I’m not a huge fan of Banksy, though I know he’s popular with the cool kids. Still, I think it’s kinda interesting that an artist of that caliber may be lurking the streets of New Orleans right now (at least, that’s what the boyfriend has suggested). Maybe the guy’s notoriety will get Asshole At Large Fred Radtke to reconsider his actions. But probably not.

I’m not focusing very well. Not right now. Frankly, I’m a little overwhelmed with all the writing and the day job and the new play and such. I know that me being overwhelmed is nothing new, and reading about it isn’t terribly interesting. But there you are.

Gustav is not helping matters. Nor is the vast quantity of caffeine surging through my veins. I am having an extended ADD moment, rotating through a series of questions that include:

1. If the worst should happen and we are left homeless (again), should Jonno and I throw ourselves at the mercy of wonderful friends (again), or should we become nomads? And if we become nomads, should we make the most of it by following a particularly infamous route? Or is that too schticky?

2. In the bold, new, eco-centric aughties, is the traditional solar array an option for our house?

3. If the answer to #2 is “no”, could I construct enough solar-powered luminaria (or battery-powered luminaria) to light our house without hurting myself or loved ones?

4. On a completely different tangent: is Hallmark not the evil, antiseptic, teddy bear-loving corporation I’d always thought it to be? And if it isn’t, am I obligated to watch its godforsaken cable channel?

Given my condition, for the first time in years I’m looking forward to Southern Decadence and the subsequent trip to the beach with dad and my brothers. (Note: the Cassandra in me wanted to add, “Assuming the beach is still there”, but the Pollyanna in me won out. Is that light at the end of the tunnel, or Wile E. Coyote on a fast-moving handcar?)

And other photos you may have missed.

You cannot tell it, but they are moving fast.

I CANNOT GET THIS OUT OF MY HEAD

It is not as bad as you might think, but I would like a break now.

Below: Lynn Anderson’s stellar performance of “I’ve Been Everywhere”, which is mostly in honor of the housemate, who’s returning from the wilds of Haiti today (I think). Not in Dave’s honor: the creepy guy who pops up at the end to tell chickiebaby, “I know someplace you haven’t been”.

This ought to make someone smile. Or puke.

[via CitizenDangerX]

Happy birthday, Coco.

A mere 125 years ago today, in a small corner of the Loire Valley, Coco Chanel was born. She is famous and infamous for many things, including handbags, perfume, pearls, and (alleged) lesbianism. Generally speaking, I don’t partake of such highbrow folderol; what I enjoy most about Chanel are the many tales of her strong, distinct character. Among the best is this brief anecdote from the late, great editrix, fashion icon, and Kabuki fan, Diana Vreeland:

* * * * *

One night, Coco was going to stay in New York on her way to Paris from Hawaii. I said, “Would you like to come for dinner on your way through?” She said, “No, no, no. Too strenuous. I’m too tired. I’m too bored! I can’t wait to get back to Paris.” Then there was a phone call saying, “Mademoiselle would love to come for dinner if she doesn’t have to talk.” I said there would be only four of us; she didn’t even have to come to the table–but I would so love to see her. She didn’t often come to this country; I think she came three times in all. In those days, the French seldom crossed the Atlantic. I have no idea why the French complain about travel. Of course, they complain about everything…including France.

So Coco came with a very charming man, French, she’d been traveling with. She sat exactly where you are, crossed her legs, and started to talk. Dinner was announced; she came to the table; she ate everything in sight. She never stopped talking. In the middle of dinner, she asked: “Couldn’t we send a message to Helena?”–meaning Helena Rubenstein. Did you ever see any pictures of her? Marvelous looking. Polish Jewess of splendor. Splendor! So I telephoned Helena and said, “If you don’t mind coming after dinner, we’re half through, but Coco wants to see you.”

She arrived. It was summer, and Coco had on a little white quilted satin tailleur, skirt, below the knee, but short, a white ribbon and a gardenia in her hair, and a white lace shirt. I have never seen anybody look as delectable, as adorable. What age was she then? She died at eighty-eight. What difference did it make? Helena Rubenstein was in a very distinguished coat to the ground. By “distinguished” I mean the buttonholes and the loops were so beautiful; the collar was really high; the coat was bright shocking-pink Chinese silk. The two women stood facing each other. Then they went back to Reed’s room. After a while, I went back to see if they were all right. I thought perhaps they had a suicide pact! They hadn’t moved. Helena said, “I only like your husband’s room. I love it here.” The two of them stayed in there the rest of the evening talking about God knows what. I went in from time to time to check up on them. They never sat down. They stood–like men–and talked for four hours. I’d never been in the presence of such strength of personality. Both of them. Neither of them was a real beauty. They both came from nothing. They both were so much richer than most of the men we talk about today being rich. They’d done it all alone. Of course, there’d been men in their lives who had helped them, but they earned every cent they made. You ask if they were happy. That is not a characteristic of a European. To be contented–that’s for the cows. But I think that they were, at least when they were in power, at the wheel, and when they were running everything. And they did–these two women ruled empires.

–from D.V. by Diana Vreeland (which you seriously have to read)

* * * * *

Happy birthday, Coco. (And Bill Clinton. And Tipper Gore. And Bryan Block. And Robert Spark. And Melissa Bergeron. And Flynn De Marco.) I’ll knock back a French 76 on your behalf.

RANDOM SPARKLY BITS

1. New York magazine can be weird at times. I mean, yeah, it’s funny and snarky, but then there are articles like this overview of hot Olympic bodies, which basically says, “THERE ARE NO ATHLETES OF COLOR. NADAL IS JUST VERY TAN. DO NOT ADJUST YOUR SET.”

2. You know how you just stumble across things on YouTube–stuff from your childhood, or stuff you forgot about, or stuff you thought no one else on Planet Earth saw? Well, I just found a sizable cache of Dawn French’s Murder Most Horrid, an early 90s comedy little-known in the states, but which I find damn funny. Maybe it’s not your cup of tea–or maybe it is….

3. Speaking of stumbling, yesterday I happened across a weird item from Queerty entitled Madonna and brother share loads–and it reads exactly like you’d think. Fan fiction, or real dish? Knowing the parties involved, I’m not willing to make a wager.

4. I’m not a poetry buff–that much is clear. But every so often, I’ll find a piece I like–one that (maybe) doesn’t take itself too seriously. This one, reposted by Jesus’ General, mostly fits that category, even though I’m not sure it’s a poem. Where does one draw the line between blank verse and short story?

Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal

By Naomi Shihab Nye

After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,

I heard the announcement:

If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,

Please come to the gate immediately.

Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.

An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,

Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.

Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her

Problem? We told her the flight was going to be 4 hours late and she

Did this.

I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.

Shu dow-a, shu-beduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,

Sho bit se-wee?

The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—

She stopped crying.

She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.

She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the

Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late.

Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.

We called her son and I spoke with him in English.

I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and

Would ride next to her—Southwest.

She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of

It. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and

Found out of course they had ten shared friends.

Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian

Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.

She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering

Questions.

She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered

Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—

And was offering them to all the women at the gate.

To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a

Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,

The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same

Powdered sugar. And smiling. There is no better cookies.

And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—

Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,

With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always

Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.

And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,

This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.

Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped

—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.

They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.

This can still happen anywhere.

Not everything is lost.

Remember a couple of months ago when I posted all that stuff about Sissy Bounce? Well, the meme is done blowed up, ’cause Gambit Weekly’s current cover story is about–you guessed it–Sissy Bounce.

Not surprisingly, writer Alison Fensterstock is a much smarter writer than I am, and had enough time and curiosity to really explore the topic. Among the article’s more interesting tidbits is verification of what I’d expected: that straight Bounce rappers aren’t exactly thrilled with all the attention being lavished on the sissies. As rapper Plies recalls from his visit to a New Orleans club this July:

“And the DJ played one of those songs,” he said. “What the f*** is that? Come on, play some Soulja Slim or something, play Dizzy’s “Work Ya Elbows.’ The DJs act like they don’t have any other music to play. It’s nothing against them. It’s just the only thing I hear now in bounce is gay, and it’s something I don’t want my children to hear,” Meana added, although he was careful to note that gangsta rap and his own songs glorifying drug use are also off-limits in his house. “They can listen to the radio version,” he said. “But I hear the same complaint (that bounce is gay) at the barbershop, at the studio, everywhere I go.”

Which is, I guess, a marginally more tolerant response than we’d have gotten five or ten years ago. So: yay, but also, boo.

Regardless of the homophobia Allison exposes, it’s a great piece. And as if that weren’t enough, the equally awesome author (and recently repatriated New Orleanian) Kevin Allman has posted a lengthy Q&A he had with Ms. Fensterstock about the whole experience of researching and writing the article. Among her observations:

[T]he NOLA sissies are less a part of queer culture at large, I think, than they are a part of New Orleans culture. There’s a huge Internet fan base for them. It’s totally possible that Freedia or Katey would have a RuPaul moment. They have that kind of rock star quality. But as Matt Miller, who directed the bounce documentary said, the problem is also with the regional quality of the music – it’s really simple and rough and based a lot on the neighborhood-projects-school call and response. So that might inhibit it translating nationally more than the sissy-ness would. But I hope they do.

Also worthy of excitement: the Bounce documentary she mentions, which features several Sissy Bouncers. More yay for your Wednesday:

That’s Jonno, being a shutterbug at the High Museum as Kara Walker looms in the background. Not pictured: Tyler and Jay, because I totally forgot to call them. Richard = idiot.

Perhaps that’s all for the best, though, since neither Jonno nor I were especially high on the High (although I’m envious of its URL). Here are some words I would use to describe it: white, gargantuan, cold, unfriendly, unintuitive, choppy. Also: needlessly spread out and oddly curated. The nail in the coffin? A jumble of cultural artifacts from Burkina Faso hidden amongst the museum’s collection of 19th century European fine art. Just plain weird.

On the other hand, while in Columbus my mom took me to the aptly named Columbus Museum, which featured a beautiful, concise collection, including two huge paintings by Bo Bartlett and a good bit of historic paraphernalia. And unlike the High’s $18 admission charge, the Columbus Museum was absolutely free. It was like, you know, a study in contrasts. Or something.