What the hall? Even Margaret Cho knows you can’t text-message breakup, betch!

LETTERS

To the woman in the white Corolla at the corner of Chartres and St. Ferdinand: put down the banana clip. Immediately. You’ve had more than a year to play the disheveled, disoriented, post-K card. No more excuses.

To the Commander-in-Chief: your hubris was cute and catchy back during first few months of airstrikes and shock-and-awe, but if you’d ever read a history book or watched The Princess Bride, you’d have known that it’s always a bad idea to fight a land war in Asia.

To Cormac McCarthy: I wrote that review of The Road before I’d finished the last ten pages. I’m done now, and all I gotta say is: wow, you’re a real pussy. You give me 230-some-odd pages of brilliance, and then that? …It’s perfect movie fodder, though, and I’m sure someone’s already paid you, like, a zillion dollars for the rights, so what do you care what I think?

To this morning’s forgettable, generically blonde newscastress: I don’t know what they teach you kids in school these days, but thin stripes–especially horizontal ones–are a bad choice for TV. You’re hurting my eyes, bitch.

To all the circuit queens who came to town for this weekend’s Halloween in New Orleans party: thank you. Now, please, pack your coke spoons and get your tweaked, cock-gobbling asses back to Dallanta or San Somethingorother. Our city’s need for tourism revenue doesn’t change the fact that I think you’re all a bunch of middle-aged ‘tards.

To anyone who cares: as the only magazines to which I subscribe are now National Geographic and Southern Living, I have officially turned into my grandmother. (As if you couldn’t tell that from #5 above.)

FIVE THINGS TO CONSIDER BEFORE READING
CORMAC MCCARTHY‘S THE ROAD

1) You cannot put it down. For people who have 9-to-5 jobs, this is a problem. For people who are easily spooked and who live in creaky old houses, it’s an even bigger problem. The Road will keep narcoleptics up past bedtime.

2) It is impossible to shake off. For days afterward, the world feels just as dreary as the one McCarthy has created. If you’ve read The Handmaid’s Tale, you know what I mean. You’ll never look at a can opener the same way again.

3) For New Orleanians, it hits close to home. Do I really need to read about a world of destruction and chaos and limited resources and no leadership and a reduced population of survivalists when I have two perfectly good windows that face the street? I mean, things are definitely, totally getting way better down here, but yeah, it’s a little soon.

4) For readers of a certain age, it dredges up childhood fears. Remember Threads and The Day After and Where Have All the People Gone? and about a bejillion other 70s/80s movies about the extinction of mankind via natural and unnatural means? Remember the nightmares that crap used to give you? Well, get the Tylenol PM handy, that’s all I’m sayin’.

5) It makes you worry for those you love. I might be alone in this, but when I think about potential tragedies, I don’t think about myself too much; I think about the boyfriend and family and friends and pets and everyone else in my life. See, when you worry, I think you’re concerned about loss, and you can’t lose yourself, can you? So, basically, unless you’re one of the girls at Mrs. Meers’ Hotel for Young Women (i.e. all alone in the world), The Road may cause an ulcer or two.

So, this arrived in my mailbox yesterday:

I’m thrilled that Egana’s challenger in the run-off for House Representative/District 97, J. P. Morrell–son of perhaps the dumbest, orneriest, most egomaniacal, most corrupt politician Louisiana has ever seen–chose to take the high road this election season.

I’m not one to brag, but I gotta say: the super-secret birthday blowout I put together for Jonno over the weekend was pretty damn cool. With surprise guests arriving from the other two coasts, numerous great meals, and ringside seats at Saturday’s Big Easy Rollergirls bout, the only thing missing was a couple of trained elephants performing Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song”. (Although from what I hear, my friend Matt’s band now performs a washboard/sousaphone version that’ll soon make the elephants obsolete.)

The highlight was clearly the roller derby. Set among the glittery, papier-mache, Carnival glamour of Mardi Gras World, it was an adrenaline-filled, only-in-New-Orleans spectacle that even had sissies like me leaping to their feet, screaming, “Kill her! Trip her! Knock the bitch out!” But then, girls in bloody Carrie costumes and rollerskates probably have that effect on a lot of people.

The pièce de résistance of that particular evening came when my pals and I tottered out to the car at halftime to replentish our beer supply (from the remains of the tailgate party) and witnessed two lesbians in an F-150 driving smack into my pal Lisa’s Camry as they exited the parking lot. In her PBR-induced stupor, the passenger admitted that she’d been going down on her girlfriend at the time, and that’s what caused the accident. Frankly, I’m not sure what’s worse: the fact that Lisa’s fender fell victim to a sloppy muffdive, or that the only reason we witnessed the accident is because we were too cheap to pony up for beer at the bar.

Anyway, the boyfriend seemed to have a good time, and even took a few pics along the way. Enjoy ’em, then go buy your tickets for the Rollergirls’ November derby before they sell out. Like, seriously. Don’t be stupid, yo.

So there we were last night: a bunch of fags and one ladyfriend watching the PR finale. We were chatting and drinking beer and snacking and being catty, and then the shows began. And I don’t know about the rest of the folks in the room, but I felt this uncontrollable desire to critique absolutely everything that came down the runway–like I was some kind of authority on the fashion industry. Like I was Elsa Klensch’s goddamn boyfriend. Oh, that hem’s falling apart! Look at that poorly made inseam! Jeez, that model’s fat, and that one can’t even walk in heels!

In case you’re wondering, Sherlock, this bitch could sooner hotwire a car than cut out a Butterick pattern. But for some reason–probably ’cause I’m a big ol’ nellybeast and secretly believe that fashion is embedded in my genetic makeup–I felt like I had the right, nay, the duty, to share my insights. Like Tony and Tia discovering their magic powers, I was suddenly imbued with a complete understanding of clothing, from design to production to the channels of distribution. By some fluke, though, I kept my mouth shut–which is good, because truly, I don’t know shit.

I can be quite a pretentious tard when I wanna be. Luckily, one of my personalities tends to keep that in check. Mostly.

New Orleans’ gallery season kicked off last Saturday night, with ateliers across the city slingin’ cheap hooch for the hipsters, homos, and suburban hordes. And the hands-down hoppin’-est place in town was Arthur Roger Gallery, which featured the work of flashy, trashy, cinéaste, John Waters.

You probably know Waters as the director of low-rent masterpieces like Polyester and Desperate Living, or perhaps as the author of some witty social commentary, but in a triple-threat move worthy of Rita Moreno herself, Waters is also a conceptual artist. In fact, when he’s not making films, you’ll often find Waters at home, taking pictures of films as they play on his television.

As you might expect–I mean, this is the guy who convinced Divine that eating fresh dog shit on film was a fabulous idea–Waters ain’t afraid to get his sass on, and many of his photographs are like big teabags in the face of middle-class values. Highlights from Saturday’s exhibition included “Eat Me” (above), “9/11” (a shot of title scenes from films scheduled to play on the planes that crashed into the Twin Towers), and a “sculpture” that was essentially an oversized hand towel embroidered with a message that was once a rallying cry for AIDS activists. Say what you will about the slow, steady decline of his movies, but J-Wizzle still got game where galleries are concerned.

P.S. I’d have snatched a photo of me standing beside the man, but I couldn’t get near his pants. Honest to goddess, they glowed like the tractor beam in Galaga–and not in the good way.

Bike-riding through the Quarter used to be a guilty, sadistic pleasure. I’d race up Royal Street on my way to the gym, and around the time I hit St. Philip, the fun began. That’s where the galleries and boutiques and coffee shops started popping up, creating a sort of mall/Disneyland environment and making tourists forget that Royal is a street. Like, you know, with cars and bikes and traffic and stuff. Doris and Ed from Terre Haute would be looking up at a balcony dripping with petunias or sweet potato or something and step right off the curb without looking so much as once. I’d spot them from halfway down the block and pick up the pace; seconds later, I’d fly by, pedals whirling just inches from their pale, naked shins. If I heard an “Omigoodness! Did you see that, Ed?” as I sped away, my day was totally made.

For obvious reasons, Royal Street hasn’t been much of a challenge the last 12 months, but on Saturday morning, that changed. I don’t know why–maybe it was the nice weather, maybe it was the Saints game, maybe there was an idiots convention at the Monteleone. All I can say for sure is that the streets were packed, and the tourists were bouncing from sidewalk to sidewalk like wasps against windowpanes. Among the more adrenalizing obstacles: a pregnant woman pushing a double-wide baby stroller; a gay couple walking their twin Pomeranians; and 20-person walking tour being led by someone who, to judge from his accent, had arrived that very morning from Fargo. By the time I reached the gym, I’d taken care of my cardio for the week.

So, on behalf of my rapidly expanding midsection, welcome back, all you blithe and boozy spirits. With your help, I may finally be able to shed my last ten pounds of Katrina weight….

Please ignore the annoyingly un-hip, b&t WASP ‘tard with the videorecorder who insists on singing along and understand that under normal circumstances, there is nothing–I mean nothing–that compares to Kiki and Herb in performance:

Another piece written for someone else. You ought to click through and give it a read, though: the film clip is pretty damn good….

GayGamer.net gives a big birthday shout-out to prettyboy Ioan Gruffudd (a Welsh name with the unlikely pronunciation “YO-an GRIFF-ith”), who turns 33 girlish years young today! Of course, most of us know Ioan from his performances as Reed Richards in the film and videogame Fantastic Four, a role he’ll reprise in 2007 with the release of Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer, or perhaps from his guest spot on Justice League as Mr. Miracle. But Ioan’s had an even longer, more illustrious career on the other side of the pond, starring in Pobol y Cwm (the longest-running soap opera on the BBC), the critically acclaimed film Wilde, and as Horatio Hornblower on the TV series, Hornblower. (In fact, if you want to get a look at Mr. Gruffudd’s, er, talent, you might check out the third clip from the “Mutiny” episode, which is available for download on Ioan’s website.)

— more at GayGamer.net

Oh: and if you haven’t come to see L’imitation of Life, you’ve only got two more chances. I’m serious this time….