Sorry I’ve been so quiet lately. I’ve rediscovered soda.

YAWN…mmm…mhmm….Huh? Omigod! Omigod, what time is it? What day is it? How long have I been asleep? A week?! An Earth week or, like, a Mercury week? Crap! A full week of my life–an important one, I might add–and I’ve slept through it all!

Why are you looking at me like that? Seriously, there must have been something in that bread pudding I had for lunch last Friday, ’cause the last thing I remember is leaving work and getting home and laying down on the bed for a little rest before dinner and…. Don’t arch your eyebrow in my direction. What? You don’t believe me? Well, honestly…. I thought you had more faith in me than that. I mean, really.

Okay, I admit it: I’m fibbin’. Not that you couldn’t tell. Those of you who know me know good and damn well I have a hard time sleeping past sunrise, so how the hell could I make it through seven of ’em?

Fact of the matter is, I’ve been very busy this week. What with meeting mom and sis and cranking out a half-assed one-act musical in four days flat–a musical that opens in two weeks, mind you!–and unpacking and working and…well, I believe Jim Backus said it best when he said, “I need a vacation.”

But more about all that later. That’s pages and pages and pages of writing, and right now, I just wanna sit here with a warm glow and reflect upon it all.

I would, however, like to make an announcement: given that it’s the day after Thanksgiving and therefore the unofficial start of the holiday shopping season, it’s time to unleash the Secret Santa again! For those who missed it last year, here’s how it works:

1. You set up an Amazon.com wish list with all the goodies you want for Chris-kwaanz-ukah. Keep at least a few items in the $10-$15 range. Belts are tightened this year, dearie; be considerate of others’ last-season Vuitton pocketbooks.

2. Then, send me your Amazon screen name, your Amazon email address, and the url of your wish list by December 7 (that’s two weeks, folks).

3. After harmonizing my auras and drinking three 8-ounce cups of Lapsang Souchong tea, I’ll work some elfin magic and pair you up with a name I’ve pulled from a moth-ravaged wiglet.

4. I’ll send you an email with the name of your Secret Sturtle–er, Secret Santa–along with the link to her/his wish list.

5. Spread the holiday love, Mary-san!

And yes, just like last year, I’ll post all the participants and their respective wish lists. You non-dotcommmers who are still making bank might wanna spread a little extra joy, you know what I’m sayin’.

Let the holiday magic…begin!

So, what’s been going on?

Let’s see…I spent a day in Baton Rouge debating artistic merit across the street from our state’s…uh…distinctive old capitol. But the boyfriend already told you that.

I had a lot of meetings and stuff. Some of ’em got cancelled, which was good. But that’s boring.

We’re 100% moved into the new house and have tenants firmly ensconced in the old place.

We’re putting together a holiday revue. It’ll run at the Shim Sham in December. More on that later. (I’m still writing it.)

What else? …Oh yeah, I’m meeting mom and sis tonight.

Attention New Yorkers: our buddies Wash and Richard’s film, The Fluffer, opens this week at the Quad. Check it oot.

Last night, as I lay sleeping in our cute but as yet curtainless new home, I had two Very Distrubing Dreams:

#1: 11:00pm – 2:30am
For reasons that weren’t made apparent to me, I had killed and dismembered some child and was subsequently trying to hide the kids parts from a policeman who stopped me for running a red light. (No, it was not Jon Benet; yes, the policeman was cute; no, I didn’t do him.) This one was particularly unsatisfactory because nothing seemed to happen, it was all in medias res, with the cop hanging over me and me bumbling my way through numerous excuses. Before long, however, I moved on to…

#2: 3:20am – 6:00am
I’m planning this theatre festival–what kind? I dunno–and Skinny Puppy (yes, that Skinny Puppy) wants to make a donation of $1,000 to the cause. I get their call in the middle of math class. A math class taught entirely in French. There’s a lot of other stuff, too–Korean girls laying down in the street in front of steam rollers to protest violence in the Middle East, men mastubating in stairways that are clearly marked “no masturbating”, and so on, but it’s too confusing too remember now.

I guess they could be the result of childhood trauma. Or trepidation about the global political situation. Or general 30-something angst. But more than anything, it probably comes from eating a bunch of crap before bedtime.

Boyfriend, I love you dearly, but next time I bat my eyes and ask you to rustle up a late-night batch of Ro-Tel dip and potato chips, do me a favor: look me squarely in the eyes and say “hell freakin’ no.” I’ll thank you later.

Let me clarify something: I hate moving. Whether our déménagement went well or poorly doesn’t really matter: it was doomed from the start to be physically and emotionally traumatic.

There were, however, a couple of pleasant moments during the course of the day. Watching my boyfriend–who says he hates painting–do a last-minute, lovingly detailed touch-up of the wainscoting in the study. Sitting on the floor while Gaston and Kika romped up and down the house with their new friend, Dexter. Waking up before dawn and padding off to a kitchen with a real table and real coffee, listening to the radio as the sun came up.

Also nice was re-discovering some nearly forgotten mementos beneath the piles of Happy Meal rubble dotting my part of our former abode: a card on inchworms from my bizarre friend Frank, a Cheerios-brand winter hat that I pilfered from Michael‘s apartment, various gifts from various folk (you know who you are). But the biggest surprise of all was finding the Get-It-Girl Glasses.

They’re not much to look at–just a pair of cheap plastic sunglasses any hooker might wear. But for for one shining, alcohol-laden evening 11 years ago, they were pretty magical. In fact, they were so special, I dedicated an entry to them in the half-assed memoirs I was pulling together for all my college friends–memoirs that may or mayn’t ever see the light of day. Not much happens in the story, so don’t get your hopes up; like most happy memories, it’s the image that sticks with me, not the evening’s events. Anyway, for what it’s worth…

The Get-It-Girl Glasses

It’s the summer of 1990, shortly before I’m to leave the Bold, New City–Jackson, Mississippi–for good and start my life in the Big Easy, Sweet Lady Gumbo, Old Swampy. (My friend Lesley always swore she was going to pen a little diddy for me called “Jackson in My Rear-View Mirror,” but I guess she never got around to it.) As usual, I’ve spent the day by the pool, and as the daylight has faded, people have joined me: Mark, David, Ann, Lesley, perhaps a few more.

After nightfall, we doll up to go out. There’s no occasion: we’re bored, disaffected youth, we don’t need an occasion to paint the town rouge. Our group ranges in age from 18 to 22, which somewhat limits our choice of bars. After a brief powpow, we decide on Bill’s Disco, since it’s one of the few places that doesn’t card.

Let me back up a minute: like most Southern states, Mississippi still carries vestiges of segregation. There are black parts of town and white parts. Black churches, white churches, black malls, white malls, and, of course, black gay bars and white ones. Jackson’s white gay bar, Jack and Jill’s, brings new meaning to the word “tired.” There’s rarely more than Madonna in the DJ’s bag of tricks, and the proprietors check IDs so ruthlessly they might as well call the place Stalag Fudgepacker.

Just across the parking lot sits Bill’s Disco, the city’s black gay bar. Jack and Jill’s closes at 1am; Bill’s cranks ’till dawn. Jack and Jill’s is fairly well lit and forthright; Bill’s is shady, with a dimly lit speakeasy/backroom where toothless drag queens serve beer illegally ’till the bass beats fade out. We spend a lot of time at Bill’s

Back to the present: we consume vast quantities of Milwaukee’s Best Light at my apartment, then drive on down to the cha cha palace. (Don’t be shocked; I’m sure you’ve done worse.) On the brief but mildly treacherous walk from the bar’s parking lot to the front door, my friend David and I do our Charlie’s Angels routine: standing there, backlit by a single high-powered streetlamp, our elongated shadows hearken to those of Farrah Fawcett and Jacqueline Smith (we could use a good Kate Jackson) in the 1970-something show’s opening credits. After our bout of posing–which always goes on a beat too long–someone notices a pair of large, Sophia Lauren-esque, coral-red sunglasses lying on the ground. They probably fell out of someone’s drag bag on their way to Bill’s. Or maybe they belonged to one of the, um, pros working on nearby Farish Street. They quickly become a communal prop for our entourage.

Dancing at Bill’s, a member of the group–David, of course–whips out a bottle of poppers. That’s usually a sign that the situation’s about to deteriorate; tonight’s no exception….

The next thing we know, we’re dancing in a circle like high school kids, passing around those grimy glasses for everyone to model. Each time someone puts them on, everyone else begins snapping, screaming loudly “Get it, Girl,” in the general direction of said individual. This goes on for a really, really, really long time, but cheap beer and inhalants help keep the ritual fresh and new. An hour passes, and we’re still amused, strangely unfazed by the predictability of it all. We continue for goddess knows how long and awake next morning with severe headaches.

I am still in possession of the Get-It-Girl Glasses. They may be viewed by appointment only.

Personally, I don’t think the move went as poorly as some people have suggested. Yes, I’m sore. Yes, there are lots of boxes. Yes, there’s ton’s of dust. That’s to be expected, right? All part of the Great Plan.

On the other hand, the walls are mostly done–at least in the main area of the house. And truth be told, the hounds were more excited last night than nervous and scared–after all, they’ve got a lot more room to play “Bite the Back Leg” now.

The cat, however…. As far as I’m concerned that pussy can keep her fuzzy butt in the old house for the time being. She’ll come around sooner or later.

I made a boo boo.

We had to have this security system installed in our new house, right? And to hook it up, they had to have a live phone line, okay? So I did this thing where I had our current phone number registered at both our current address and the new one–they can do that kinda stuff these days–but it only stays like that for a month before the first line goes dead, and since we’re about a week behind our final, forever, honest-to-god, I’m-not-kidding, we’re-really-doing-it-this-time move, service has just been cut off at the apartment where we’re still living. I mean, we’re moving in on Monday (the U-Haul’s reserved and everything), so we’ll have the phone back very soon, but for this weekend, nothin’. Which doesn’t affect our ability to call people–hello, we’re a cellular household–but since we’re, like, late adopters and therefore still use dial-up, we’ve got no email, no internet. I’m looking at it like an unscheduled mini-vacation. Jonno is considerably more skeptical.

But anyway…

…so, yeah, Jonno and I were invited to dinner last week at the Red Room. The owner crammed us so full of food from his new menu they had to roll us out. Or throw us out. I forget. Anyway, go–and when ordering, consider the beef. I always do.

…as I implied above, the house is nearly finished. (Just in time–this two mortgage thing is killing me.) I’ve got a couple more piddly projects to polish off, but it’s mostly mopping and dusting now.

…Dorian’s very own Janis Joplin Review was great. Loud, brassy, sassy. Maybe she’ll move on to Grace Slick next. We should be so lucky.

…I’m not sure now if I was afflicted by an ulcer or food poisoning or merely a stomach virus. It felt like all three for about 24 hours. I’m better now.

…most importantly of all, The Meeting has been set.

Well, that’s it from me. I hope to see some of you tonight at Trix chez le Shim Sham. Or not. Suit yourself. Feh.

[A] man made it through security in New Orleans and onto a flight while inadvertently carrying a loaded gun in his briefcase.

Does anyone else find it odd that security at the newly-renamed Louis Armstrong International Airport has been ridiculed by the national press in recent days, but to the best of my knowledge, the Times-Picayune hasn’t printed a word about the matter?