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After much trial and error, after months of experimentation both fruitless and fruitful (and, it goes without saying, fruity), I have finally done it: I have cracked the secret code of the contemporary culinary elite! I and I alone will reveal to you the master plan by which modern chefs operate! Though contemporary menus appear complex to the everyday observer, to trained eyes such as my own, they consist of a finite number of ingredients, ordered by a facile mix-and-match formula so as to appear random and exotic.

The process is simple: in each category, match one item from column A with an item from column B. By the time you reach the bottom, you’re ready to work as a sous chef at Balthazar. Bon apetit, my dears…

Take an entree of…

A
Venison
Sweetbread
Cardoon
Squab
Capon
Lamb’s tongue
Leek

B
flambe
a la poulette
meuniere
fricassee
en brochette
croquettes
kabobs

…and serve it with…

A
Wasabi
Cardamom
Juniper
Madeira
Fennel
Anise
Pine bark

B
aioli
reduction
chutney
catsup
succotash
marmalade
moutarde

…alongside a demitasse of…

A
Hare’s liver
Giblet
Eel
Loganberry
Chicory blossom
Rhubarb
Quince

B
pie
ravioli
bruschetta
ratatouille
porridge
Charlotte
tartlette

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Well, that was fun. Perhaps a little too fun, to judge from my throbbing head and general wooziness. If I didn’t have such a lot of crap to do today, I’d go right back to bed.

I don’t have any clips of Necromania to post for those who weren’t there, but I can provide a couple of animation dealios to get your day started with a big ol’ “WTF?!?” You can thank me later.

  • thing one
  • thing two
  • Links courtesy of Michael

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    TO DO LIST

    All right, people, you’ve got three assignments today:

    1. Emboldened by their victories on November 2, evangelical Christians suddenly think they’re all 800-pound gorillas. Eight-hundred pounds they may be–what with the copious amount of deep-fried Twinkies they consume–but that doesn’t give them license to bully the rest of America. (They should leave such things to their dear Commander-in-Chief.) In particular:

    • The American Family Association is pushing hard against Procter & Gamble, alleging that the company is inherently evil for promoting tolerance in its workplace and advertising on shows that reach its desired customers. Counteract the AFA boycott by calling P & G Chairman A.G. Lafley at 513 983 1100 and telling him that you support their endeavors to promote equality and will continue to buy P & G products. Encourage your friends and family to do the same.
    • The AFA is also working hard to nix Senator Phil Arlen Specter, a rare voice of Republican reason, from leading the Senate Judiciary Committee. Please call your senator–especially if s/he is on this list–and urge them to support Senator Specter’s bid for chairmanship. If you don’t know how to reach your senator, visit www.congress.org for email and phone information. [Thanks, Tyler, for the correction. Apparently, I had rock and/or roll on my mind this morning.]

    2. On a less politically divisive note, if you’re in New Orleans this evening, why not join the [allegedly] cool kids for a screening of Ed Wood’s long-lost porn film Necromania at 8:00pm at One Eyed Jacks, 615 Toulouse Street? You can enjoy a beer, a smoke, and a host of other vices as the boyfriend proves once and for all that Mr. Wood may not be the worst director of all time, but he’s surely the most demented.

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    I’d make a lousy starfucker. Over the years, I’ve encountered a variety of celebs from the A, B, and C-lists, and most of the time my chain of thought has gone something like, “Did Jonno say he wanted a bourbon and soda or a boubon and water hey isn’t that Sylvia Miles doing coke off Leslie Uggams’ right breast oh look someone dropped a nickel.” Either that, or I’ve been so preoccupied/drunk that I’ve missed seeing stars altogether–like when Julia Roberts and Lyle Lovett walked hand-in-hand right by me on Royal Street and my then-boyfriend Martin jabbed me so hard with his elbow that I nearly lost a rib (great for corsetry, bad for me).

    Last night, as I came face-to-face with Jude Law and Sean Penn–who’d come to see our hothothot burlesque show–the same thing happened: “Where the hell did I put those extra wristbands did Dawn give me her comp list wow Jude Law is much taller and thinner than I would have imagined oh look someone dropped a quarter.”

    For years, I’ve harbored a secret hope that Liz Smith would suddenly appear at my door and carry me off to be her protege. It’s just as well she hasn’t though, because I clearly don’t have the stuff.

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    Another Flash distraction–this one of special interest to those design-obsessed individuals who can’t flip through an issue of Vogue without stopping every few pages for a game of “Name That Font”. (Not that I’m acquainted with people like that, but, well, you know.) Bone up on your sans-serifs, turn the volume way down, and get busy with FontFetish. [Link provided by J to the N O.]

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    GRADOUX

  • Apparently, I’m biologically related to Eve Harrington. See, my sister was invited to open for Marc Almond at the Alternative Miss World pageant, but then Marc had a little accident, and Tiff suddenly became the headliner. She insists that it was all coincidence, but our mother did grow up here, and I’m wondering if maybe she passed on a bit of inside knowledge about the gris-gris to her daughter…. Not that it matters. I mean, hello? Subbing for Marc Almond? I’d step over my own grandmother for the chance. It’s, like, every faggot’s dream. Or at least, every faggot I know.
  • In the immortal words of Leo Sayer, last night I had the strangest dream. I was riding on this way-crazy, out-of-control plane thing–kinda like a Jet Ski, but it flew–and Nicole Kidman was riding bitch. We went into a tailspin and plummetted toward the ocean. Then I woke up. And I remembered that elementary school legend, the one that claims if you’re falling in a dream and you actually see yourself hit the ground, you’ll actually die. And I remembered how desperately I wanted to see that as a kid. Every night, I’d psyche myself up before bedtime, in the hopes that I could somehow maintain consciousness while I slept–the idea being that I could make my dreams unfold as I wanted and I could watch myself fall. There wasn’t any suicidal drive behind it, I was just curious.
  • The boyfriend is dipping his pinky toe back in the non-porno blogosphere. It’s a start.
  • If you’re very bored and you have a speedy web connection and you have the volume on your speakers turned WAY DOWN, you might enjoy this little flash animation. Yeah, it’s derivative, trying very hard to be the next All Your Base, but it’s a pleasant way to pass the next 30 seconds of your workday.
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    <!– Begin
    function oc() {
    props=window.open(‘http://www.sturtle.com/pics/oc.jpg&#8217;, ‘poppage’, ‘toolbars=0, scrollbars=1, location=0, statusbars=1, menubars=0, resizable=1, width=600, height=600’);
    }
    // End –>

    the big picture
    [ click above to enlarge ]

    So, a break from the politics.

    Sunday afternoon as I was walking home from the French Quarter, I took a shortcut. Usually I follow Chartres Street back to the Marigny: it’s pretty, and I often see friends, so there’s potential for some social interaction. This week, though, I wasn’t feeling chatty. I deperately needed a nap and opted instead to follow the levee wall that runs along the backside of the French Market, behind the local power station, and past several blocks of coffee roasting plants. It’s not a glamorous walk, and even I–an intrepid perambulator, if I do say so–wouldn’t take it at night, but it was bright and sunny, so I said, “What the hey?”

    When I got to the diciest stretch–where the homeless and gutter punks sleep side-by-side–I noticed a curious flash of light reflecting off something shiny. A few steps later, I saw the source: men moving large, mylar-wrapped objects from the back of an 18-wheeler into an open minivan. A couple more paces and it was apparent that the objects in question were computers: large-ish desktop towers. I was shocked and excited to see [moderately] organized crime operating so brazenly in broad daylight. It was a total turn-on.

    As I passed by, I made eye contact with the man moving the computers off the truck–a hot, hunky worker-bee who looked like he’d been doing this all his life. From the glance he shot me, it was all-too-apparent that he didn’t give a damn who saw what he was doing. I don’t think he would’ve batted an eye if I’d driven up with Wolf Blitzer and a CNN news van. But despite his gruff nonchalance, I waited half a block before I turned around and snapped a photo. I mean, I’m not stupid. Well, not much.

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    One last comment on the election, and then I’ll shut up. For a while. Maybe.

    Yesterday afternoon, I was starting to let it all go. The weather was absolutely gorgeous, I drove around with my car windows down, I walked a bit in the Quarter, I spent some quality time with the boyfriend. All in all, life didn’t seem too terribly different than it did a week ago.

    Then I made the mistake of opening my laptop and rooting around to see if other homos were feeling the same way, which eventually led me to Andrew Sullivan:

    But the most fundamental fact of this campaign – and one of the reasons it has been so bitter – is that we are at war. Our opponents at home are not our enemies. The real enemy is the Jihadist terror network that, even now, is murdering innocents and coalition soldiers in Iraq. Our job now – all of us – is to support this president in that war, to back those troops, and to pray for victory…. The past is the past. And George W. Bush is our president. He deserves a fresh start, a chance to prove himself again, and the constructive criticism of those of us who decided to back his opponent. He needs our prayers and our support for the enormous tasks still ahead of him. He has mine. Unequivocally.

    I’m sorry Andrew, but have you gone completely nuts? When did your memory become so brazenly selective? It sounds like you’ve been spending too much quality time with Camille Paglia. Or Ralph Reed.

    Bush deserves as much criticism for the war in Iraq as we can heap upon him. I’m still not sure why he was so gung-ho to invade the Fertile Crescent (for the oil? to vindicate daddy and his half-assed war? to create a distraction from the more complex problem of terrorism?), but he did so via a cadre of disposable underlings who misled the country with bogus stats on the Hussein regime. If he’d been a responsible, thoughtful president, Bush might have seen that there were more effective ways to, in his words, “make America safer” and quell some of the jihadist invective that’s being spewn in our direction. For example:

    Follow your own damn roadmap: Remember that “roadmap” thingy you put together as a blueprint for peace in the Middle East, Mr. President? Yeah, well, given that the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is the primary catalyst inducing otherwise sensible young men and women to strap on several pounds of explosives and blow themselves up, you should have stuck with it. Now, I know the ties between Israel and the US are complicated, and I know that Israel deserves a state of its own, and I know that leaders on both sides of the brouhaha have to save face. I understand all that, but for chrissake, put your foot down! Insist that Israel give most, if not all, of Gaza and the West Bank to the Palestinians so they can create a legitimate state. Insist that new Jewish settlements be curtailed. Put even more pressure to bear on the Palestinians (by way of financial incentives, perhaps–see below) to crack down on terrorist groups. And as for those evangelicals who want to see Israel kept as one glorious, contiguous state just so their vengeful god can come back to Earth and mow down the Jews–well, tell Karl Rove to whip up some new, previously unpublished chapter of Revelations for ’em to swallow.

    Provide incentives, not just sanctions: Unless you’ve been living under a rock for the past 30 years–and I’m not saying you haven’t, mind you–you know that the most effective means of training dogs, cats, and children is through positive reinforcement. The same goes for rogue states. Keep ’em in line by rewarding them for good behavior. Set your own criteria, but make sure some of that money trickles down to the common folk. If you find that other world leaders are wary of you, gussy up Laura and send her out to soften ’em up the way JFK did with Jackie. I mean, even freshmen poli-sci majors know that effective leadership means keeping your friends close and your enemies closer.

    Promote secular education: C’mon, George. You’re a dad. You know all about the formative years and how important they are. You understand that if you’d paid more attention to the twins when they were younger, they might not have all these binge-drinking problems, right? Well, the same goes for young people in other parts of the world. All that Wahabi education kids are getting in Saudi Arabi, Pakistan, and elsewhere is going to have some very unpleasant payoffs over the next 10 to 20 years unless something changes now. Encourage governments to set up strong secular school systems, and make sure they’re free to the public. Poor children are the most in need of a good education–not only because education leads to better jobs and better futures for their own children, but also because without it, they stand a good chance of lapsing into the jihadist mindset so attractive to the poor. Poverty and religion are natural bedfellows, and their commingling can nuture some very unhealthy radical ideology. Hello? Just look at the support you got last Tuesday from undereducated evangelicals….

    Fund your own public diplomacy departments: In case you’ve forgotten about pesky little Colin Powell, his domain (i.e. the State Department) has numerous divisions, one of which is public diplomacy. That’s the department charged with promoting cultural exchange between the US and other countries in the hopes of increasing international understanding and tolerance. By all accounts, it’s seriously under-funded. You want to win the “hearts and minds” of Muslims? Get ’em hooked on Christina Aguilera and P. Diddy. And while you’re at it, why not send a few Muslim artists (Khaled would be nice) to the Red States, just so they can see that my bio-dad and his relatives aren’t all armed with Zippo lighters and effigies of you.

    So shame on you, Mr. Sullivan. You just wait and see if I offer to buy you another beer next time we cross paths. Unless, of course, you’re looking especially cute, and then…well, we’ll see. I mean, everyone makes mistakes.