Committee endorses sex-acts bill! Someone buy those men a Remy Martin with a water back, godammit!

My relationship with my mother isn’t very solid, either. I mean, when I was growing up, sure, we got along well. She was ridiculously overprotective, but she compensated by going to bat for me with dad when I wanted something out of the ordinary: a guitar, a new bike, armloads of cash. She was Good Cop to my dad’s Bad Cop, Madeliene Albright to my father’s Taliban.

Then something changed. I dunno if it was menopause or mental illness or a little bit of both, but sometime in high school, my mother took to her bed and refused to get up much. In addition to the babysitter we already had (there were four of us boys), we took on two cleaning ladies and a part-time cook. In the middle of dinner, mom would occasionally wander from her room into the kitchen, rifle through the junk drawer chock full ‘o Flexeril tablets, and mosey back to bed. Not a lot of mother-son bonding experiences, as you might imagine.

My freshman year at Millsaps, my parents divorced. About a year and a half later, while I was off in Texas for spring break, she married some scuzzy freak she’d been seeing. Since she didn’t bother to tell me herself, I had to find out from one of my brothers. I called her up and had a long conversation about nothing in particular and then, just as I was about to sign off, I asked: “Mom, while I was out of town, did you get, um, married?” She responded a quick “Yes,” and that was about all she’d say.

All-in-all, that’s the way our relationship’s gone for the past decade. She’s not a terribly good communicator. Add to that her genetic disposition toward schizophrenia and alcoholism, and you’ve got a woman most folks would try to avoid. Except maybe Tennessee Williams, who’d write a play about her.

Frankly, mom and I don’t have much to talk about these days. We don’t see eye-to-eye on anything, really. When I make the obligatory pilgrimage to her house once or twice a year, it’s like Chinese water torture: we talk about safe things, make small talk–drip, drip, drip–as the minutes creep by. I’ve managed to escape each incident with my sanity intact, but I don’t know how long I can keep it up.

My dad and I, though, we get along like gangbusters. We’re both pretty stubborn, and we butted heads a lot when I was younger. He thought I was frittering my life away in the arts instead of becoming a lawyer or doctor or something. He also had a little trouble accepting the fact that I’m gay. But now that he sees I can make a living doing what I love, and that Jonno and I have a relationship as solid–if not moreso–than any of his married friends–he’s come around. We could sit and talk for hours; in fact, we have more in common than I’d ever thought possible.

Sorry, mom. I guess it just wasn’t in the cards. Hope your day was happy.

The dotcomments/php thing wasn’t working. When I started having problems with the UNIX commands, I gave up. I was out of my element, and I didn’t need any more gray hairs. So for now, I’m back with dear old blogvoices. Until it starts futzing my load times, anyway.

Some people don’t care much for the comments option, but I kinda like it. Lets you pull your weight.

Oh yeah, one more thing: sturtle.com’s a year old today. Yippee.

Speaking of the urban gay lifestyle, we just scored the rights to a kick-ass play. Anybody wanna guess which one? Here’s a hint….

I know I live in a metropolitan area. I know I live in a gay ghetto. I know that the ideologies and tastes I’ve developed aren’t necessarily the same as those of folks from, say, Dubuque. I know I’m not exactly down with the middle-American zeitgeist. I know, I know, I know. And I accept all that…

That said, I refuse to believe that the values expressed through CNN.com’s Quick Vote polls represent those of contemporary America. They’re always so completely skewed to the right. For real. Even my mom doesn’t think that way. Who’s stuffing the box?

Yes, I’m aware the comments function isn’t functional yet. Yes, I’ll fix it. Or remove it.

I have awakened, no longer the short-sighted, nebbishy putz that you know. No, today, I am lucid, enlightened.

I am Dionne Warkwick, and I am clairvoyant. I see things about your future, and I will share them with you.

I see brown, a vast soupy sea of brown. Coffee, perhaps. Or poorly made gumbo. You will ingest this brown, then get very queasy. Then everything will be all right.

Your lunch, it bores me. I will skip it.

Later in the afternoon, you will hear me on the radio and think, “Where is Dionne right now?” I am right here, you fool! Talking to you! I know all! I see all! I sing all! Do not doubt my authority!

Ah, that reminds me of the time Sammy and Soupy and I were playing a joint engagement at Caesar’s, and we got to this one point in a Humperdinck medley, and I don’t remember who did it–it think it was Soupy, but don’t quote me on that–and he just went off. I mean off, girl. He started singing that Neil Diamond pot smokin’ song and Sammy and I–or maybe Soupy and I–didn’t know what to do, so we just joined right in, and that was the biggest standing ovation we ever, ever received! And I owe it all to marijuana.

Thank you, Secaucus, you’ve been a great audience! I’m here all week…

Make that four ticks.

Back from dad’s. Interesting time. Fun with dad and one of my younger brothers (I’m one of four boys). Lots of uncomfortably nostalgic moments–gut-wrenching, nausea-inducing, though not always in a bad way. Seeing houses I used to pass every day, now painted different colors with different owners. Visiting the family farm, very different from when my grandparents were alive. Seeing their barn torn down, a new man living in their house, all the livestock sold, nothing but acres of lumber now. All in all: weird, but bearable. At least the people don’t change.

My dad bought some new land–that’s cool. A place for a new house, with a small lake. It’s beautiful, covered in poplar, live oak, and pecan. When I got home, I found three ticks on my leg.

I change when I go back to Mississippi, and I’m not sure how I feel about that. I become more prone to small talk, and a Southern accent I never really had as a kid creeps into my speech. On the one hand, it’s easy to talk to my family that way–when in Rome, right?. On the other hand, it feels vaguely schizophrenic–worrisome because schizophrenia runs in my mother’s side of the family. Luckily, I’m adopted.

On the drive back to New Orleans, I had another odd moment. I’d gotten to a point on the interstate that’s fairly isolated–no major towns for several miles in either direction. It was there that my old Bronco broke down about a year and a half ago (bad water pump). Anyway, today I’m driving down the interstate, blaring some old skool Nina Hagen or something, and when I get to that point in the trek, I see a car on the side of the road–a green Volvo, windows down, flat tire. A few yards further, I see a guy, mid- to late-20s, walking along, thumb out. He’s wearing a white t-shirt, jeans, horn-rimmed glasses. Exactly what I was wearing when the Bronco gave out. He looks like a thoroughly nice college kid having a bad day, in need of a jack.

I tried to stop, to pull over, but I was in the passing lane, and couldn’t squeeze over just then. And by the time the other cars had cleared, he was nothing but a small disgruntled speck in my rear view mirror. To him, I was just another guy in another car, rocking out to some guitar-laden music and leaving him in the dust.

I felt awful. I started to panic. I knew how he felt at that moment, alone on a Mississippi highway as the sun’s going down, plenty of cars passing but no one stopping. My anxiety was made worse by the fact that it was so clearly some kind of cosmic, Shirley McClaine-style sign from goddess; my sartorial twin, frustrated, angrily walking the very same stretch of gravel shoulder I’d traveled a few months back. When it happened to me, I was picked up by a woman in a compact car with her two kids. I could have been anyone, Charles Manson’s little brother for all she knew, but she took a chance, and I told myself then I’d try to repay the favor someday.

Someday was today and I had my chance and I blew it. I felt awful all the way home. Wherever you are kid, I hope you’re with friends, warm and full of food.