So, speaking of death, Henri Cartier–Bresson has passed on to that great darkroom in the sky.

Frankly, I was never a big fan of his work. His technique is beautiful, to be sure, but it always feels calculated, like he’s telling the viewer what to think. I mean, there’s not much room for interpretation in a photo like Rue Mouffetard, Paris, 1954. Then again, he considered himself a photojournalist in many ways, and I suppose that’s what photojournalists do–they tell stories. Still, it’s not my cup of cafe au lait.

That said, it was with a bit of trepidation that I attended a showing of his work here in New Orleans a couple of years ago. On the walls were the usual suspects: starkly beautiful landscapes; people in pain; people in love. But there was something else, too: a piece entitled Naples, 1963. In the photo, a man in a suit sits on another man’s lap. He looks away from his friend, toward a nearby newsstand–one that the friend presumably owns. The friend holds the man’s tie in his hands, caressing it, pulling the man closer to him. It is decidedly, tantalizingly ambiguous.

I was stunned. Art doesn’t have that effect on me too often. It happened at a Bill Viola show once. And the first time I saw John Currin‘s work. And a few other times. But not often.

What’s going on there, I wondered. The mood of the piece is hardly romantic–if anything, there’s an undercurrent of tension. The man in the suit looks embarrassed The newsstand owner looks desperate. And to complicate the image even further, it’s taking place on a city sidewalk in 1963.

I began to fantasize that the man in the suit had once been a hustler, working the streets to pay his way through school, and the newsstand owner was one of his regular clients. Eventually, the boy earned enough to finish his degree and moved on to a good job in a different part of town. Every day, the newsstand owner, secretly, passionately in love with the hustler, looked up and down the streets for his paramour–nearly jumped every time he saw someone from a distance who could, might be him. But nothing. Then one day, the boy-turned-man, forgetting where he was and the life he left behind, strolled casually through his old neighborhood. The newsstand owner spotted him right away and was beside himself with joy, begged the man to come and sit on his lap. But the boy he’d once known was recognizably different: he worked in an office now, had a wife and kids. He couldn’t be the person he’d been. And the moment captured on film is the awkward one–the one where both realize that things cannot, should not be what they once were.

But you make up your own story.

Anyway, I know it’s hokey to say that something–a song, a movie, a cheeseburger–“haunted” you, but in this case, it’s kinda true. I couldn’t stop thinking about the photograph. Neither could Jonno. So, a few months ago, we took a big breath, tightened our belts, and bought it. Well, began buying it. It was sort of an installment plan. And I’m glad we did–we could never afford it now that the artist is deceased. But ultimately, I don’t care about it’s monetary value. I’m just glad I get to look at it every day.

Maybe it’s bourgeois, or snobbish, or naive to say this, but everyone should have something on their walls or on their bookshelves or on their stereo that affects them like that.

I think about my funeral all the time. I kinda always have. Not that I’m a gothgirl gloombetty or anything, I just wanna have things cleared up. I don’t want anyone else to have to worry or wonder after I’m gone; I want to leave behind a straightforward, point-by-point schedule of how things should go, who to call. Sort of like the list your parents leave you when they go on vacation, with the hotel phone, the cell phone, the insurance company, the doctor–but instead, the relatives, the cemetary, and so on. A nice, bulleted list. I can be such a Virgo.

Only problem is, I don’t know what I want. As poetic as it may be, I’m not really into the whole cremation thing. On the other hand, neither do I relish the thought of being sealed in a pseudo-wood vault and dumped in the ground, quietly rotting away until archaeologists of the 31st century dig me up as an example of a 21st century homosexual. And most importantly, unlike Juanita Moore’s fabulously martyrific character in Imitation of Life, I hate the idea of anything involving horse-drawn hearses, assloads of lillies, and Mahalia Jackson. If my loved ones want to do something extravagant, I’d rather they spend money on themselves, not my fat, decomposing ass.

So, what else is there?

Apparently, quite a bit. Last night, as I sat in my living room answering emails and finishing off the aforementioned design projects, I had the TV on and muted, set to PBS. (Although we got full-on cable a few months ago–the first time I’ve had it since, like, 1986–I still tend to watch broadcast channels.) On comes POV, aka Point of View, a show that features documentaries and such from indie filmmakers, usually those of the way-left-leaning variety. Lots of stuff about poverty on the subcontinent, race relations in former imperial capitals, and lesbian horse trainers. You know what I mean.

This one was different. Called A Family Undertaking, it centered around folks who prefer to care for their deceased relatives rather than hand off the bodies to strangers for preparation and burial. Of course, as an indie documentary, there was an implicit bias against the corporate approach to death, made obvious in footage shot at the International Cemetary and Funeral Association convention–essentially a trade show for undertakers, morticians, and others in the business of death. But beyond that agenda, there was something genuinely touching and, well, “right” about the whole home burial thing. Maybe that was the result of well-edited footage and some articulate hippies, but whatever–it’s what I saw.

Being that I live in Louisiana–the only state in the union that still operates under civil law, as opposed to the common law system of the other 49 states–home burial isn’t as easy as it is in many other places. (Oddly, New York–where the boyfriend is from–has the same set of rules.) But it seems like there are probably ways to make it work. My only question is, should I saddle Jonno, who has an admitted aversion to the messier details of life, with preparing my body for burial and placing me in the ground?

Questions I Am Asking Myself Today

1. When did I stop believing that true theatre consisted of three-hour-long discussions about gender theory or the rainforest or conscientious objections to paying taxes?

2. How glad am I about #1 above?

3. How happy am I that I’m going on my first vacation (New York and Provincetown, for anyone in the area) in five years later this week?

4. How did I end up with four design projects (three graphic, one web) in my lap–all of which have to be completed before I leave?

5. Who was kind enough to send me the cutest t-shirt/comic book combo from jList but forgot to include his/her name and address so I can thank him/her in my own special way?

Why, oh, why is it mere child’s play to find complete files of the short-lived series Miss Muffy and the Muff Mob yet impossible to find anything–anything!–about long-running NYC cable access phenom The Mrs. Mouth Show?

Not that they have anything to do with one another, you know, except, well, they’re both freaking funny. And you’d think anything funny would be online, right?

I don’t know where I’m going with this, so I’ll stop now.

Thoughts for the Day

“She was everything I’ve always wanted in a woman.”
–David Gest

“Reality is something you rise above.”
–Liza Minnelli

“I love dressing up like some kind of monster or something and knocking on doors. Nobody knows it’s me, and I get candy.”
–Michael Jackson

“The problem with people who have no vices is that you can be pretty sure they’re going to have some annoying virtues.”
–Elizabeth Taylor

It’s News to Me

May Ganesh bless the Times of India, ’cause Vishnu only knows when the Times of New York would have gotten around to mentioning these little tidbits:

Britney is a slave to sex! As a top Hollywood psychologist explains, “Too much sex can be hazardous to your health. (That’s two bits of news in one item, folks.)

On the subject of Ms. Federline-to-be, apparently some idiot hotel manager in Boston decided that allowing Britney’s mother to create a suite modeled after the singer’s bedroom in Kentwood (including supplies of Cheetos and Red Bull) would be a great idea. Anyone wanna wager that’s the only vacancy in Boston right now–unless, of course, the room includes a Britney RealDoll. Then all bets are off.

Halle Berry gets freaky on dentist’s chairs. Given her current screen turn, it would have been much more appropriate if it were a manicurist’s chair, but whatever.

Lesbianism is still a foreign concept in India–so much so that it warrants “scare quotes.” And I suppose I understand. I mean, with sex symbols like Vinod Khanna walking the streets, what sane woman would seek comfort in the arms of an Aishwarya Rai?

Various and Sundry

Those of you not addicted to the Wai Wai section of Mainichi Daily News (abode of absurd alliteration) might have missed the fact that, despite some questionable accounting skills, the infamous Pink Lady may be poised for a comeback. Let’s just hope they don’t dig up Jeff in the process. May the lord have mercy on our souls.

On the Japanese tip, some of these items would make lovely birthday gifts. Hint. [Thanks, Su.]

After a prolonged absence, the boyfriend has blogged.

I found myself in a curiously Carrie Bradshaw moment last night. Weary of beer, too sweaty and dirty for dirty martinis, and not up for the wallop of Pernod on the rocks, I knew only what I didn’t want to drink. I fell back on my now-standard bourbon and soda, but aren’t there more congenial summer cocktails to be had? Nothing with an umbrella, nothing involving amaretto or–heaven forbid–blue curaçao, just a simple, refreshing way to get my goddamn drink on.

With slightly less than two weeks of performances left for Sordid Lives, we’ve almost completely sold out the run. Woo-hoo. If you wanna take a gander, though, there are still a few tickets available for closing night…

While scanning The Times of India yesterday, I stumbled across a couple of curious photographic essays, and I began to wonder if such straightforward, sex-tacular features would fly in the New York Times. What would they look like? Would they involve a bikini-clad William Safire lolling about Bryant Park? Maureen Dowd wrapped provocatively in naught but newsprint in the middle of Times Square? Frank Rich in a loincloth, posed suggestively atop a lion at the public library?

I smell a calendar…

Apparently, all those conflicting reports about the size of Justin Timberlake’s, uh, timber can be put to bed. I can hear his publicist now: “It’s okay, man. Who cares if you cheated on Cameron? She’s second-tier softcore skeeze. What’s important is that the world knows you’re a horny, heterosexual male and you’re hung like Colin Farrell!”

Idiots Ruined My Day

Well, I finally got around to seeing the much-ballyhooed Fahrenheit 9/11. Frankly, I wasn’t too keen on going, but Jonno wanted to see it, and I’d taken the day off (having planned to go on vacation with my family, but backing out at the 11th hour), so we went.

That was a waste of $7.50.

I don’t know why my expectations were so high. (Maybe it had something to do with that Palme d’Or.) I should have known that the film would be painfully, unapologetically biased. I should have known it would be far more suggestive than scathing. I should have known that, like Mr. Moore’s wardrobe, it would be a bit too big and very, very sloppy. But hey, I was craving popcorn–clearly, I wasn’t in my right mind.

Some two hours later, I left the theatre neither enlightened nor enraged. The bit with the mother who lost her son did little for me–I mean, of course she’s going to change her tune after her son dies. Who wouldn’t? Why aren’t parents like her picketing the White House before their children are killed?

The footage of fired-up combat soldiers was nothing shocking, either. I may not have served in the military, but I have worked as an expediter in a French Quarter kitchen on a Saturday night. Trust me, there’s very little difference.

Nor was I shocked and appalled that military recruiters target the young and poor. Obviously, it’s not the Harvard-bound kids that are gonna drop everything and shave their heads for Uncle Sam just so they can spend four years earning about half of what they’ll need to attend a decent university.

Bottom line: with the exception of Moore’s tantalizing but ultimately vague assertions about Bush’s ties to foreign oil and his skillful re-creation of September 11, 2001 (poignantly evoking the sense of horror that most of us have long forgotten), Fahrenheit 9/11 was about as surprising as a Bob Hope/Bing Crosby musical. Set up, set up, punchline. Set up, set up, punch line. Preaching to the choir, indeed.

After I got home, I wondered if I might be getting too old and complacent to get angry about anything, but then Elizabeth sent me a link to this article about homos and fascism, and Sturtle got his groove back.

Mr. Hari claims that there’s a link between fascism and homosexuality. Most of his argument centers around Ernst Rohm, who, as we all know, was a devoted cocksucker and, for a while, Hitler’s #1 ass-kisser. Hari cites a few other examples–one from England, one from Holland, one from France. Then, he wraps up his argument with a startling conclusion: that fascism is bad and ought to be avoided.

There are a few problems here.

1. Hari is laboring under the assumption that gay rights activists should automatically align themselves with civil rights activists, when there is significant disagreement about whether gay rights and civil rights are, in fact, the same thing.

2. Hari completely ignores the fact that all of his examples are European, failing to wonder why fascist movements in other parts of the world haven’t included homos, too.

3. Hari brings up, then swiftly drops the question of lesbians and fascism–much in the same way that religious conservatives assert that AIDS is god’s way of punishing homosexuals while conveniently overlooking the fact that lesbians have one of the lowest infection rates of any definable population.

4. Hari’s favorite cited source is the largely irrelevant Bruce LaBruce–who, along with Greg Araki, is one of the few filmmakers whose work could be considered sloppier than Michael Moore’s.

I’m not saying that gays are immune to fascism. Since the heyday of Al Parker, gay men have been fascinated with the “clone” look. And whether it features twinks or bears or Falcon exclusives, gay porn is all about fascism of the body. And of course white gay men can be racist (I see it all the time). But come on–if you’re going to make an argument that fascism represents a serious threat to the glbt rights movement, you’re going to have to do better than that.