A note to the many moldy musclequeens of the world: if you happen to pass me on the street and I happen to utter, “Ay, yi, yi! El Mutante!”, then yes, sweetie, even though my Spanish may be way off, I’m totally talking about you.

Some delectable spampoetry, courtesy of the boyfriend:

Her odd shaped t-shirt adheres or maybe a shining sony show its value.

His expensive bra smiles however, any given purple red picture run or
a round laptop is angry.

Mine white underwares looks around.

Any round-shaped kitchen lies however, mine white spoon stares.

Any noisy bicycle arrives.

Any shining recycle bin lies.

Mine stupid sport shoes stinks.

His small stupid sofa arrives.

A given round green gun stands-still at the place that a given
expensive soft wine arrives.

Our noisy car sleeps while our children purple picture stares.

Frangoulis’ producer on his new “Follow Your Heart” CD is Emanuele Ruffinengo, who seems determined to squander this talent on the same feckless, drill-bore sentiment that made Whitney Houston such a terror in the 1992 Black & Decker solo “I Will Always Love You.”

— CNN

Black and Decker solo? I don’t think I’ve ever heard a more accurate description of that drill bit of a diddy. Hedwig would totally agree.

Here’s a stoneresque thought: when I string together a series of words to make a sentence, chances are pretty good that, if the sentence is of any length, it’s practically unique. The longer the sentence, the better the chances. Take, for example, this innocuous phrase:

It should come as no surprise that Mrs. Higginbotham, a chronic agoraphobe with a nasty case of narcolepsy (the result of a traumatic childhood injury to her windpipe of which she refuses to speak), never earned her driver’s license.

Now google it (don’t forget the quotation marks). See? No one’s ever written that before–or at least no one’s written it and posted it to the web.

That’s kinda nifty, if you ask me: endless possibilities for expression. Steer clear of cliches and catchphrases, and most of what you say will be your own.

And no, I’m not baked. As luck would have it, I do have Rolling Kansas playing muted in the background, but all I can think of is, “Dag, that James Roday’s cute.”

Yes, folks, it’s that time of year–time for the most hootin’est, hollerin’est thespian face-off since Portia de Rossi went toe-to-toe with Ellen Degeneres: DramaRama12. If you’re in the N-to-the-izzO this weekend, mosey on down to the Contemporary Arts Center and the Louisiana Children’s Museum to get your fill of theatre, dance, performance art, and all things in-between. It’s cheap, it’s boisterous, it’s boozy, and as an added bonus (aka “lagniappe”), you’ll get a sneak-peek of our new show, The Gulls. What’s not to love about that?

I’m asking you nice. Remember, I know where you live.

Two Things

• When it comes to the overwrought and underwhelming, I didn’t think movies got much worse than Showgirls. Then I saw Showgirls edited for TNT…. Ted Turner, ladies and gentlemen: making incoherent films completely incomprehensible in the name of family programming.
• To the reader who commented that yesterday’s post really was TMI and then, in the same paragraph, asked what I thought of the Fred Durst conflamma: you’ll watch illegally hacked private vids of la Durst getting busy with some poor groupie but then tell me that semi-thoughtful musings on underwear is too personal? Honey, where do I begin?

T M I

Like most preschool boys, I graduated from diapers to briefs without much choice in the matter. Not that I would’ve had anything to say, mind you. At the time, I neither liked nor disliked briefs–in fact, I never really thought of them at all. I just knew (a) I needed to wear underwear, and (b) briefs were underwear. End of story.

Before long, though, I noticed that my dad and my uncle and my grandfather weren’t wearing briefs but boxers. Naturally, I wanted to be all grown up, too, so like a seven-year-old girl begging to wear lipstick, I asked mom if I could make the switch. She didn’t go for it. Even in junior high, when my dad suggested to mom that it was time for us to wear something looser, the tighty-whiteys kept coming.

Years later, in college, I finally got my chance to experience boxers. And what a disappointment. It was like…like the first time you taste whiskey. Your dad’s having a bourbon on the rocks after work, and you ask for a sip, thinking you’ll feel all adult, but it’s just about the worst tasting thing you’ve ever put in your mouth, and you think, “Damn, if that’s what being a grown-up is like, I’ll stay a kid, thanks.”

I just didn’t see what all the excitement was about. Briefs may have been a bit constricting, but at least they stayed in place. The elastic waistband on boxers, however, slipped around my torso like a snug-fitting hula-hoop. And forget about wearing them under snug-fitting jeans: it was like tucking in a second shirt, one that needed constant adjusting and untangling. Given men’s, um, pendulous anatomy, why would so many guys subject themselves to such torture?

By the time I discovered boxer-briefs a few years later, I was already soured on the idea of underwear altogether, and I stopped wearing it, more or less, after college. Every so often, I’d throw on a pair–like when my ex-boyfriend yelled at me and said I looked trashy. And even today, I’ll don the unmentionables if I’ve got on linen. But other than that, folks, when you see me on the street, I’m going commando.

That said, I’ve still got a soft spot (i.e. a fetish) for underwear. Not all of it, to be sure–like that International Male-looking crap that you see in cheesebag gay shops. Not even jockstraps do it for me, really. But a nice-looking guy in boxers or simple briefs? Mmmm.

   

Two more Fat Tuesday pics, courtesy of our pal Rakia (last seen chez nous at the far left of a ratty Duncan-Phyfe on New Year’s Eve):

• The one on the left features yours truly, looking like a grieving linebacker suffering from gender dysphoria, and the boyfriend-cum-priest.
• And on the right, that’s Rakia’s boyfriend Matt (aka Bunny, also seen on the sofa) dressed as a Mexican wrestler with unusually prominent genitals.

MISCELLANY

• Sissybears rule! I mean, Austin was adorable and all, but judging from his dullish fake-out Fashion Week show, maybe it’s a good thing he didn’t win…. Not that I’m so gay that I rushed home to watch the Project Runway finale or anything…. Oh, who am I kidding? I am indeed so gay.
• Apparently, the whole girl-groping thing on Japanese trains has gotten so bad that they’re now considering female-only cars. Sounds fine to me, but is it really safe to assume that when it comes to copping a feel, women don’t do such things?
• Speaking of Japan, sex, and cops, the G-Project wallpaper for February/March is finally available. (Okay, I lied about the cop part. But he’s a welder or something. That’s kinda close, right?)
• And since I seem to be on a roll with the foreign thing, why not throw in some free multicultural gay porn? (Sadly, the Asian gallery has no bears to speak of–not surprising, since most gay Asian porn tends toward the twinky Thai stuff. When, oh when, will they learn?)

The future of our nations and the future of the Middle East are linked and our peace depends on their hope and development and freedom.

Lasting successful reform in a broader Middle East will not be imposed from the outside. It must be chosen from within.

— Bush in Brussels

I’m sorry, could you repeat that? That bit about “from within”? …No, I heard it just fine. I think some folks may have missed it, though. Rummy, are you listening?

How’s that for a half-hearted, knee-jerk, lackluster critique of the war in Iraq? I suppose I just don’t care anymore.

Besides, 2005 is all about Syria, baby. And PDA hacking. And roller derby. Think Paris Hiton on skates, elbowing her way through Damascus. Totally on fire.