My life, revealed.

I woke up this morning with a song in my head.

Wanna know what it was?

Can you guess?

C’mon.

Give it a try.

Okay, give up?

“He’s the lovematic grandpa! He fills our hearts with loooooove.”

Questions I have been asked in the past 24 hours:

• How do I put a document in the trash can thingy?
• Can you help us organize a silent auction by Sunday?
• Wanna see horny teens at the petting zoo?
• Got spare change for a beer, sir?
• Would you like to supersize that?

I’ve said all along that the bitch is trouble.

The beach was fun, in a way.

I swam in the water, which was mostly blue.

I saw many jellyfish, but no sharks.

I grew tan, except where I grew red.

I went shopping in outlet malls, where I found good shoes and bad shoes.

I worked on Pop Tarts, which isn’t funny yet.

I have been informed by one of my favorite trivia princesses that we are not the first Pop Tarts, which means we have a reputation to live up to.

I have been very quiet.

Nothing interesting has happened in my world.

With the following exceptions:

• We’ve begun writing our summer show. It’s called Pop Tarts. More on that soon.
• Somehow, I also managed to get involved in a production of Dirty Blonde and a remount of Hedwig. (How does this happen? Do I really have a problem saying no? Or do I have a paralyzing fear of being left out?)
• I am nearly finished with my water garden. I have to plant a couple of things around the edges, then line the thing.
• A certain hound has gotten much better about not peeing in the bed.
• A certain boyfriend continues to love me despite the many, many quirks and bugs in my operating system.

All right, I’m outta here. I’m running off to the beach for a couple of days with my dad and brothers. I’m sure it sounds like torture to some of you, but me, I’m really looking forward to it. Someone take care of Jonno, will ya?

The wind-up, the pitch…

So I’m on another gala committee. This time they’ve put me to work on the silent auction. It’s going well so far–lots of good stuff, including some items donated by a couple of you (you know who you are). But, well, we can always use more…

You see where I’m going with this.

If anyone would like to make a last-minute donation to the auction, you know I’d love you forever. It’s a children’s organization, so sending in your prized, rarely used Tom of Finland dildo (number 7/30, signed by the artist), while a lovely gesture, isn’t exactly appropriate. Most other artwork, however, does very well. So does jewelery (it’s an Uptown crowd we get). Signed first editions of novels by William Faulkner are a good idea. And if all else fails, gift certificates are great. Of course, all donations are tax-deductible.

If you’re interested, email me ASAP so I can put your item on the auction boards. If you’re not or you can’t, don’t worry: we’ve got tons of crap to auction off as it is. I just thought I’d ask.

We now return you to your regular, nooge-free blog.

Summer has officially arrived.

I know: technically it’s still April, but whatever. You go through it enough times, you recognize the turning point–the morning your dogs hesitate before bounding out the door, the afternoon that’s a little too warm to be called “comfortable,” the day Things Change.

Luckily, the heat doesn’t bother me much. Maybe it’s genetic predisposition from my Lebanese father, or maybe it’s just the fact that I’ve endured dozens of Southern summers–whatever it is, I understand it and I know how to cope. I know how to walk slower, how to drink more fluids, how to dress lighter, how to remember my handkerchief, how to cling to the shady side of the street, how to plan my day around the noonday sun.

I had a friend once who loved cold weather. He claimed there’s nothing better than a roaring fire in the wintertime: it’s warm and fuzzy and nurturing. In summer, he argued, comfort relies on the cold blast of air conditioning, which is harsh and unpleasant.

I see it the other way around. When I step onto an icy sidewalk or feel the sharp stab of a gust of Arctic air, I feel threatened, in danger. The summer may be unpleasant at times–stifling and sultry–but never dangerous.

Well, except for the hurricanes. But that’s another story.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything this gay. A production of The Wiz starring Paul Lynde, Rip Taylor, and Jim Nabors would pale in comparison….

I must have it.

Four years and three-hundred-sixty-two days ago today I was in New York. I was living here in New Orleans, but I was in New York visiting. And working. But mostly visiting. Anyway.

I was at a party that night. A dull party at a lackluster gay nightclub full of boring drag queens, shameless posers, and b-level pornstars. It probably wasn’t as bad as I make it out to be, but I worked at Lucky Cheng’s in New Orleans at the time, and in those days, working at Lucky Cheng’s was like attending an orgy coordinated by Tammy Faye Bakker and Pamela Anderson: loud-flashy-fabulous-sex-drugs-rock-and-roll! Fully naked strippers delivering cakes to bachelorettes. Fully intoxicated drag queens pulling customers into the bathroom for some blow and a blowjob. Fully insane backwaiters threatening each other with steak knives at table 33. You can’t imagine.

The bottom line is this: by the tender age of 28, this Mississippi boy had seen it all in New Orleans. Twice. Even the director’s cut. When it came to shock-chic, my standards were damn high, and those NYC children weren’t cutting it. They didn’t have a clue. I was embarrassed for them and I was bored and I was heading out the door.

Then, he walked in.

I’d seen him before, of course. Many times. Once we’d even met, made out, exchanged numbers. And after that, he ignored me.

But this time, years after our initial encounter, he was smiling. Smiling: not at the muscleboy over my right shoulder, not at his friend who was re-introducing us. At me.

He gave me his web address (it was the late-mid 90s); I went back to my hotel and skipped out on the trek to Twilo or Tunnel or wherever my buddies were going and spent five minutes typing out a quick email to this guy. Five: the length of a cigarette break. Funny how a such a slender moment can change everything… A couple of days later, we had our first date.

There’s nothing worse than having to listen to happy people talk about how happy they are so I’ll keep it brief: just know that I still wake up looking forward to spending another day with him.

I love you, Jonno. Happy anniversary.