Interesting theory (via Tom), but I think I disagree…. I mean, if “The number one thing that correlates with a region’s high-tech success is the concentration of gay people living there,” New Orleans would be a freaky-style tech Mecca. Seriously, we’ve got more fags and dykes than you can shake a stick at–in fact, I’d venture to say we’ve got almost as many as Austin, which is a bonafide locus for high-tech industry.

It’s probably more directly related to the education of the region’s workforce…which would explain the relative lack of Starbucks and e-companies in the fair Crescent City.

The Afternoon Ramblings of a Sleepy Lunatic

Ever since I discovered alternative music (which in my day meant Haircut 100 and the soundtrack to Breaking Glass, not the Pearl Jam-wannabe crap rock flooding the “alternative” airwaves these days), I’ve been a collector. Buttons, posters, t-shirts: if they represented something or someone that was important to me, I’d buy it.

Now, I guess there’s nothing wrong with that. I mean, I’ve always been collecting something–books, for example. On vacations, my mother and father did everything in their power to steer me away from Waldenbooks and B. Dalton, but eventually I’d find ’em. Four hours later, they’d have to drag me out of the store–me and the 25 pounds of Newberry Award-winning novels I’d just purchased. The same went for Atari games, D&D paraphernalia, and all things Snoopy.

But my urge to pocket everything that was even marginally related to Alison Moyet or the Cocteau Twins was different from my bibliophilia. In these cases, the urge to collect stemmed from the overwhelming fear that these artists/groups didn’t really exist outside my room. Sure, I had physical evidence that they did–an album cover, complete with contact information for copyrights and agents–but the music’s unique sound and the effect it had on me were so special, so particular, so personal that I thought I’d made it all up in my head.

Maybe it has something to do with being gay in the small-town South. I often felt isolated, so maybe I bonded with music created by people who were so completely different from everyone I knew (I mean, there were no Anabellas in Mississippi) that…well, this is going to sound really hokey and completely queer, but it was almost like they were my friends. Since I could never see them or talk to them, though, I collected everything I could about them–kinda the same way Catholics do with relics–and I learned to be satisfied with that.

Sometimes I feel the same way toward myself. If my name is mentioned in passing in a program or a newspaper article, I save the whole damn thing. My father’s attic is piled high with photos and passed notes and school notebooks–anything to document that I Was Here.

Three Confessions for Thursday

I’ve been smoking too much. Normally I’m that rare breed known as the “social smoker.” Like social drinkers and drug users, social smokers can go for weeks without a cigarette, but when that special moment comes, we start jonesing for nicotine as though we’ve smoked three packs of Luckies a day for the last 50 years. In my case, that “special moment” is when I’m having a drink. So a couple of times a week, I’ll have a few cigarettes, and that’s it. I usually go through a pack or two a month. I haven’t been a “normal” smoker for over 10 years. So why am I suddenly craving my beloved American Spirits throughout the goddamn day?

I survive by not thinking about things. I mean, I’ve always considered myself the curious type, and the years I spent in grad school are among the happiest in my life–mostly because of the intellectual stimulation they afforded me. But when it comes to other things, daily things–like the upcoming election, for instance–I simply refuse to focus. Somewhere deep inside I’ve got an optimist streak that convinces me that whatever happens, things’ll turn out all right. It’s kinda like that quote from the Edie Sedgewick biography that The Ginger Man used to use in their ads: “And when the bills would mount up, she’d stuff them all into a big envelope and take a dozen people to The Ginger Man for drinks.” Yeah, it’s irresponsible, but I guess that’s just the way I am….

I hate buying clothes. Just ask Jonno. Practically all the clothes I wear to work are his. All the dress clothes in our closet are his. Even the underwear and socks–his. Bottom line: I hate spending money on things that wear out so quickly–either because they get washed and faded and ugly or because I get tired of wearing them. This applies especially to shoes. I much prefer hitting Goodwill a couple of times a year at $50 a pop and replentishing my supply of t-shirt and jeans.

Oh, yeah, a couple of other things:

• Despite what Camille Paglia et al. may say, Foucault rocks.
• Hello to the sweet NYC girls who flagged me down last night. I’m looking forward to the Decadence Ball on Saturday.
• Happy birthday, Mom.

Ha!

Hee hee hee. Pamie makes my day a little brighter. Or darker. I really can’t tell.

My next drag performance:

…Oh, yeah. I’m back there in Pilgrim times, over there in Salem, Massachusetts or New England somewhere. And I was walking by a town square where they were having some kind of public execution. I see that they got some chick tied up to a stake, like Joan of Arc or somethin’ and as I get closer I notice it’s my mother…except she looks just like Ethel Merman. And they got this big wooden vice attached to her head and they’re twistin the knobs tighter and tighter and tighter around her head. And as they’re twisting away, Ethel, my mom, looks around and she sees me, Ann, her daughter, staring at her from the crowd. And with tears in her eyes, tears in her eyes she tells me she loves me, except she sings it. “I love you! I love you! I love you!” And on the third “I love you,” her head pops like an overripe pumpkin on Halloween night. WHY? I sob. WHY? WHY? I sob. WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? Just because she was a ballsy lady? Just because she was a belter? Just because she lived with cats and cooked with herbs? Why, before we know it the FDA is gonna destroy the entire holistic community!

Of course, it’s even better when you hear it performed.

I wish I could say I wrote it, but it’s actually Ann Magnuson who deserves the credit. She’s rockin’ like Dokken, and she’s so timely, too, n’est-ce pas?

Here’s the sad truth: Jonno and I are slobs. Not like pizza-under-the-bed slobs, but still slovenly. As it is, I’ve gotta leave work early today so I can straighten up the house for certain Halloween houseguests. We simply have to work on our cleaning skills. Or find a cute boy willing to strap on a latex French maid’s uniform every once in a while. (I prefer the latter option, of course.)

P.S. Chris, I hope you’re not allergic to cats or dogs or cigarette smoke. If you are, I guess I’ll be dosing your coffee with Robitussin. Which can be fun, if consumed in large amounts….

Okay, so I’ve been trying to write an article for my pal Ben (another Amy Lowell fan) and I’ve been trying to polish off another massive grant application (Begging: The Musical!) and I’ve had to teach myself how to make an animated ad banner on a really clumsy shareware program (I don’t have Photoshop or anything on my work computer) and what I’d really like is a good game of kickball or dodgeball or even softball to clear my head. Barring that, however, catching up on the last couple of months of Fan Mail has provided some small relief….

Oh, yeah: did I mention that the darling of New Queer Cinema and one of my own personal darlings both have new webpages? I thought not….

Argh! One of my biggest pet peeves! Thanks, Jeffrey, for clearing it up.

It’s hardly noon, and I’m already full of rage. Sad isn’t it?

Things I Hate

• Postal employees (with very few exceptions)
• People who wear cologne (no exceptions)
• People who set their cell phones to play Fur Elise and the William Tell Overture
• Amazon.com’s customer service department (don’t get me started)
• Idiots (including those not mentioned above)

Things I Don’t Hate

• Long lunches
• Red beans and chicken livers at said lunches
• Coffee, coffee, coffee
• Our hounds and our cat
• A kiss from someone I love (hint, hint)