My birthday party was a success. I thought I wasn’t going to have much fun, ’cause I was feeling pretty crappy before we got there (I’ve got some sort of sinus infection or something), but straight bourbon and illicit substances fixed me right up.

Dear Al:

I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but you are so not a public speaker. Policy maker? Sure. Able to see the big picture? Absolutely. General all-around smart guy? You’re that and more, baby. Capable of delivering a rousing speech by feeding off the energy of thousands of audience members and the national zeitgeist, whipping the proponents of democracy into a frothy, heady foam? Um, no.

Nice tie, though.

In my humble opinion, Al, you would have done much better to shorten that speech by about 20 minutes so you could give the audience some time to respond. I mean, what were you thinking? Your fans were giving you love, and you railroaded right over them! Have you never watched The Carol Burnett Show? Laugh In? Dame Edna? You’d make a good, solid, patriotic point that brought everyone to their feet clapping and cheering, but then you’d just raise your voice and keep talking. Carol would never do that.

Yeah, sure, I know, this was your big moment and you needed to get in all your points, but you could’ve fit ’em into a half-hour speech, right? If you can’t at least be that succint, you’re in the wrong business, honey. Then you would have had time to let the ovations roll. But what did you do? You had to drone on and on, reiterating the nation’s perception of you as an automaton. Shields and Yarnell doing the robot thing were looser than you were last night.

President Bush. President Bush. President Bush. I don’t wanna have to get used to saying that, but frankly, you’re his best secret weapon. Go back to Tennessee, sit in the back row of a Baptist church, and watch the preacher work the crowd. Or at least let that former banjee-girl from Kenner who’s serving as your campaign manager show you how to work the cobra neck. Seriously. Before it’s too late.

–Your faithful servant,
Richard

P.S. I hope you’re not mad. I mean, I’d still fuck you. You’ll have to take that rod out, though.

It’s another one of those gang-rape weeks. You know what I mean. The kinda week when it feels like every linebacker in the NFL has ridden you hard and put you up wet.

I’ve gotten about 3 hours of sleep since Monday–not because of any late-night carousing (surely your initial assumption), but because I’ve built up a caffieine reserve the size of a small goat thanks to the many, many gallons of Diet Coke I’ve consumed to get me through the workday. Too bad melatonin makes me nauseous, or I’d take the rest of the afternoon off and catch a nice, long drug-induced nap.

Despite the frenzied pace, though, there’s really nothing of note that’s gone on in my life. The hounds are still rambunctious, the kitchen is still a wreck, and I still love my boyfriend very, very much.

Oh. And my birthday’s coming up. I guess that’s something. I mean, I don’t make a big deal out of my b-day, but Jonno and Flynn insist that we do something to mark the occasion. I don’t think I have a choice.

And is everyone a Leo or what?

Being adopted has never been a big deal for me. I was adopted at birth, and I’ve always known about it, so I guess I just integrated that fact into my worldview and kept on trucking (as they said in my youth).

But for some reason, right now I’m really keen on learning more about my social and medical background. Maybe it’s my impending birthday–I mean, if my father’s side of the family has a history of fatal heart attacks in their mid-30s, I wanna know about it.

I’m not interested in meeting my birth parents, though. I’ve had enough experience with Mississippians to know I’m not a good fit for the Hospitality State. It took me a quarter-century just to find some common ground with my adopted family, so I hate jumping to conclusions and all, but my guess is that after the first five minutes, a “reunion” with my birth parents would sound a bit like one hand clapping. Why prove myself right?

Oh, and those people on Sally-Jesse-Mother-Love-Springer who get all weepy and obsessive about “the father I never knew”? I don’t get it. Sure, they’ve got a right to want to know their birth parents, but how can you get that worked up about two people you’ve never met and whose only tie to you is a simple fact of biology? Frankly, I think those folks have watched too many smarmy after-school specials and have built up a reserve of hackneyed emotional turmoil. But maybe that’s just me being bitter and jaded and misanthropic.

Nah.

My life is an NEA grant application. Seriously.

*sigh* My bubble has been burst.

My darling, being the darling that he is, was kind enough to post a link to the official Nina Hagen homepage in response to my recent dream. “Cool,” I thought to myself. “This’ll be a chance for me to catch up with one of my teenage idols. I wonder what she’s doing now….”

Things started out pretty well. In fact, one of the first images that caught my eye was a Polaroid of Nina posing a la Jonno:

Cute, no? Charming. Just a bit edgy. Like, in a cute and charming sort of way. Nina version 4.0: upgraded for your pleasure–and hers.

I mean, we all know her recent music has sucked ass (though the title track from her last album kinda rocks), but she’s still touring and stuff. At least in Europe. Well, parts of Europe. Parts where the popular taste in music tends to gravitate toward low-rent Britneys and such. (FYI: French and Italian discos are far more horrific than even a Mississippi prison.) Anyway, she’s still kicking. That’s my point.

Apparently, though, her kicks have gotten a little lower these days:

Now, I can’t read German at all, but I think there’s very little to misunderstand here. The meaning is far too clear. Therefore….

A Postcard to Nina Hagen

Dear Nina:

Hi there! Remember me? Goofy little backwoods fag? Duran Duran hair? Oh, I’m sure you do–assuming those particular brain cells are still around. I bet you haven’t ridden inside a Ford F150 since.

We used to have some really good times, you and I. Like when I went to my first gay bar at 14 and my soon-to-be friend Tracy was performing “New York, New York” and his makeup was eerily close to your own. And when we used to go on debate trips together, and we’d drive the whole team crazy with endless repeats of “What It Is” and “Atomic Flash Deluxe,” but because we were driving the van, they couldn’t do shit. And then when I lost my virginity to side A of Flex…. Oh, wait. That wasn’t you, it was Lene Lovich. Sorry. TMI, I know.

Anyway, I wanted to apologize for not keeping in touch and everything. You know, the 90s were a big growing lesson for me. I learned that some places of employment don’t like to hire people with pink hair. Well, at least they didn’t in 1991. And I found that when I was trying to convince customers they look great in $700 cashmere catsuits (I mean, who would? They should know better, right?), they grew uneasy if I cranked up the volume on “Smack Jack” and started lip synching up and down the aisles of the store. And so I changed. Sorry. It happens.

Now, don’t you go giving me that smug look, little miss schadenfreude. You changed, too. Remember a little diddy called “Gorbachev Rap”? A certain album by the name of Bee Happy? Shall I continue? Bottom line, we’ve both seen our ups and downs.

But honey, I had no idea you were so bad off that you needed to start a psychic hotline. Okay, like, maybe in Europe they’re more accepted or whatever, but your fans in the States–they’d be crushed. Do you really want to hurt that many aging Gen-Xers? Do you really want to make them cry?

Let me ask you something: have you ever heard of Esther Rolle? She was once like you. A right-on woman. Empowered. Sought-after. For several seasons, she was on one of the top-ranked sitcoms in the US.

Then she stumbled. She got desperate for work, and she started a psychic hotline. But just starting a phone scam wasn’t enough for Esther. No, she had to outdo all the other psychic hawkers and start wearing hats–not just any hats, mind you, but hideous, gut-wrenching hats.

You know where Esther is now, girl? She dead. D-E-A-D. Dead.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re saying to yourself, “Well, I’m Nina Hagen, that can’t happen to me,” but sugar, lemme ask you: what is that on your head? What is that? Answer me! You know what it is! It’s a fucking hat, woman! You’re running a goddamn psychic hotline and you’re wearing a hat. You might as well just chain yourself to Margot Kidder and Kevin Costner and start skipping across the autobahn ’cause you are asking for it girl. Chew on some cyanide, if that’s what you’re after.

I’m asking you nicely. It’s for your own good: cut the damn phone lines today. If you need my help, I’m here for you. We can get through this together. We can play canasta and watch junkies (but only watch, because that heroin crap is played out) and drink Heineken, if you like. Whatever it takes. I’m here for you. Please call today; there’s no per-minute charge on my line, liebling.

I’ll talk to you soon.

–Richard

Note to self: kick-ass eggplant and spinach linguine + a bottle of moderately priced pinot noir + a nightcap of Pernod = disturbing and/or strange REM cycles. Case in point: last night I dreamt about filling out a really long grant application that would have brought Nina Hagen into New Orleans’ public schools for a year-long arts residency.

It wasn’t an exhausting dream; I mean, I wasn’t hurrying to get the thing finished for a rapidly approaching deadline or anything. In fact, it was kinda fun because I had all this cool stuff from her agent (CDs, glossies, etc.) to use as supporting documentation for the grant. I was, however, a bit concerned that Nina wasn’t exactly a good fit for high school students. Not that that stopped me.

Then I woke up, meandered to the bathroom (after all the liquid I’d consumed, I’d worked up a good piss), and when I got back to bed, I told Jonno what I’d dreamt. He kissed me, applauding the integration of Ms. Hagen into my daily routine.

Silly? Yes. But so far, it’s the high point of my Friday.

Yo, yo, yo: giving a shout-out to Bill (who simply must know our pal Varla Jean Merman) for sending me the article in question.

Pretty creepy, huh? Not as unsettling as if it were an accident, but still. Ugh.

At the gym yesterday, I was on the treadmill and I was watching the incomparable Lynne Russell on Headline News. And at the bottom of the screen, where they flash those impossible-to-read little news blurbs, I could have sworn I read about someone accidentally falling into a tree shredder. Given my sometime fascination with things morbid, I’ve been trying to find the story on the web, but no luck. Was I hallucinating?

There’s a strange thought that goes through my head sometimes. It’s one of those “what if” sort of stoner thoughts that I tend to get when someone else is telling me a really long, pointless story and my eyes glaze over and my mind wanders.

The thought is this: when I’m gathered around a table with a dozen other people and we’re discussing something relatively mundane, what would happen if I were to slowly undress, crawl naked to the center of the table, and start masturbating? What sort of expressions would I see on the others’ faces? What would ultimately happen to me? Would I get carted off? Or would everyone else simply leave the room and vow never to speak of the incident again?

I mention it because that very thought came to me moments ago as my colleagues and I sat around the conference table interviewing a potential employee. The same thought used to run through my head at Christmas and Thanksgiving as my brothers and I listened to my father and grandparents gossip about people we’d never met. Of course, back then I knew why I never followed through with the idea: the look of shock/horror/anger on my grandmother’s face would have killed me (if my father’s bare hands didn’t do the trick). But what is it, exactly, that keeps me–or anyone–from doing it now? Personally, I think it would have been pretty amusing if I’d done it today–a much better means of evaluating the guy’s performance than the standard interview questions everyone else was asking.

Societal norms are funny and arbitrary.

Just a thought.