Amended excerpt from an email to one of you, re: “naming your gay lover”:

The question of what to call one another has perplexed both Jonno and me. “Lover” is way too faggoty, as is “husband” and the never-to-be-pronounced-aloud “husbear.” “Boyfriend” seems too non-committal, and “significant other” makes him sound like a tumor. I like the concept behind “spouse,” but the word’s not quite Germanic enough for me–I want at least one hard consonant. Call me old fashioned, but I do.

Linguistically stranded thus, in polite conversation I usually refer to Jonno as my “partner.” Occasionally, though, people don’t quite get the implications–it sounds

like a business relationship, no?–so I explain that he’s my “fudgepacking buttlover,” which usually sets things straight. Or gay. Or something.

So very many people to thank today….

• Thanks, Patrick, for the kick-ass illustration of Hedwig.
• Thanks, Keith, for the sassy single. I know she’s not your style–in fact, I’m not so sure I’m as smitten with her as I once thought–but it’s nice for now.
• Thanks, Troy, for attempting to put me in touch with John Cameron Mitchell and/or Stephen Trask. I know if anyone could pull that off, it’d be you, my little social mariposa. Of course, if anyone else knows how to reach ’em, that’d be cool, too. You know I’d love you forever and a day. Plus one.
• Thanks, goddess, for keeping me safe from falling trees, thunderstorms, flash floods, and at least one tornado–not to mention all those hydroplane-inducing puddles–as I dashed up to Mississippi for a breakfast meeting, then back to the Big Easy. No lie: there were four counties under severe weather warnings, and I drove through each of ’em, hazards blinking, wipers wiping, listening to recap after recap of McVeigh’s execution. Just lil’ Allison to keep me company. Whee.
• Thanks, Flynn et al., for letting me perform scary songs a la Mummenchantz without fear of reprisal.
• And thanks, boyfriend, for understanding that although I’m very, very busy now, I’ll soon slow down, and then we’ll have a nice long vacation. After which, you’ll probably be desperate to spend the next 11 months away from my evil clutches…

Given my current fondness for Gore Vidal, I was quite pleased to find the trailer for Myra Breckinridge online. I ask you: what’s not to love about Raquel Welch simultaneously butt-pirating the young, hung, soon-to-be-ignored Roger Herren and engaging in a world-class, behind-the-scenes catfight with Mae West? If only you could hear Rex Reed’s hysterical, though well-rehearsed, anecdotes about the production…. Oy.

Ten thoughts:

1. Should I be concerned that five days into hurricane season we’ve already had our first named storm?

2. If I’m such a coffee person, why haven’t I bought a new coffee pot to replace the one that fell victim to Spontaneous Combustion Syndrome six months ago?

3. Have I never been mellow?

4. Have I never tried?

5. Is my boyfriend the most adorable thing on the planet or what?

6. Do these pants make me look fat(ter)?

7. What’s the Next Big Thing?

8. Am I fulfilling all of my adolescent fantasies?

9. Is it really that hard being green?

10. What’s for dinner?

She’s bold! She’s sassy!! She’s helpful!!! She’s the Lipstick Librarian! (In fact, she’s kinda like my Mississippi pal Tessa [unflatteringly pictured above with her hubby, David], who supplied me the link via her very own, first-ever homepage…. Except I don’t think I’ve ever seen Tessa sporting lipstick.)

Nelly moment: Last night I almost bailed on a very cute party so I could lie in bed and watch the Tony Awards.

Butch moment: I nearly jumped outta my chair when Tulane kicked LSU’s ass yesterday afternoon.

Listening: Blue Cantrell, “Hit Em Up Style (Oops!)”

While he was schemin’
I was speedin’ in the beemer just steamin’
Can’t believe that I caught my man cheatin’
So I found another way to make him pay for it all…

So I went to Neiman Marcus on a shopping spree-a.
On the way I grabbed Soleil and Mia
And as the cashbox rang, I thought everything away…

Too bad no one online or off seems to know much about her. She’s listed nowhere. Sad, really.

Reading: Gore Vidal, Palimpsest

On his adolescent friend and paramour, Jimmie Trimble:

If not seated together in class, Jimmie and I would signal each other when a hard-on had arrived unbidden. When the other boys figured out what we were doing, they began signalling, too. At twelve, erections come and go, like T. S. Eliot’s ladies, talking, most appropriately, of Michelangelo.

Damn, that’s some fancy writin’.

Five reasons life would be better if you lived in a Dario Argento film:

1. You’d be fluent in Italian.

2. You’d have most dramatically lit house on the block.

3. You’d have a distinctively chic wardrobe–although people might start confusing you with Princess Stephanie of Monaco (pre-Pool Position, of course).

4. With mortal danger lurking ’round every corner, life would be chock full of surprises!

5. Even your worst enemies would envy how good you look when you’re running for your life.

Can you play the piano? The guitar? Drums? The glockenspiel? Well, I can’t. That’s why we’re having auditions for the Hedwig band tomorrow. Rumor has it that this chick is gonna show. I’m wet.

I’ve officially crossed over.

No, I’m not drunk. Nor have I suddenly gone cukoo for Coco-Puffs. No, I mean I’ve traversed that dreaded threshold, crossed from light into darkness, from Edenic perfection into a post-lapsarian shadow world. Like Peter Murphy, I’ve transmogrified into a half-being, a member of the undead clan.

I can no longer drink coffee.

Maybe I’m being a little too dramatic. Okay, I can, theoretically, still drink the java, but the weather’s become so hot and humid that the mere thought of swallowing hot coffee is enough to make me swoon. And iced coffee can be dicey–some people actually believe you can just throw hot coffee over ice and–poof!–that’s iced coffee! They act as if they’d never heard of the cold drip process. Yick.

So for the next coupla months, me and Diet Coke are again inseparable. I’ll miss you, Mrs. Olsen. See you this fall….