope to do so today). And to top it off, day before yesterday our server at work crashed big time; they estimate we'll probably be down for another week while they replace it.
However, there are quite a few bright spots in my life....
1. We're hiring a new person at work, and she'll be taking loads of work off my shoulders. Whew.
2. Jonno and I are working with some friends to produce a kick-ass show this October It's called Texas Chainsaw 90210, and it'll be playing through the end of the month at the glamorously tragic Audubon Hotel. The premise is pretty simple: take the cast of Beverly Hills 90210 and set them smack-dab in the middle of Texas Chainsaw Massacre--lots of camp, blood, and gore (viscera, not the Vice President). Locals and Halloween queens, join us if you can. We'll even supply you with garbage bags with which you can cover yourself, since things are gonna get messy....
3. The house, while not finished, is finally coming along at a reasonable pace. The plaster that needs to be replaced has been pulled down, and the sheetrocking process should begin late next week--as soon as we haul off the mounds and mounds of garbage that currently occupy most of the downstairs.
4. Most importantly, I have a loving and supportive boyfriend who'll entertain even my strangest whim--including a sudden hunger for bacon and bivalves....
--xo Richard
P.S. Happy birthday Sparky, Dante, and Matthew. Sorry I can't be there to hug and kiss each of you, but I'm sure there's someone up there who'll take on the extra responsibilities....
P.P.S. Don't look at the time stamp on this post. It's far too scary.
Tuesday, September 12, 2000
Dear Anyone:
Please shoot me now.
Cordially,
Richard
Sunday, September 10, 2000
My modem's not the only thing I'm whining about today...
Ten Random Kicks in the Rubber Parts
10. I'm hopped up on caffieine, ready to go, but my boyfriend's probably in bed for another six hours.
9. Anna Kournikova: can she even play tennis?
8. Anne Carlisle never amounted to much.
7. Kim Deal sold out. Watch a certain car commercial and you'll know what I'm talking about.
6. Needy artists. Wait, that's redundant....
5. I haven't been on a vacation in over a year.
4. There's no "graphic sex" option on The Sims.
3. Will Survivor just die? Please?
2. The seventh Spice Girl of the Apocalypse, Neve Campbell.
1. The term "club anthem."
On the other hand...
Ten Reasons for Living on Sunday, September 10, 2000
10. This coffee's fucking good, Mary!
9. Venus Williams and her family: an island of fierceness in the pale, pasty Meadowlands.
8. Liquid Sky has finally been released on DVD.
7. Haysi Fantayzee remains unexploited and fabulous.
6. Yoko Ono slouches closer toward death every day.
5. I'm going to two conventions in the coming months: Atlanta and New York. And I'm racking up vacation days for that trip to Istanbul with which I've been planning to surprise my boyfriend.... Surprise, boyfriend!
4. My severely short attention span has resulted in my gradual disinterest in video games (at least the ones I currently own).
3. One of the guys on Big Brother is a total hottie. A "hey-bro," but a hottie nonetheless....
2. The sixth Spice Girl of the Apocalypse, Billy Corgan, finally seems to have shut up.
1. New music rocks!
Saturday, September 09, 2000
Crap.
I think my modem's fried.
I'm not surprised, given the inordinate number of electrical storms we've been having lately--seriously, it's been like Cookie Monster at the Count's castle for the past week.
And I guess it's about time I replaced it. The poor things been kicking for at least two years, and it's taken one hell of a beating. (It's an external; I like to watch the lights.)
But still. Crap.
P.S. Today's English-is-orthographically-odd moment: when typing the word "lightning" above, it suddenly looked so strange to me, I had to look it up. It's fine now, but five seconds ago it was all jabberwocky and shit.
Friday, September 08, 2000
Well, thanks, Toby. You burst my bubble:
SuperGreg is nothing more than a publicity stunt by Lee jeans. They pushed
the site out about 4 months ago (email lists, search engine queeries), and
then they ran a commercial with SuperGreg on it racing Buddy Lee. You've
been had.
Indeed I have. (Take that any way you like.)
This morning someone asked me if I thought this guy was for real. I can't say for sure, but it looks a little too horrific to be faked. I mean, yeah, anybody could put together the bad pics and the Times Roman, but something about the airbrushed DJ stand just screams "Yo, I ain't frontin'."
Thursday, September 07, 2000
Some people apparently have nothing better to do with their waking hours than drive high school boys crazy (in a bad way, that is). Is he a freak or an idiot? Probably a little bit of both, but as we say down here: it's not the heat, it's the stupidity.
Of course, it has been pretty hot around here lately, and that can make people do some damn strange things. In fact, that's how one of my old theatre profs used to explain the antics of Shakespeare's Spaniards and Italians: he argued that they're all crazy as loons because they've got the Mediterranean sun beating down on their heads all day. Maybe that sounds silly if you're from Wisconsin, but for those of you residing south of the Mason-Dixon, I think you know what he was getting at.
Tuesday, September 05, 2000
Three Limericks for the Lunch Hour
New Orleans? Girl, my oh my.
I love it so much I could die.
But the summer heat--oh!--
Makes my nuts hang so low
That they stick to the back of my thigh.
New Orleans has a colorful past.
The locals are genteel, not crass.
But its tropical air
Makes summer hard to bear
'Cause there's sweat in the crack of my ass.
New Orleans is pretty and gay
(and yes, I mean "gay" in that way).
The queens come for frolics
And leave alcoholics
Then claim that we led them astray.
Um, so, if you were in New York and you were applying for the position of magazine editor-in-chief, wouldn't you assume that speaking reasonably fluent English would be part of the job description? Just curious...
Huzzah! Pics from the Southern Decadence festivities! (Such a speedy and efficient boyfriend have I....)
Sunday, September 03, 2000
Four Haikus for the Weekend
Southern Decadence:
My mouth tastes of cigarettes and absinthe
and sweat.
Houston Queens:
Leaving something to the imagination
is sexy.
Atlanta is pretty,
but apparently the men there
don't wear shirts.
Every year
friends come to town
wondering why they ever left this place.
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