Thursday, March 29, 2001

More search engine realness:

town whore homepage site
they really were looking for me!

free rikki lake porn
as if she'd be able to charge for it...

homosexual venus williams
what a wonderful idea!

fashion runways and drug
i had no idea that i had anything so glamorous on my lil' ol' homespun site.

mother son incest pic
maybe i shouldn't have posted that family album.

french maid latex
who's the lame-ass breeder who submitted this one? speak up, ya' tired piece--i know you're out there...

So yesterday I made another trip to my favorite Chinese food shack and received another dose of light-soul-radio nostalgia: anyone remember Gwen Guthrie's "Ain't Nothin' Goin' on but the Rent?" Well, I didn't either, 'till I heard the refrain "You got to have a J-O-B if you want to be with me..." Suddenly, it's 1989 and I'm at the Bourbon Pub at 4am, and the place is packed with holdovers from Sunday night tea-dance, and as soon as the dj plays the first few bars of the song, everyone rushes the dance floor, and the poppers come out, and the ethyl, and the song sounds like creepy old-skool disco, but none of us really care. We're just happy to have found a spot where we can be young and gay and appreciated.

* * *

In other news, does anyone really care that there's going to be a Big Brother 2? More to the point, did anyone watch the first one? If I'm going to get bogged down in realiTV, it'll be something marginally more-interesting, like Fox's ill-fated American High, which has been bought by PBS and recast in a slightly more erudite mold. I guess The 1900 House paid off...

Tuesday, March 27, 2001

Forgive me, eBay, for I have sinned...

I feel really bad. Well, kinda. I'm about to flake on an auction--first time ever.

See, Flynn and I were bidding on some electrical equipment, and we found some stuff at a reasonable price right before the auction was set to close, so we bid on it and we won. And okay, so the seller only listed money orders and cashier's checks as viable forms of payment--we figured he'd use PayPal, too. I mean, who doesn't?

Well, I start corresponding with the guy, and he's all, "no PayPal," and when I asked him if he'd be willing to do it via escrow just so we could check out the equipment before paying for it in full, he said he wasn't "down" with escrow.

No, really, I'm quoting: "I'm not down with escrow."

Of course, that makes me a little nervous: (a) he doesn't want to leave any sort of trail related to the sale of the documents, (b) he doesn't have much in the way of eBay feedback (and what little he has is from being a buyer), and (c) when I asked him a couple of questions about the equipment, he didn't sound too knowledgeable. Sounds to me like he's trying to fence some stuff....

So I think I'm going to flake on him. I know, it's pretty irresponsible, but hey, I've got better things to do that waste a couple hundred bucks on a hot sound board.

Monday, March 26, 2001

Saudi Arabia issues Islamic edict banning Pokemon. A Saudi official, speaking on condition of anonymity, says that the government hopes children will return to Islam's time-honored childhood traditions: zealous rage, female genital mutilation, and the decorative arts, including the creation of china, silverware, and cabbage-rose wallpaper.

But will I have my very own fatwa tomorrow? That's the question...

Friday, March 23, 2001

It's official. We're two weeks from opening night.

Let the frenzy begin!

Thursday, March 22, 2001

My, how the world sucks ass today--all because a bunch of nitwit, low-rent printers won't return my phone calls. I could provide a link to their company website, but I'll be nice. For the moment.

In other, far less frustrating news, the house is coming along well. The rewiring's done, the roofing will be finished tomorrow, and they hang the sheetrock on Friday and Saturday. After that, it's mostly piddly crap: painting the walls, sanding the floors and the stairs, installing the bathtub and the kitchen cabinets. Things are looking up.

And we got our houseguest for the weekend. I found out about his arrival too late to warn him, but for the rest of our soon-to-be visitors (you know who you are), might I suggest you bring: (a) walking shoes, (b) sunscreen, (c) clean linens, and (d) Extra-Strength Claritin (unless your allergies are somehow immune to the quadruple whammy of 1 cat, 2 dogs, 12,000 cubic feet of cigarette smoke, and innumerable mold spores)?

Three Bile-Inducing Character Traits

Incompetence
Inability to communicate
Inability to think for oneself

Three Reasons to Hate Macs

crash
CrasH
CRASH

Wednesday, March 21, 2001

Today's post courtesy of Mr. Christopher Durang:

Jane: (Talking to her therapist) A few days ago, I woke up and I heard this voice saying, "It wasn't enough."

Summers: Did you recognize the voice?

Jane: Not at first. But then it started to come back to me. When I was eight years old, someone brought me to a theatre with a lot of other children. We had come to see a production of Peter Pan. And I remember something seemed wrong with the whole production, odd things kept happening. Like when the children would fly, the ropes would keep breaking and the actors would come thumping to the ground and they'd have to be carried off by the stagehands. There seemed to be an unlimited supply of understudies to take the children's places, and then they'd fall to the ground. And then the crocodile that chases Captain Hook seemed to be a real crocodile, it wasn't an actor, and at one point it fell off the stage crushing several children in the front row.

Summers: What happened to the children?

Jane: Several understudies came and took their places in the audience. And from scene to scene Wendy seemed to get fatter and fatter until finally by the second act she was immobile and had to be moved with a cart.

Summers: Where does the voice fit in?

Jane: The voice belonged to the actress playing Peter Pan. You remember how in the second act Tinkerbell drinks some poison that Peter's about to drink, in order to save him? And then Peter turns to the audience and he says that Tinkerbell's going to die because not enough people believe in fairies, but that if everybody in the audience claps real hard to show that they do believe in fairies, then maybe Tinkerbell won't die. And so then all the children started to clap. We clapped very hard and very long. My palms hurt and even started to bleed I clapped so hard. Then suddenly the actress playing Peter Pan turned to the audience and she said, "That wasn't enough. You didn't clap hard enough. Tinkerbell's dead." Uh...well, and...and then everyone started to cry. The actress stalked offstage and refused to continue with the play, and they finally had to bring down the curtain. No one could see anything through all the tears, and the ushers had to come help the children up the aisles and out into the street. I don't think any of us were the same after that experience.

--excerpted from Durang's 'dentity Crisis

Tuesday, March 20, 2001

Actually, boyfriend, I've always thought Pizza Hut's argument was groundless. Not only does Papa John's use of the slogan "Better ingredients. Better pizza," avoid stating directly that its product is better than Pizza Hut's, but it's also a fairly straightforward example of "fluffing" (not to be confused with the other variety of fluffing). Fluffing is a commonplace, quite legal advertising practice, in which it's assumed that potential customers will understand you're bragging about your product. If I'm running a feline sterilization clinic, I can put out an ad that says "We're the best cat castrators in town!" and no one will really believe that there's quantitative or qualitative evidence to back up the claim.

Of course, the ads in which Pizza Hut is mentioned specifically...well, they're a little trickier. Still, the case is weak.

I can't believe I'm chatting about advertising and pizza franchises this early in the day.

In other news, Millsaps graduates might be interested to know that Lance Goss passed away last week. For the majority of you, the name won't ring the dimmest of bells, but for those of us who endured four (or more) long years in Jackson, Mississippi, Lance was a fixture of note. Lance had been at Millsaps since before my father was there. He ruled the theatre department with an iron fist and a pack of Carltons. He was also a quasi-closeted homosexual.

Lance cast me in my first play at Millsaps, Dark of the Moon, which was essentially the beginning of the end of my acting days. It was a dreadful experience, a dreadful play, a dreadful costume (Lance personally slit my hillbilly pants up to a height that would have made Barbi Benton blush). I barely saw him for the next two years.

I can't say I particularly liked the man. He had a fairly serene exterior, but underneath, there was a heap of bitterness. When I refused to wear the aforementioned costume--something that apparently no one had ever had the gall to do--he went into a snit and put me in long pants and didn't speak to me much for the run of the show. And when another prof in the department had the audacity to ask if he could direct Ibsen's Ghosts (Lance directed everything, even in the summer), the Lord thy Goss crumpled into a twisted ball of cane-wielding venom. Still, many people adored him, and for them, I'm sorry for the loss.

Goodbye, Lance. Maybe Broadway will make you a happier man in your next life.

Monday, March 19, 2001

I don't know why people suddenly think I'm some sort of club child. I mean, I admit I've always been, um...gregarious, but I'm hardly a regular on the nighttime scene. Anymore.

Nevertheless, people insist on approaching me with ideas for club nights as if I'm some kind of authority on the subject. Just this week, someone came to me with the idea of doing a gay night at an Uptown bar--one that typically draws a heavy cigar-and-cognac crowd, with the occasional batch of Tulane students mixed in for good measure. The owner of the place envisions small-scale circuit-type events. I, of course, think that's about as exciting as suet pudding.

I mean, is it just me, or is the idea of doing a "gay night" irrelevant these days? Okay, I know I'm speaking from a position of slight privilege, living in the gay ghetto, surrounded by normative, homogenizing queerness every goddamn day of my life, but still, I don't go to parties simply because they're being thrown by a bunch of 'mos. There has to be a draw--performance, cheap drinks, a unique atmosphere, something to get my ass out of the house.

Luckily, the resident dj and I think alike. Only thing is, we're having trouble thinking of acts and events beyond the first couple of parties. Maybe a good night of sleep would help.... But until that happens, perhaps you have some ideas you'd be willing to share?

Sunday, March 18, 2001

Well, I guess I won't have to carry out my threat. The only people who didn't show up this weekend really do shop at Sansabelt, and I guess there's no fun in spreading truth, now is there?

Seriously though, the performances went beautifully. Jonno was particularly good in the role of Eustace, which he played with eye-smudged, Edward Gorey-esque panache. All he had to do was sit at the front table and wave drunkenly to the crowd every so often when his wife (Kiki, the party's hostess) called out to him, but he did it ever so well.

In fact, everyone enjoyed it so much--audience and performers alike--that we're hoping to turn it into an ongoing series, with maybe two or three events a year. Hot damn.

And on top of that, we did well enough to cover nearly all our production costs for Camille. Not bad, considering how expensive wiglets and hoop skirts and maribou frippery can be....

And did I mention how incredibly gorgeous it is today? Life's grand.

Until tomorrow, that is. Sigh.

Friday, March 16, 2001

Yo, I'm serious: if you're in New Orleans and you aren't here this weekend...well, I don't know what I'll do. Perhaps I'll spead a rumor that you were too busy shopping at Sansabelt to attend.

Yes, missy, I play hard.

Thursday, March 15, 2001

Equations

small penis=big mouth

warmer weather=fewer panhandling gutterpunks on the streets=time to stock up on Pernod

Missy Misdemeanor Elliot's new diddy, "Get Your Freak On"=hottt

drink less=smoke less

eat less=smoke more

architectural drawings=clutter=fire hazard

stacks of unread magazines=no leisure time

artist awake=artist neurotic

Sturtle.com has moved to another hosting service. And I did the transfer all by my little ol' shrinkin' violet self--bully for me!

Yeah, I know, for some of you, it's just another DNS transfer, big friggin' deal, but for a techno idiot like myself, it's a real triumph. Humor me a little.

Wednesday, March 14, 2001

It's always the same thing: I tell myself, "If I can just make it through this week..." But of course, I never seem to catch up. There's always something holding me back--another press release, another unexpected bill, another pile of paperwork through which I have to sort.

For the longest time, I've maintained a degree of optimism about this, convincing myself that it's actually possible to get ahead of the game. That mindset, however, is wearing thin. I'm beginning to understand that being two steps behind is simply a way of life...

...Still, I wonder what would happen if I actually managed to pull it all together. What would I do with all that time?

• Write less.



• Read more.



• Work on my backhand (two-handed).



• Petition CBS to confine David Letterman to a nursing home. Forever. Cremate the bastard and sprinkle the ashes in the corners of the rec room.



• Rediscover the joy of taking photographs for myself.



• Take a vacation. A real one.



• File my taxes before August 15 (April 15 will never be an option).



• Floss.



• Sleep



• Explore the fascinating, ever-changing field of cosmetic surgery.



• Eat more fat.



• Wear more green.



• Visit each and every one of you.

Tuesday, March 13, 2001

Note to the person in search of gay nylon football shorts: we should talk.

Okay, so, like, two unrelated thoughts: (a) please notice the time stamp on this one--Hello? Insomnia calling, will you accept the charges?--and (b) does anyone remember seeing little cartoons on PBS--like filler when the station had a minute or two to spare? They were usually pretty creepy, kind of adult-themed. One of 'em I quoted below ("The masked man's a fag!"). It's a Lenny Bruce skit that was eventually animated--startlingly vulgar for Mississippi public television, now that I think about it. There also was a cartoon version of I Had a Hippopotamus. But my favorite was a sort of generic one about a kid who's having a very bad, no good dream and wakes up to realize that everything's fine, then walks out the front door of his house and plummets immediately to his death.

I only ask because, (a) these things make pretty strong impressions on young minds--kids expect Tex Avery, not Poppy Z. Brite, to be the guiding ideology behind their cartoons--and (b) these cartoons were typically so very out there that I can't help feeling I never saw them, that I made them up. Know what I mean?

These are the inane babblings of a lunatic at 4:41 AM.

Monday, March 12, 2001

Because I use frames, my site stats are wonky. When I check my referrals, for example, by and large the only one I get is the "index2.html" frameset page. But the few true refs I do get make it all worthwhile. Like the one I got via Google/Yahoo today--what I wouldn't give to know what was going on in that freak's mind:

"Man, those pics of Lucy Liu picking her nose got me revved up! Now all I need's a shot or two of Anna Kournikova smoking cigarettes, and I'm gonna spooge all over this crappy little eMachine.... Hmm, what's "sturtle.com"? I wonder if it's got any--hey, wait a minute! This guy's a 'mo! The masked man's a fag! The masked man's a fag! I've been lookin' at cakeboy porn! Dude, I am so outta here."

Three Haikus for a Monday

I am surrounded
by people who have never heard
the word "deadline."

Shockwave makes me angry--
another wall between me
and kitty porn.

These are the words
that describe me today:
tense, wired, dull, insincere.

Saturday, March 10, 2001

Mr. Schardt said he made two phone calls from the school after the shooting began. The first was to 911, the second to the CBS news affiliate in San Diego, KFMB. 'I wanted to let the news know," he said.

"I'm like, hey, there's a shooting at school. I'm watching right now."

He wasn't scared, he recalled later. "I wasn't thinking of anybody or anything. I was taking pictures."

I don't want to be all touchy-feely and Helen Lovejoy-"What's happening to our children?!", but does the tone of this article seem strange to anyone else? I mean, given the subject matter, you might think Ms. Rimer would have interviewed a few more students, maybe some of the parents--just to put the piece in context, give it some depth and resonance. But no.

Frankly, I'd like to know what the boy's classmates think of him. His comments about wanting to respect the feelings of the victims' families seem remarkably hollow. Why is the kid even interesting? 'Cause he had the presence of mind to pick up a camera? Okay, maybe that's worth something, but a full write-up in the Times--a write-up that seems completely ignorant of the ironies of the situation?

Sloppy journalism, slow news day.

Friday, March 09, 2001

Too busy. Entertain yourselves...

E. F. Benson: 1, 2

Remedios Varo: 1, 2

Ephemera: 1, 2

Media: 1, 2

Dilly-dallying: 1, 2

Thursday, March 08, 2001

Bad news: The biggest grant proposal I've ever submitted--327 pages with a $975,000 ask--was just turned down. We made a very strong case, and the foundation reps came down for two--count 'em, two--site visits. I've been on pins and needles for the past month awaiting the decision. It came today while I was at lunch.

Good news: I just conceived the most fabulous drag number in the known universe. I've been hearing this song from this album twice a day, every day, for the past month. Suddenly, as I was driving back from picking up glossies from the worst photo shoot ever, an image fell into place. Now all I need are two kimonos, one large inner tube, five overripe watermelons, and a very large dropcloth. Oh, and a place to perform it.

Amazing how little it takes to cheer me up.

The words of Lucia keep ringing in my head: "It is only busy people who have time for everything."

Small solace as I find myself in a constant state of multi-tasking.

Wednesday, March 07, 2001

Such an interesting day:

Laying out a postcard for people who teach Quark for a living but can't design worth crap. (No, I'm not much better, but at least my crap's still warm).

Having countless conversations with the contractor, the mortgage/refinancing agent, and the insurance company. The house is coming along well (knock on wood).

Downloading anything and everything from Napster dated 1950 or earlier (the karaoke versions).

Downloading 99 Red Balloons (the karaoke version), just for the halibut.

Seething, dozing, yakking, futzing, and condescending, in equal measure.

So pedestrian.

Tuesday, March 06, 2001

I'm just getting around to catching up on my Squishy reading. (Hey, I took Mardi Gras week off. Mostly.) Her tale of a trip to Houston sounds frighteningly like the trip Jonno and I recently took to NYC. With fewer cigarettes and more amaretto sours.

Last night I met a man whose life was exactly as he'd envisioned it as a sixth grader. He was a doctor, a former professional football player, and a well-respected, RSC-trained actor. When he worked, it was because he wanted to, not because he needed to. And for 75, he was humpalicious.

Then I woke up.

How many people's lives have really turned out like they thought? I mean, when you daydreamt back in Mrs. Monahan's handwriting class, what did you think you were going to be thirty years down the line? A lawyer? A baseball hero? A binge-drinking, chain-smoking whore? If you're anything like me, the current version of You is light years away from the first draft.

Or so I thought. Then I began sifting through dim recollections of my single-digit years, and I gotta say, in some cases, my daydreams weren't too far off the mark. Here's a representative sample of my pre-teen visions of life after 21. They're in chronological order, rated on a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being the most accurate:

1.When I grow up I'll be a girl. >>> [5]
Yeah, it's a little-known fact, but as a young 'un--around five or so--I really wanted to be a girl when I got older. I don't know what I was thinking. Maybe it was all that "you can be anything you want to be", 1970s-era, feel-good, egalitarian crap. Or maybe a case of gender dysphoria. Whatever. I pictured myself running around with the girls in my class, kissing boys and doing all the things that girls do. In my vision, I was wearing a blue and white gingham dress--which, now that I think about it, was remarkably similar to the one worn by Judy You-Know-Who in The Wizard of You-Know-What. Damn I'm gay.

Almost thirty years later, I'm happy to report that despite biological barriers, I did manage to grow up and run around in gingham dresses, doing all the things that girls do (except menstruating, treating yeast infections, and worrying about vaginal dryness). I was also employed at America's favorite drag-themed restaurant. And I manage to kiss the occasional boy, too. Not so far off the mark after all...

2. When I grow up, I'll be a writer. >>> [10]
The shabbily genteel elementary school I attended had an awesome librarian who fed me Newbery and Caldecott award winners until I puked. I loved to read--it was much better than trying to feign interest in football--so naturally I assumed I'd be a writer in my later years (i.e. around now).

Today, I've come to the realization that I'm no novelist--not by a longshot--but I can manage the 800-1000 word essay now and then. And let's not forget those voluminous grant applications for which I'm so revered. And, well, I'm writing now, aren't I?

3. When I grow up, I'll be a teacher. >>> [8]
I tutored my buddy Kinney for a history exam back in fifth grade, and he aced it--he even got the bonus point. That single event proved to be the defining moment for the rest of my schooldays. From that point on, I was hooked; I was bound and determined to become a teacher.

Although I abandoned my Ph.D. program a couple of years back, I'm still an adjunct instructor at a local university, teaching kids about literature and critical reading and all that stuff. And I plan to go back to teaching full-time one day--when I can afford the cut in pay.

4. When I grow up, I'll be a professional gymnast. >>> [0]
As a kid I loved gymnastics. I liked the grace, the skill, and somewhere in there, I liked the sight of Kurt Thomas in spandex. My parents let me enroll in a program at the Y, secretly hoping I'd become less clumsy as time wore on.

I did fairly well, but unfortunately, the cards were stacked against me: I was the only boy in the class, and as if the ribbings I got from my schoolmates and the girls in the class weren't enough, the Y didn't have any men's equipment. I learned tumbling, vaulting, the balance beam (how humiliating), and trampoline (not even a real event!). Once I proved myself adept at baseball, I quickly moved on. Today, I still have my roundoff and a damn good one-handed cartweel, but that's about it.

5. When I grow up, I'll have a wife, two kids--a boy and a girl--and a beautiful house. >>> [9]
Today, I've got Jonno, our hounds--Kika (female) and Gaston (male)--and a house that will eventually be beautiful. Not bad, all-in-all.

How 'bout you?

Monday, March 05, 2001

Oh, almost forgot: someone finally authorized two photos for inclusion in the Fiend gallery (in the "pics" section to your left). Keep pestering him. Maybe he'll approve more....

Do you ever get that feeling--it's usually on Mondays--that you're moving too slowly, that your coffee isn't strong enough, that you're smoking too much, that for once in your life you should really try eating a balanced breakfast, that you should take a dozen people to the Ginger Man for drinks, that everything's happening at once?

Really? I don't.

Sunday, March 04, 2001

I am alive.

I am busy. Startlingly busy.

The weather is beautiful. Startlingly beautiful.

Many things are coming together in spectacular ways.

Side note: the show at the CAC was good, even though, in ways, it felt like many other shows I've seen there. The shotgun approach to contemporary art--"best new work" sort of events--never manages to convey enough context. And being a good Marxist, I really like context. Still, we got to see these and a couple of these. It could have been considerably worse.

Friday, March 02, 2001

Okay JB, I'm sure your pool's, like, pretty and all, but I seriously doubt that it's "full of intrigue". Unless, of course, there's a speakeasy located in an air pocket somewhere near the deep end, with a bar run by the ghosts of Mata Hari and Ethyl Rosenberg.... If that's the case, I wholeheartedly apoologize [sic].

"Full of intrigue." Another English major turned web designer, apparently.

Truisms for a Friday

1. Writing is fun. Writing for others is less fun. Writing for others under stringent deadlines is the least fun imaginable.

2. Cold, day-old coffee is still coffee.

3. Experimenting with fonts is a great way to waste time when the report's due in an hour.

4. Despite implications to the contrary, editors of English-language magazines are not always fluent in English.

5. There is never enough time to call everyone back in for another photo shoot.

6. Aging actresses have issues. Ignore them.

7. Fax machines lend a cachet of professionalism to the incompetent (e.g. "I can't find that press release you sent me. Can you fax over another?").

8. There comes a point when the artistic and moral satisfaction you receive from a job are outweighed by the realization that it pays shit.

9. Kit-Kat clocks are endlessly entertaining.

10. Postal employees have become nicer now that everyone's pointing the finger at 10th graders.

11. You are in a constant state of dicking over someone. Get over it.

12. Jokes about Suzanne Somers are almost never funny. Jokes about Suzanne Pleshette are typically hilarious.

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