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Richard’s choice of fetishwear for Friday, April 29, 2005 (put on your red cellophane glasses and click it):
Mrs. Jeffcoats, my 7th grade science teacher, had some very annoying habits. She stuttered worse than Mel Tillis. She was constantly cracking her knuckles. And apparently, beneath her acres of wrinkled flesh, there was nothing but mucus, because every five seconds or so, she’d cough or sneeze or dig in her nose like she were the world’s last uranium miner.
By far, however, her worst offense was her catchphrase: “You learn something new every day.” She’d be talking about the solar system or cell division or whatever 7th grade science teachers talk about, then she’d pose a question to one of the many under-educated children in the class (note: I went to school in rural Mississippi; this was not a difficult task). Nine times out of ten, the student would answer the question incorrectly, after which Mrs. Jeffcoats would take a little self-satisfied pause and give the proper response. Then another pause, a slow lean-back on her white, patent leather pumps (worn year-round, natch), and quietly and coyly she’d say: “You learn something new every day.”
It played out like this:
MRS JEFFCOATS: So, at the end of the day, is the whale a fish or a mammal? Donnie?
DONNIE: Uh… Mammal.
MRS JEFFCOATS: You sure about that, Donnie?
DONNIE: Fish! Fish!
MRS JEFFCOATS: (pregnant pause) …The whale, class, is a mammal. (Yet another pause. Rocking back and forth on heels. Scanning the room and fixing each of us with her good eye. Then, softly.) You learn something new every day.
I hated that woman.
And yet, I thought of her yesterday as I did, in fact, learn something new about myself. It seems that I possess a previously untapped skill-set: mounting. (Get your mind out of the gutter, Mary. That’s hardly new or untapped, if you know what I mean.)
See, I’d printed some signage for an event, and to save cashola, I decided I’d mount them on foam core myself instead of having Kinko’s charge me an arm and a pancreas for the service. And, if I do say so, the finished product looks great–nice and slick. It’s comforting to know I’ve got skills to fall back on should I want to make a career change down the line.
Side note: Krylon Easy-Tack ® spray adhesive goes on smooth and gives a wonderful high.
I’ve lived in New Orleans for a long time. A couple more years, and I’ll have been here for the better part of my life. But you know what’s funny? You know what I just realized today?
Can you keep a secret?
Okay, come closer.
Closer!
Now, lean down…
I’ve never been to Jazz Fest. Never.
Nor, might I add, do I plan to go in the future. Granted, with a couple of beers in me, I can be persuaded to do almost anything, but Jazz Fest would probably require a six-pack…. Actually, streaking requires a six-pack. Jazz Fest would probably be more like a 12-pack and a bottle of Xanax. The good kind.
I think part of it is that I’m not much of a live music fan. Crappy, lip-synched shows by Peter Murphy and Orbital cured me of my concert jones while I was still in hot pants and eyeliner. Another part of it is the crowd: those who know me and who’ve seen me march shoulder-to-shoulder with the Society of Ste. Anne on Fat Tuesday might find it hard to believe, but I’m vaguely agoraphobic.
Mostly, though, the reason I don’t go is because of the type of people Jazz Fest attracts. Hawaiian shirts. Tie-dyed shorts. Panama Jack straw hats paired with receding hairlines and graying ponytails. You know what I mean. I’m sure they’re nice and all, but I’d rather observe them from a safe distance. By which I mean, on the evening news.
And while I’m on the subject: will someone please explain the Neville Brothers? I am so lost on that one.
So I’m lying in bed around 5:00am, mulling over the many, many things I’ve got to do today. And I’m thinking, “Okay, X, Y, and Z, those are the most important.” And then I think, “Let’s be realistic: if I get just two of those done, I’ll be happy. Two outta three, as they say, ain’t bad.”
Half an hour later I’m still lying there, mind racing, and I hear Meat Loaf. (The fat guy, obviously, not the foodstuff.) He’s singing to me:
I want you.
I need you.
But there ain’t no way I’m ever gonna love you.
Now don’t be sad, ’cause–
You guessed it, ladies and gentlemen:
–two outta three ain’t bad.
How retarded is that? From one little thought, I get not just the line–no, my brain rewinds the tape and gives me the whole freaking song. My mind is a terrible thing to taste.
Jonno and I met in 1993, but things didn’t click until eight years ago. Eight years ago today. And they’ve stayed clicked.
Happy anniversary, kiddo.
NOTE: I’m posting this against my better judgement. If you’re the sort to sent florid, congratulatory emails, please don’t. Hate mail only, please.
A note to the kid pushing the stroller outside my local hippie coffee joint:
Before you got those triangle-shaped tattoos above and below your eyes–you know, the ones that make you look like a big, creepy drag clown–I hope someone besides your mother confirmed that you’re very good at something that (A) requires little contact with other human beings and (B) can earn you a decent living. It’s tricky to find a skill-set that satisfies both. I mean, masturbation fulfills A, but given your chubtastic frame, probably doesn’t cover B. Waiting tables at Galatoire’s totally handles B, but A? Not so much.
Don’t get me wrong: I’m all for radical self-expression, but dude, even novelists have been known to scrounge for gigs at Benetton from time to time….
Last night as I was walking home from the gym, I witnessed the most tragically trashy thing I’ve seen in a very long time: a guy on a ladder painting a house, mousy brown hair sprouting like unruly weeds from a well-used, non-ironic trucker’s cap; a scruffy, Lynyrd Skynyrd-esque beard covering a field of ingrown hairs along his chin and neck; pants sagging to the bottom of his very fat ass, revealing a massive beer gut and tighty-whiteys so filthy that my father wouldn’t even use them to wax his car.
White freaking hot.
So, I think I’m going to run for pope. Not, like, now or anything. But after I retire from my real work, it might be kinda fun. And judging from the sort of folks who get nominated for the gig, I’ll totally fit the profile: old, white-ish, Euro-ish. Male. Creepy. Get my autograph now, bitches, before I’m too busy picking up hotties in the popemobile to give you the time of day….
So that’s pretty much my to-do list for the past four weeks. How’s yours coming along?
The HRC may not be perfect, but really, who else is pushing GLBT advocacy as aggressively as they are? The ACLU didn’t email me about today’s Senate hearings on same-sex marriage. GLAAD, either. Nor the Log Cabin Republicans. Hell, I didn’t even get a notice from right-wingers like the American Family Association.
So, if the HRC took the time to dig up this info and email it to squillions of forward-thinking folks, I figure I can follow through by dropping ol’ Mary Landrieu and David “The Great Satan” Vitter a line. Perhaps you should do the same with your own senators….
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