The boyfriend and I took a ride on behalf of the dogs last night. To suburbia.

Of the many things I noticed during our voyage to this strange land, three stand out:

• I understand that we Americans have too much money and too few children, but I still feel guilty spending half my disposable income on pet products. I haven’t yet started with the puppy pinafores and the doggie do-rags, but I’m afraid it’s only a matter of time.
• The store formerly known as “The Bombay Company” has implemented a strategy of simplicity, shortening its name to “Bombay.” Perhaps the CEOs will consider a parallel strategy of accuracy and change the store’s name once more to “Mumbai.”
• As a general rule, I should know by now that when I ask a waitress at a Vietnamese restaurant to suggest “a little something sweet,” the glass of cracked ice, stringy gelatin, and candied plums she brings to the table will in no way resemble the dessert I’d envisioned.

So, the big Exodus International conference starts today. I was thinking about shirking my thespian responsibilities and sneaking up for it. I mean, call me a dacryphiliac, but I don’t think there’s anything more arousing than a tearful, late-night coming-out, followed by hours of tearful, we-shouldn’t-be-doing-this, shockingly hot monkey love with someone who thinks he’s confused about his sexuality.

Then I read the conference’s Code of Conduct policy–specifically the part that prohibits attendees from “seeking sexual contacts.” So, I guess that’s out. I mean, why waste $300 when I could just as easily live out my Lothario fantasy with a self-hating closet-case by moseying up to the Louisiana Republican Party Headquarters?

For months, Arabic-language channels have been broadcasting confessions of terrorist suspects that have at once increased ratings and raised suspicions that the statements may have been coerced or staged.

But Sheik Zana’s confessions, delivered in Kurdish, stand out because he and his followers had a habit of videotaping not only what appear to be horrific murders and rapes, but also sex among themselves and with the young men whom they were trying to recruit for their cause….

Among the elements of the Arabic-language confessions that some viewers regard as suspicious are stock admissions by the supposed terrorists that they are gay. Because gay sex is haram, or forbidden, in the Koran, some critics have suggested that the speakers have been induced to make those statements to embarrass themselves.

— New York Times

So on the surface, it seems that one of two things is going on: either (a) a group of gay extremists has been carrying out terrorist activities in the name of Iraqi Kurdistan and/or Islam, or (b) a group of non-gay extremists, which has been carrying out terrorist activities in the name of Iraqi Kurdistan and/or Islam, has finally been caught and forced to confess that they’re homos, just to drive the proverbial nail a little deeper into their collective coffin during their prosecution.

From the story in the NYT (one of only three English-language articles I can find on this particular topic), it seems that a considerable segment of Iraq’s population is going with Option B, despite the fact that there’s apparently all this video footage of Kurdish Guys Gone Wild. In an act of willful blindness eerily reminiscent of the nutty refutations surrounding Gameel el-Batouty and the crash of EgyptAir 990 nearly six years ago, devout Muslims are happy to fall back on one of their favorite syllogisms:

Muslims are forbidden from X.

Y is a good Muslim.

Therefore, Y cannot be guilty of X.

And although no one’s made the logistical jump just yet, it’s only a matter of time until someone blurts out the traditional fourth line:

Therefore, the recent incidents of X are part of a plot by Israel and Mossad.

But for me, what’s really troubling is not the ludicrousness of the denials, nor the lack of discussion in these articles about the complex issues surrounding homosexuality in Islam, including the lingering distinctions between homosexuality and sodomy. No, the problem is that it calls to mind similarly freakish leaps of faith I witnessed growing up as a Southern Baptist, and I realize that I may have been guilty of some blind-eyed assessments of my own. For example:

Southern Baptists are forbidden to drink alcohol.

My mother is a good Southern Baptist.

Therefore, my mother can’t be an alcoholic.

You know, that “opiate of the people” guy may have been onto something….

Perhaps I was too coy in my last post. Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. Let me rephrase it for you:

Come see our freaking show this weekend, girlyman.

Sheesh. Always have to be so direct with you people….

Got some time on your hands now that summer’s here? Wondering what to do with yourself in the coming days? Might I suggest a trip to the theatre? I hear there are some terrif shows opening this weekend.

But perhaps that’s not your thing. Perhaps you’d rather hustle down to the Bywater this Saturday night and shake a tailfeather with Voodou priestess Sallie Ann Glassman. She’ll be working the gris-gris hard, hard, hard to make sure New Orleans stays high and dry this season.

And yes, ladies and gentlemen, despite her name, Sallie Ann is most definitely the real deal…

HURRICANE CEREMONY VIII

WHAT: Public prayer ceremony dedicated to Our Lady of Prompt Succor (who has intervened historically on New Orleans’ behalf when a hurricane has threatened) and Ezili Dantò (also associated with Mater Salvatoris and Mt Carmel) to ask for protection from hurricanes

WHEN: Saturday, July 16th, at 7:00pm

WHERE: Achade Meadows peristyle, 3319 Rosalie Alley, off of Rampart, between Piety and Desire. (It’s a dirt alley to the left. Check my magnificent photo collage above for distinguishing topographical characteristics.)

WHAT TO BRING IN OFFERING:

For Our Lady: flowers, statues, candles, religious pictures, jewelry

For Dantò: Barbancourt rum, florida water, candles, daggers, dolls dressed in red and blue or calico prints, spicy black beans, peasant cakes, unfiltered cigarettes, fried pork

WHAT TO WEAR: It’s suggested that attendees dress in white (the color of purity) with red head scarves, or in all red (the color of Petwo rites).

MORE INFO: Call Sallie Ann at The Island of Salvation Botanica, 504 948 9961

The last bit of an apparently vehement, lengthy conversation between two schizophrenic homeless people, which I overheard Sunday morning as I biked through Jackson Square:

“Bitch, you got to get yourself a mirror and talk that shit out.”

Which proves that (a) we’ve got some clever nutcases in the Quarter, and (b) sometimes just hearing the punch line is better than sitting through the whole joke.

An Open Letter to the Citizens of New Orleans

My Fellow New Orleanians:

You are all a bunch of pussies.

Actually, let me rephrase that: you are all a bunch of water-hoarding, Margaret Orr-loving, I-10-clogging evacuation monkeys.

For days, every meteorological model has shown Dennis hitting the Floribama coast, but still, you’re closing up shop. You’re cancelling events. You’re running for the hills (literally, since Monkey Hill doesn’t count).

You’re on the streets at 7:00am, eyes wide with hysteria as you make one last run to Home Depot for plywood. Your minivans teeter from side to side, piled high with children and pets and shabbat candles (the only ones you could still find at Robert’s). At the Shell station, you pump gallon after gallon of gas, remembering your evacuation in the face of Ivan and hoping that it doesn’t take you another eight hours just to reach Aunt Judy’s house in Baton Rouge.

And so I ask, could you pantywaists stop with the kvetching and the tsoris and the powerdrills before dawn and please listen to Bob freaking Breck? Yes, I know: with that shrill little voice and those unfortunate hair plugs, he’s sometimes tough to stomach, but underneath all those Cassandra-Complex trappings, he’s a rational guy, and he’s saying “Sit your ass back down.” (I paraphrase.)

Seriously, if you’re gonna fly into a tizzy every time a low pressure system creeps toward the Gulf Coast, maybe y’all ought to move someplace else. There’s Minneapolis, for example. Or St. Louis. Or Hershey, Pennsylvania–you like chocolate, don’t you? Fact is, there’s a zillion places unlike New Orleans where you could live, so do us all a favor and hit the road. We have enough to worry about with crime and public schools and those goddamn new parking thingamajigs without you screaming gloom and doom in our ears every other week.

Good riddance. Don’t forget to drop us a line now and then from whatever godforsaken Midwestern hellhole you land in.

Sincerely,

Your neighbor, who is trying to get some sleep

Despite the manner of the London bombings–spread out as they were, geographically and chronologically–I was never really worried about my sister. Some people just aren’t the rush-hour type.

In fact, from the email I received yesterday, it sounds like Tiff was at home when everything went down, still celebrating the release of her first single, “Miss USA,” now available at HMV (well, at lease HMV/UK). Sometimes I guess it pays to be an ex-pat, alt-lifestyle, electroclash queen….

Wow. Cindy.

You think Cindy, you think of Cindy Brady, Cindy Crawford, Cindy Lou Who, who was no more than two. Who knew Cindy could be such a bitch? Seriously, I don’t think I’ve seen/heard/felt (it’s a drafty, old house remember) wind like that in a very long time.

Odd thing is, last night’s weather was actually pleasant. The temperature, I mean. Usually when hurricanes come through, it’s muggy and hot, and when the power goes out, it’s unbearable–so uncomfortable, you have to down a fistful of sleeping pills just to get some shut-eye. But last night, even without a/c and ceiling fans, it was fine. I moved my pillow to the wood floor, which was considerably cooler than the bed, but apart from that, no big whoop. And the juice came back on after just four hours–way sooner than expected. Not too shabby for such a mean-spirited low-pressure system.

In other news, Pensacola just can’t get a freaking break.

An Independence Day List of 13 People, Places, and Things
From Which I Have Declared My Own Independence

1. Mom (just the adoptive one), apple pie, and baseball
Too many issues, too many carbs, and too hard to find 17 other faggots to play a decent game.

2. The Velvet Mafia
Although the bloody gerbil head I found on my pillow may mean I’ve already been booted out.

3. The Lindsay Lohan Fan Club
My time, energy, and disposable income have been re-allocated to Mr. Jesse Bradford.

4. Tom Robbins
After years of valiant attempts, I’ve made absolutely no headway on his oeuvre. And yes, ladies, I’ve tried Even Cowgirls Get the Blues. It’s a lost cause.

5. Alternative faggotry
Speaking of lost causes… I mean, seriously: I can’t be the only one who wants to beat Rufus Wainwright to a pulp.

6. Antiques Roadshow
It was cute at first, but one more $20,000 toothpick, and I think I’ll scream.

7. Ming Tsai
His hotfuckability has been outweighed by his chronic case of assholism.

8. Takeout from China Wall
In light of #7 above, this does not constitute a revolt against the whole of Chinese cuisine–just against its fat calories. Besides, I’m keeping the option to receive deliveries at home.

9. Sanity
The addition of a fourth dog to our household was the stray that broke the camel’s back.

10. The American Songbook
A result of that cinematic train wreck otherwise known as Delovely.

11. Dilbert
We get it: you’re a nerd.

12. Party Politics
<facetiousness>Unless it’s an Oscar party, Mary!</facetiousness>

13. The Amish
Admittedly, not a difficult one since I’ve never even met an Amish person, but I needed something to round out the list…