Sample question from the SSSEAT
[Shamelessly Sibilant Sturtelian Ethical Aptitude Test]

32. Which of the following situations is most ethically egregious?

a. Party animal-cum-crooner Kid Rock, who for many weeks had been unofficially slated to perform at the inaugural festivities, will not be participating after all, thanks in part to the prudish, letter-writing efforts of the American Family Association–a right-wing, v-chipping, teetotaling organization so dedicated to kissing the president’s pasty white ass that it’s completely willing to overlook the fact that GW’s cock-gobbling daughters could easily drink Monsieur Rock under the table, so formidable is their lust for the “Devil’s Urine” (as booze was often called by Southern Baptists in my neck of the woods).

b. Babs (Walters, not Mrs. Bush 41 or daughter of Bush 43) earns another “get” notch on her belt tonight thanks to an allegedly upfront, candid chat with the First Family on one of ABC’s most popular hard-news programs, 20/20, which Babs continues to co-host, despite her demonstrated penchant for smarmy, softball, lachrymose chats with the PARADE magazine set.

c. Intellectual top [clue: dog-eared copy of Das Capital in left rear pocket of well-worn Dockers] Frank Rich possesses the ability to expose corruption, subterfuge, and general hypocrisy all the live-long day, but he has yet to awaken me in the middle of the night, carry me off to his secret pied-a-terre, and ravish me with breathless readings of The 9/11 Commission Report.

d. For centuries, the sassy, back-talking servant has been a failsafe device for comic relief (c.f. Tartuffe, 1664; The Jeffersons, 1975 – 1985), but in fact, this has only served to justify conditions of socio-economic inequity: like black minstrels, know-it-all maids and butlers who save the day prove once and for all that happy-go-lucky underlings make the most of the hand life deals them, so why would we even bother to offer them better wages?

e. All of the above.

f. None of the above.

g. Both a & b. The rest is a load of crap, you big honky fudgepacker.

P.S. Yes, I’m aware that The Cum Crooner would make an excellent title for an adult film catering to the world’s gargling fetishists. I’ll get right on it.

This is a joke, right? I mean, New Orleans isn’t really hosting an ass conference, is it? Or rather, an äss conference?

Not that we ain’t got some junk up our trunks, ’cause we do, baby. We do.

[Thanks for the tip-off, Tyler.]

Southern men have this thing about their bodies. Or maybe it’s American men in general. Or at least white men. Whatever: for certain segments of this country’s male population, when it comes to clothes–particularly beach attire–hiding the goods is very important.

It’s not a modesty thing. Modesty is Muslim women taking the veil or Pentacostal gals wearing ankle-length skirts. Modesty is me buttoning up my shirt an extra notch when I go to see Jonno’s grandmother. No, if Amerihonky beachwear was modesty-driven, it stands to reason that white men would cover up their beer guts and bare arms, too. As it is though, they’re all-too-content to show off above the waistline.

It’s a macho thing, I guess. These guys wear big, baggy swimsuits to hide the fact that they’re not well-endowed–or perhaps to hide the fact that they’re very well endowed. They follow a set of implicit rules that men in the rest of the world never picked up on: “Don’t draw attention to your crotch, buddy, ’cause I don’t wanna start comparing. I don’t even wanna look at it ’cause it makes me uncomfortable, looking at your schlong.” Same thing goes for hiding the ass. Size-envy and homophobia, wrapped up in one sartorial package.

That’s why the Hispandex site has intrigued me for years. These guys–mostly Hispanic, but sometimes Eastern European, too–aren’t shy about showing off. I get the feeling that in Puerto Rico or Moscow, finding an oversized pair of Jams would be nearly impossible: just racks and racks of Speedos. The thought of my family visiting such a beach or, conversely, a busload of these guys descending on the Mississippi Gulf Coast, is enough to make me squirm. In a good way.

Poetryfagitis is a well-documented condition that commonly affects young males age 14 – 25. Despite my steadfast efforts to avoid that demographic at work, at play, and everywhere in-between, I have apparently contracted a mild but persistent case of the disease.

Now, to the casual observer, I may appear the very picture of health. And in point of fact, I suffer from only one symptom: an unusual, nagging–nay, consuming–obsession with a fairly obscure poem by Charles Bukowski called “Party Girl” published alongside an interview of the poet (conducted by Mr. B’s acolyte, Sean Penn) in the September 1987 issue of Interview magazine.

I am well aware that a poem about party girls–much less one by macho asshole Bukowski–seems an unlikely object of fascination for someone afflicted with poetryfagitis. All I can say is that I originally read the piece long ago, during my semi-carefree fagolescence, so maybe it has sentimental value.

Having suffered for weeks, I’ve come to the conclusion that the only way to cure myself is to dig up the poem, photocopy it or print it out, and post it on the bathroom mirror so I can read it every day. Unfortunately, it ain’t that easy. There’s very little of Bukowski’s work online, leading me to believe that webgeeks love the occasional Byron/Keats/Shelley ode but look far less kindly on work written after 1900 (unless, of course, said geeks have written it themselves). Hard copies are hard to come by, too: generations of GloomBetties and GothBobs from Decatur Street to Avenue A have ravaged libraries in vain hope of following in Bukowski’s allegedly reckless, booze-filled footsteps. Whatever shall I do?

Starting next week, the checkout counters of 7-11s across America will feature empty pickle jars with Xeroxed pictures of me. Below will run the caption: “Poetryfagitis isn’t pretty. Won’t someone cut this queen a break?”

Three Non-Related Quotes from
Two Non-Contemporaries for
One Very Gloomy Day

“Other nations use ‘force’; we Britons alone use ‘Might’.”

“Punctuality is the virtue of the bored.”

— Evelyn Waugh

“Nine-tenths of the people were created so you would want to be with the other tenth.”

— Horace Walpole

Unless it’s sex, death, or murder, I just don’t have time for it.

That didn’t really hit me until night before last when I was talking to a friend about the basic divide in 20th century theatre [Ed. note: Yes, I am (a) dull, and (b) a theatre fag], which essentially comes down to Bertold Brecht vs. Antonin Artaud. And Brecht was all like, “Ach! I’m gonna turn up the lights in the theatre and talk directly to the audience so they’ll know they’re at a play and they can really think about the issues onstage instead of getting caught up in the emotional story. Ya?” And Artaud was all like, “Mon dieu! Dude, that is so not what theatre is about. I’m gonna create a terrifying, wordless spectacle with no logical narrative. I’m going to get at their gut, not their brain. Enculeur!”

Now, I used to like the Brecht stuff. I used to think that sort of approach to art could create social change. [I know: whatever, right?] But one day I woke up and I said, “Damn, she’s preachy, ain’t she? Screw that condescending bitch!”

So maybe it’s intellectual laziness on my part. Maybe it’s my unwillingness to really think about issues and things. Maybe it’s my natural impatience, my inability to focus on complex arguments for too long and see all the nuances. But for whatever reason, I’m totally on the Artaud tip these days.

I want to see news broadcasts full of death and destruction artlessly captured on fuzzy home video. I want to see ain’t-life-grand sunny days turn suddenly black with gore. I want pornography that’s pure animal rutting. Screw all this conceptual stuff: I want theatre and dance and photography and everything else to be sexy, painful, horrifying, sad. I want to be totally aroused or nauseous or dizzy or furious or some combination thereof. Tell me: is that too much to ask?!?

. . . Whew.

Sorry about that. I’ve seen too many Agnes Martins the past few days, and it’s starting to get on my nerves.

In case any of you missed it…

Homophobia (noun)

Definition: The fear of men or the male sex; fear of human beings.

Usage: Since an article in the London Times in 1969, the word has been widely misused to mean homosexophobia “the fear of homosexuals.” Time has not proven that this use of the term will become a permanent alternative meaning.

Suggested Usage: This word may be used to refer to a fear of men or all males: “I don’t think my daughter will ever get married; I think she is homophobic.” It may also refer to the fear of humankind: “You will never see such a homophobic soul as Melvin at a party.”

[Link courtesy of Elizabeth]

Lifeless bodies aren’t usually what I’d call entertaining. I mean, corpses? Pretty depressing. Roadkill? A driving hazard. Stuffed animals? Good for luring sorority girls to their untimely deaths, but otherwise useless.

Gonzo taxidermy experiments featuring Frankenstein-esque pastiches of formerly living things, however, can be damn funny. And a TV series featuring a family of mannequins–though not technically “lifeless”–is freaking hilarious. Or at least, it looks hilarious. Hell, I’d buy the damn thing.

Today’s sturtlewisdom: “One day in the monastery, a novice stumbled down a flight of stairs and landed in a pile of dirty chamberpots. In great pain, the novice looked up to see Master Lu standing above him, smiling. And the Master said, ‘It is good to laugh with others, but far better to laugh at them.'”

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At long last, some pics from New Year’s Eve. There aren’t as many as I’d like–Jonno took a couple before most people showed up, then put the camera aside until most everyone had gone–but whatevs.

As for my attire, I was initially going for the whole “Miss Jane Hathaway Ornithological Expedition” thing, but due to a lack of planning on my part and the fact that someone seems to have misplaced our one and only set of binoculars, it came out looking more like “Normal Fell Porn Star Retiree.” Not that I have anything against Norman Fell or retired porn stars mind you, but, well, you know….

Today’s post is brought to you by guest contributor, Mr. Steve.

Hello, boys and girls! I’m Mr. Steve!

Richard was feeling a little oogey-woogey this morning, so he asked me to step in and pen today’s post! How exciting! Of course, I wouldn’t wish illness on anyone–not even a certain b-level cabaret singer who stood me up twice last week–but I’m happy to have the chance to say hello and share some of my patented Mr. Steve Wisdom (seriously: patent pending!)!

My topic for today is gym etiquette. Now, I know what some of you are thinking: “Mr. Steve, don’t be such a fuddy-duddy! There’s no need for gym etiquette! Gyms are where you’re supposed to let it all hang out!” And that, my dears, is the problem.

When I visit my local gymnatorium, I’m horrified by the fashion choices of my fellow health enthusiasts! The place is littered with with men in skimpy shorts straight from the pages of International Male, and they aren’t wearing underwear! Honestly, if they were all to do one good headstand, I could glimpse the religion, creed, and national origin of everyone in the room!

Please understand that Mr. Steve is in no way, shape, or form a P-R-U-D-E. I just think some things are best saved for the sauna! It’s as though these men haven’t learned the basic rules of drama–and since Mr. Steve attends a gay gym, you wouldn’t expect that to be a problem!

I can’t say it enough, fellas: don’t give away the goods up front! (Pun intended!) Let me caress you with my eyes from the Smith Machine. Give me the occasional “come hither” glance from the leg press. But don’t get your ya-ya’s out on the yoga mat! It’s far too indelicate! Far too direct for the unforgiving fluorescent light of the weight room! Tease me! Play a delicate game of cat and mouse, until I follow you discreetly into the wet area of the locker room, taking surreptitious looks at your meaty manhood, crowned by its regal pelt! That’s the way Fanny Brice would have done it–god rest her soul–and so should you! That is the way and the means of true revelation!

Of course, there are some men who simply can’t stand wearing undergarments. I fail to comprehend why such men can’t wear beach culottes with built-in pouches to restrain their manly bulges, but if you are such a one–if you can’t abide anything less than “going commando”–at least do us the favor of wiping up after yourself! I cannot tell you how many times I’ve come out of “child pose” only to find my nose and forehead matted with a thick layer of curly hairs of every imaginable shade!

There is, of course, an exception to the underwear rule: my personal trainer, Jose. To the casual observer, Jose’s passion for lycra shorts and skin-tight tank tops might seem shamelessly inappropriate to the point of sexual exhibitionism, but to those of us under his tutelage, he is an inspiration! When he spots us on the bench press, by god, yes, we will do as he says and lift that heavy, heavy bar one last time. We will do one more hamstring curl as his large, veiny hand rests on our buttocks, pinning us to the machine. We will eke out a final cable pull, as he stands directly behind us, his torso nuzzled against our back, his breath on our neck, his hands on our biceps, guiding us through the final motions of the rep. Hallelujah! His body is the land of milk and honey, and honey, we are so there!

Well, that’s all from Mr. Steve today! I hope to see you all the next time Richard visits death’s door! Bye-bye now!