It’s funny how things just happen:

• I happen to be an American.
• I happen to live in the South.
• I happen to be a man.
• I happen to like kissing other men. A lot.
• I happen to have found my other half.

And so on.

Over time, these things accumulate like so much silt at the mouth of the Mississippi River–or maybe, to be poetic, I could compare the process to that of mineral deposits creating stalagmites in a forgotten cave…nah, that’s gay. Silt, stalagmites, whatever, my point is–and I barely have one–that these things ultimately create us and our others: when it comes right down to it, the decisions we consciously make have very little to do with it.

Please note: I’m NOT trying to say that “everything happens for a reason;” 99% of the time, it doesn’t. It’s arbitrary. Attributing fate to some goddess or poltergeist or some otherwise omniscient entity is spiritualism at its worst. All’s I’m saying is that we ain’t necessarily masters of our own ship.

…Good lord, what a crappy way to start your Tuesday: reading obvious and depressing truisms from an undercaffeinated homosexual. When I began this post I meant to talk about a new gig I’ve accidentally landed–something else that’s just happened to me: I’m officially co-director of The Shim Shamettes, the world’s hippest, sassiest vintage burlesque troupe. How my excitement over working with the girls morphed into existential angst, I dunno. Sorry.

It’s less than a week ’till the big event, and I still haven’t a clue about what I’m wearing. Yeah, I know it’ll be skimpy, and more than likely, it’ll be black, and if I have any say at all in the matter, it’ll be vaguely Asian (I’ve got a whore-red geisha girl parasol I can’t bear to give up just yet), but beyond that… I mean, hair? Ladyface? And most importantly: shoes? I’m beginning to get anxious.

All is quiet. Finally…

I guess that’s great for me, but dullsville for any of you who happen to stop by. Sorry.

‘Till something of note happens, why not look in on Yoshitomo Nara? He makes Afro Ken look about as harmless as Snagglefreakinpuss…

Calgon!

Calgon?

Bitch is never around when you need her.

Do you ever have that dream where you’re in your favorite bar, just

kicking back with a friend or two and you’re having a drink and everything

seems nice and normal, but then suddenly the scene changes and you’re kinda

tense, kinda like you’re back in college and you’ve taken a hit of really

strong somethingorother and it’s just kicking in, and you turn around to

see, oh, I don’t know, Julianne Moore, and you go up to her, hesitantly at

first, then bravely, and you say hello, but she brushes you off, and you try

to say, “But Julie, it’s me, Richard! Don’t you remember me from college?

You dated my roommate? We had classes together? We did drugs in the faculty

bathroom together? Ring any bells?”, and from just looking at her face and

watching it change, you can tell she sorta remembers you, but she’s dressed

nicely and you’re not and she’s beautiful and you’re not and she’s famous

and you’re not and she just kinda sneers like she’s smiling but totally

insincerely, and she touches you lightly on the shoulder and makes her way

to the door, clearly happy to be leaving such a plebe-magnet of a bar?

Well, do you?

‘Cause I did. Last night.

Only thing: I’ve never even met the bitch.

The Realm of the Senses

Seeing: webpages rendered on a low-end computer; office plants that refuse to die; the new Afro Ken clip my boyfriend brought back from NYC.

Hearing: the whir of a fan trying in vain to cool a low-end computer; an unbearably long discussion between our office manager and bookkeeper on the subject of snap beans; snatches of music my boyfriend brought back from NYC.

Feeling: the tender slit of an early-morning paper cut; well-worn denim on my thighs; the underside of my desk on my shaking, overcaffeinated knee.

Tasting: long-cold coffee; a stale Fig Newton; Wrigley’s Winterfresh Gum.

Smelling: dank, sodden earth; plastic components slowly melting deep within the heart of a low-end computer; the overpowering yet nostalgia-inducing scent of Speed Stick Musk that my boyfriend brought back from NYC.

This morning on PBS Kids…

When my boyfriend’s around, I usually don’t have the opportunity to watch morning television. He likes to wake up late, and since the TV’s in the bedroom–bad feng shui, I know–I’m outta luck, which is really sad because, like, I’ve been a closet fan of The Today Show since, like, Jane Pauley. With Jonno in the sweltering hotbox that is New York this week, however, I can gawk at Katie Couric’s unsightly–though vaguely ethereal–haircolor for at least an hour before I head off to the office.

This morning, as I prepared myself for another long day at work by donning my most officious looking shirt (a sartorial statement that might say “Leave me the hell alone,” but proabably reads more like, “God, I’m a self-important, anal-retentive loser, aren’t I?”), I happened to hit the channel button on the remote, and lo-and-behold, I came upon Clifford the Big Red Dog.

[Ed note: Since childhood, Richard has been addicted to PBS. He’s familiar with its various programs, their schedules, knows which ones have hot hosts, and so on. In the case of Clifford, he even knows some of the backstory–though he’s reluctant to admit it.]

So anyway, the scene is set at T-Bone’s house. The Sheriff has brought home a lady friend, and it’s their first date. The Sheriff comes out onto the back porch, offers the nameless lady a drink, and introduces her to his dog: “Everybody loves my T-Bone,” he says with a big grin.

And I thought to myself: When did children’s television become so vulgar?

An Old Skool Blog Post (as opposed to Self-Indulgent Tirade): Apocamon rocks! Thanks, Tyler.

Okay, that last post was way too glib and intellectually sloppy to be of interest to anyone. I could delete it, but I’m in the mood to humiliate myself.

WARNING: PSEUDO-INTELLECUTALISM AHEAD

So, I’m sitting here in my office, minding my own business, when my precious little buddy and favorite drag king, Alana, drops me a line. It seems that some of her compatriots on a dragking listserv have “issues” with Hedwig. Apparently, they see it as anti-Semitic and offensive to transgendered folks and generally oppressive.

This makes me angry. Not angry that the play/movie has been misinterpreted; it’s kinda complex, and not everyone’s gonna get it. Nor am I angry that people have issues with the play; I mean, I think it’s freakin’ genius, but whatever, everyone’s entitled to an opinion.

No, I’m angered by the fact that middle-class white kids who’ve obviously got a liberal arts education under their belts could be so goddamn stupid and literal.

Here’s the deal: Hedwig is a story. A fantasy. Entertainment. At times, really good, engaging entertainment, but entertainment nonetheless. When we leave the theatre–“we” meaning “we, the people,” anyone in an audience–we understand it’s a story, it’s not a piece of propaganda, it’s not something we are supposed to intellectually internalize. When we walk out, we take away some good memories, but by and large, the world of the play gets left behind.

What I’m getting at is that after years and years of hashing these sorts of things out across conference tables from coast to coast, my personal take on all this PC “it’s-mysogynist-it’s-homophobic” rhetoric is that (a) phenomenologically speaking, we are programmed to understand the theatre as a place where fictions are told, fictions we can enjoy but soon forget; and (b) your average viewer is smarter than you give her/him credit for. I mean, Gone With the Wind is full of stereotypes and such, but you can’t honestly think that when Joe Blow watches it, he’s going to start thinking to himself, “Well, maybe slavery isn’t so morally reprehensible after all.” If Andrea Dworkin and Catherine McKinnon could learn this vis-a-vis porn, the world would be a better place.

More to the point, just because Hedwig invokes Hitler’s name and there’s a comic swastika used in a slide, that’s no reason to call the play anti-Semitic. It’s like Springtime for Hitler in The Producers. It’s camp, it’s funny. Laugh a little.

Nor do I think it’s offensive to the transgender community. Hedwig is not your typical transgender. Her operation’s botched. She would much prefer the clarity of being either a man or a woman, but she’s been denied that possibility. She is a fracture, like the song says, located in-between man and woman, German and American, aggressor and victim. She doesn’t stand in for anyone; you can’t take her story as commentary on the plight of anyone but herself.

To me, it sounds like the critics on the listserv are textbook, bourgeois white liberals–perennially bitter whiners who’d be perfectly happy if the movie hadn’t been so hyped, but because John Cameron Mitchell is suddenly the nation’s media darling, the crabs feel obligated to knock it. I say, if you’re going to knock a movie, knock something like Planet of the Apes that’s as big a piece of poorly written–and I use that term loosely–crap as I’ve ever seen, yet it’s funnelling truckloads of cash into the pockets of its already-wealthy producers. At least the money Christine Vachon and John Cameron Mitchell are making will go back into the production of good art. We hope.

Alana echoed my sentiments in more articulately than I could ever have done:

In terms of audience, I really think that anyone paying the ticket price to see Hedwig live or making the trip to their local art-movie house to see the film is probably gonna be savvy + aware enough to see the work for what it is (be that entertainment, queer fantasia, glam spectacle).

She did, however, bring up the question of Eminiem and where we draw the line–when we have to stop being flip with our “it’s only a movie” and get angry. It’s a complex issue, and like anything, it’s a matter of degree. But in the end, Hedwig clearly passes muster. If my hands weren’t cramped from a day’s worth of typing, I’d tell you why. Lucky you.

Okay, I feel vindicated. Who wants pizza?