Green goddess in a bottle! The world has gone gay, gay, gay, gay, gay!
Did I miss a meeting or something? Are we on a comeback streak? Next thing I know, you’ll be trying to tell me that drag is hip again…
Author: Richard
I’ve never really understood why women are so timid. For me, only someone with a powerful look — Diana Vreeland, say, or Minnie Mouse — is a person worth emulating. Because — and here is a big secret — if you construct an eccentric look and make it your own, you will be forever insulated from the world of fashion, a place where, let’s face it, you can never be lissome enough, your hair never curly (or straight) enough, your chest never full (or flat) enough. And here’s an added bonus: Truly wacky style doesn’t date, so all those worries about wrinkles leave you blissfully unaffected.
Mario’s bold glasses are the remaining emblem of his wild youth. “I got to a certain age and realized that I didn’t need to look crazy,” he says. “What was inside my head was enough.”
Two freshwater pearls of wisdom (on platinum chain with bezel-set amethyst pendant and a surround of 12 peridot, lobster-claw clasp, Van Cleef & Arpels, $3760, at Van Cleef & Arpels boutiques) from the current edition of T, the New York Times’ style magazine.
Wow. I’ve been talking a lot of crap, haven’t I? How’s about some good old-fashioned [mostly] gay pornography, just to remind ourselves what’s really important in life? Let’s see, there’s…
Token straight pornstar biographical smut
Did I mention that none of those links are worksafe and that popup blockers are wonderful things? I mean, I shouldn’t have to, but, you know, responsible person that I am…
If you want more, of course, you can visit the boyfriend, whose stuff is–need I say it?–also, like, totally NSFW.
Obviously, I Have Too Much Time On My Hands
Inspired by the whole Gannon-snooping thing, I started clicking around, and you know what’s funny?
Not that Men’s News Daily is one of only two documented subscribers to the Talon “News” service (scare quotes mine), which, as we now know, is the sister site of GOPUSA.com, both owned by Texas Republican activist Bobby Eberle (aka “Robert R. Eberle, Ph.D.”).
Not that its title, when considered in tandem with its far-right-leaning viewpoint, makes it sound like the mouthpiece for retro-thinking Archie Bunkers, who’d prefer their women barefoot in the kitchen and confined to “scourge huts” during their menstrual cycles.
No, what’s funny is that Men’s News Daily features run-of-the-mill homophobic vitriol like this and this and this (not to mention some confusing apocalyptocrap), while on the righthand border of every single page, there’s a very prominent link to GayPatriot.org.
Now, I’m a moderate-to-slightly-leftish Democrat, and I probably always will be. (Though, truth be told, it’d be nice to have another option besides Ralph freaking Nader.) Still, I can understand some of the positions held by gay Republicans. I understand how some of them–especially the ones who live outside major metro areas and their established queer communities–dislike the urban, flamboyantly gay lifestyle. I was born and raised in a town like that, and the homogeneity is kinda stifling: at Wal-Mart, at church, everywhere you go, folks are screaming “follow the President” and “defend marriage,” and after a while, you have little choice but to buy in. And hell, for folks who live in places where a lingering glance in a locker room can result in a bloody nose (or worse), the idea of a community where GLBT people walk around holding hands is more than a little foreign and scary.
Still, I find it hard to believe that even the rightest of right-wing homos could agree with some of the piffle on Men’s News Daily. I mean, even the Log Cabin Republicans pulled their support of Bush in the 2004 election because he got so extreme, right? So why the link? Who put it there? Who keeps it there? Is it meant to give some kind of credence to the right-wingers’ arguments, so they can say, “See, we’ve got some gays on our side, too”? Or is it a fluke of serendipity?
Curiously enough, the owner of GayPatriot.org, “C. M. Grantham,” has the same contact phone number as Outlet Radio, which lists a “Christian Grantham” on its masthead. Mr. Grantham’s articles feature a byline that states he “was a consultant to domestic policy forums for the Clinton Administration as well as events for HRC and GLAAD”–not exactly the sort of credentials you’d expect from the owner of a site that claims to be “the blog home for the more than one million gay [sic] and lesbians who support President Bush” and which “ravishes the Left and has fun doing it!”
After digging a little more, it seems Grantham’s positions on Outlet Radio and on his personal website are a fair bit more liberal than his posts to GayPatriot.org. (In fact, he doesn’t even identify himself on the latter, but it’s safe to assume that he’s the poster who calls himself Gay Patriot and who has the same email addy as “C.M. Grantham,” the registrar of the site.) Still, that’s all fine. I mean, I was on the debate team in high school–I appreciate someone who can argue both sides of the coin.
But what’s strange about all this is that when Grantham refers to Gannon’s former employer, Talon News, in his GayPatriot post, he uses scare quotes, implying a highly skeptical opinion of Talon. Is he not paying attention? Does he not realize that he’s advertising (the banner’s a little too prominent to be just link swap) on the website of one of Talon’s only subscribers?
No, I don’t know what it all means. Frankly, I think I’ve confused myself. But something’s weird.
Update: Great minds, dearie…. Lucky for you, he’s far more articulate than I.
Back in the day, I used to drink gin. Lots of it. This was during my undergrad years, after I’d gone through the 50-cent-draft-beer phase and the girly liquor phase (mostly rum), and long before I discovered the simpler, more subtle joys of vodka, wine, and really good beer.
Now, I don’t know how many of y’all are gin people, but lemme tell ya: Miss Tanqueray is a cruel, cruel mistress. You party with her more than a couple of times in a couple of hours, and the next thing you know, you’re waking up in the bathtub of a strange apartment sporting a fat black eye and the business end of a horse costume. In fact, there are vast expanses of my early 20s that I can’t remember at all, simply because I was going out every night and swilling g-and-t’s (i.e. gin and tonics, for those who’ve never tended bar) like H2O. Luckily for me–not to mention my friends and the howevermany millions of people who drive automobiles in this country–I put away the gin years ago, and I haven’t looked back.
Which is not to say that I don’t occasionally get tanked. I do. It’s rare, but I do. And when I do, I tend to kinda black out. The next morning, I’ll think back on the night before, and it’s like watching a slide show without my glasses: blurry, and somewhat unsettling. I just have to hope and pray that I didn’t do anything too embarrassing or offensive to anyone I know or anyone who works in the Mayor’s office (’cause you never know when you’ll need to call in a favor, I say).
I mention all this because in the not-too-distant past, I had one of those episodes, and for weeks, I’ve been biding my time. I haven’t specifically asked anyone for an account of my antics, I’ve just been waiting for fallout.
I’m happy to report that as of last night, I’ve seen everyone on my list who I might’ve offended, and they’ve all hugged my neck and given me a kiss like nothing happened. So, I must’ve behaved–something I didn’t always do when I was younger.
I’m becoming a genteel old fogey of a boozer. Even my downward spirals are dull and lifeless and uneventful, just like my hair. How depressing.
File under: “I’m Always the Last to Know”
Remember a couple of weeks ago at that press conference when a “reporter” asked W how he was planning to garner bipartisan support for Social Security reform when, as the reporter put it, Democrats had “divorced themselves from reality”? It made, like, national news because it was so obvious that this guy was a shill for the Bush administration? My gay-lover-on-the-DL Jon Stewart even did a piece on it? Remember?
Well, even if you don’t, several folks did, and luckily for us, they did some snooping. Turns out that until recently (May of 2003), this reporter, Jeff Gannon (née James Guckert), may have had a lucrative hobby as a male prostitute. I can only hope that his probings in the boudoir were more convincing than those of the press room.
And yes, I know that thanks to the boyfriend and his colleagues and every other media hound in the world, this is old, old news, but hey, ask anybody: I’m always late to the party.
UPDATE: Maureen Dowd has now joined the fray, as well as my hero, Frank Rich!
So, I think it was Freud who basically said that everything comes down to desire–desire propels us forward, makes us move, change, whatever. According to him, the process goes something like, we want X (food, sex, a complete set of lobby cards from Strait-Jacket), we get X, we’re fine for about five minutes, then we want Y (more food, more sex, a complete set of lobby cards from Imitation of Life).
I thought of that this weekend when I drove up to see my friend Lesley in Jackson, Mississippi–home base for my undergrad years. Now, I had some very good times in Jackson, and unlike some of my buddies, I wasn’t counting the days ’till I could sing “Jackson in my Rear View Mirror.” That said, I never really had an attachment to Jackson like the one I have to New Orleans. The affinity just wasn’t there. And that’s why I left: not to get away from something, but to get to something else.
There are parts of Jackson that I miss, though–the most obvious being its architecture. Jackson really started to hit its stride after the turn of the century, after the popularity of Victorian architecture had begun to wane. As a result, many of the homes there–the ones in the really interesting, green, walkable neighborhoods–are of the Arts & Crafts style: bungalows with intimate, woody living areas, like warm cocoons. Very Riven. It’s something we don’t often see here in New Orleans, where homes in much of Orleans parish (i.e. Orleans county) often date to 1900 or earlier.
Lesley’s pad definitely isn’t of the Arts & Crafts style–it was built in the late 1950s and looks like it might have been an early prototype for the Brady Bunch house. Still, on the inside it has many bungalow-esque qualities: lower ceilings, built-in fixtures (note the countertop and lighting fixture in her kitchen above), curious geometries, multiple levels. And as nice as our house in New Orleans is becoming after nearly five long years of renovations, it’s a little…austere? Simple? Something. I mean, I wouldn’t trade it for the world, and I don’t want to move back to J-town. I just forget what it’s like to be in those cozy spaces, you know? It’s an environment I enjoy but have forgotten.
We always want what we don’t have.
The worst part about Arthur Miller’s death is not that we’ve lost a great playwright or a rigorous intellectual or a uniquely American voice extolling the virtues of openness, discussion, and debate.
No, the worst part about Miller’s death is that theatergoers across the land will soon face an onslaught of “tribute” performances of The Crucible, After the Fall, and perhaps the worst play ever written, All My Sons, in which the central character must utter the title of the show in a hideous, theoretically climactic speech: “They were my sons. They were all my sons!”
God, just typing it makes me want to puke.
An Open Letter to the Editors of AARP.org
Dear Old People:
I know you’ve had a rough life. I know that when you were children, you had to walk to your little red schoolhouse in three feet of snow, uphill, both ways, in July. I know that you could go to the cinema with a nickel in your pocket and a ladyfriend on your polio-shriveled arm, buy candy, popcorn, and filet mignon for the both of you, and still walk out of the theater with change in your pocket. I know that you scrimped and saved so that your children and grandchildren wouldn’t have to grow up farming dirt and eating stray turnips. You’ve made your point: you need a break.
But jesusfreakingchrist, people, can’t you at least find a couple of decent writers for that abortion of a travel website you host? This pablum-filled article on New Orleans is littered with every lame cliche about the city we call home, not to mention some rather startling inaccuracies. Namely, the French Quarter’s architecture isn’t French, it’s Spanish. And for goddess’ sake, they’re called streetcars, not trolleys. And frankly, I think the use of “swimming” to describe the preponderance of live oaks in the Garden District not just odd, but overwrought.
It doesn’t sound to me like this schmuck even visited the city. No, it sounds to me like he sat at home on his lazy, wrinkled, 87-year-old ass and pieced together some info from other crappy travel sites and from conversations he had over lutfisk with a bunch of his pals from the First Lutheran Church of St. Paul who had a one-day stopover in New Orleans on a bus tour last spring. (Hey, if he can stereotype, so can I.) I understand that you need something simple and exciting and short for your increasingly senile readership, but goddamn, that’s just offensive.
I’m gonna let it pass this time, but if I ever hear of you encouraging people to call New Orleans “The Big Easy” again, I’m gonna hop in my car, drive straight to Des Moines or Terre Haute or wherever you fuckwads live, and cut your flaccid, flaccid penises right off.
Sincerely
The Sturtle
P.S. No, I’m neither a member of AARP nor a reader of your magazine. It was Tyler who brought your hideousness to my attention. You can thank him yourself.
P.P.S. Yes, I’m switching to decaf now.
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It was a long day capping off a short season. Yesterday, I got up at 6:00am to tidy in advance of the open house for our fellow St. Anne revelers, took the hounds on a nice, long walk, laced myself into costume, and as the parade was passing, locked up and began the march to Canal.
St. Anne took a different route this year, bypassing a large swath of Royal Street that usually wreaks havoc on the parade because of bottlenecking and huge crowds. Although I was skeptical at first, I have to say, it worked much, much better. We hit Canal Street just as Rex was arriving, had a small but frustrating confrontation with some tourist bitch/idiot, then after watching a dozen cracker-iffic floats (the themes of which were so completely obscure that they must have been designed to raise awareness of an as-yet-unannounced exhibition of seventh century Cambodian pottery at the New Orleans Museum of Art), we headed off to fagland.
We didn’t last long. Between the meager crowds (hotels were only at 80% occupancy), the minimal costuming in the gay quarter (attention, bignellymarys of the world: going shirtless with camo pants doesn’t count as a costume), my aching feet, and the fact that my yoga instructor has been kicking my ass lately, I was ready to go, and so was you-know-who.
The weather, which had cooperated for most of the day, finally let loose with a little rain as we neared the house, but nothing major. We got back, undressed, had a few people over for ziti (which I’d encouraged Jonno to make the night before, in anticipation of the need for hot, fattening food late on Fat Tuesday), and crashed. Pleasant and without incident: the way I like my Mardi Gras.
And yes, for the first time ever, I took pictures. I really enjoyed doing it, too. It’s enough to make me re-think my costume for next year to allow for more of it. (New shoes are at the top of the redesign list: five-inch-platforms make me wobble.)
Among the pics: the boyfriend, some killer jellyfish outfits, and Elizabeth, winning the prize of the day for her “barfly” outfit. Truly inspired.
