Somehow this Yahoo search led to me: “sarah michelle gellar pie”.

Given my distinct lack of affection for la Gellar, the idea of having her pudgy, bleached-blonde WBody ground up into little meatballs and used as the daily special at Mr. Gyros sounds positively smashing. Not that I’d want to eat her, mind you–if I want bitter I’ll have a Campari and soda–but it’s the thought that counts.

So many comings-out I’ve had recently. Now, add one more to the list: yes, I was a debate geek. I did a little LD (the policy topics my junior and senior years were really dull: water treatment, zzzzzzz), but my best events were Original Oratory, Humorous/Dramatic Interp, Duo Reading, and Duet Acting.

My high school once kicked NFL and CFL ass, but by the time I got there, they’d long since dropped the debate program. Luckily, our speech teacher wanted to start things up again, and within the first few weeks of my 10th grade year, she’d corralled four of us into a ragtag group of competitors. We did surprisingly well; even at our first tournament I walked with a 2nd place Prose Interp (a category I later came to despise) and a 1st place Duet. Hot stuff, no?

A small point of interest: one of my fellow teammates (the one with whom I shared the aforementioned Duet trophy and with whom I was inexplicably matched up for the rest of my high school years) went on to do very well for herself. There’s a pic of her somewhere on this site. Who could it be? First one to get it right wins a special token of my esteem….

It’s Monday and I’m cooking red beans and the house smells like good food. Wish you were here.

Dear Steve:

Thank you for your correspondence, but we regret to inform you that Ms. Ciccone has been dead for some time now. She suffered near fatal injuries during the filming of Dick Tracy, and although she made a jaw-dropping recovery around the time of Erotica‘s release, she soon experienced a massive relapse. She was so weak by the time Alan Parker chose her for the lead in Evita, we all knew death would not be long for her. She died at the wrap party for that film in a freak mehendi poisoning. The case is still under investigation, so we are not at liberty to discuss the particulars, but signs currently point to a disgruntled woman who auditioned for a walk-on part as an elephant seal in the “Cherish” video, was rejected, and then later acquired a position as a chambermaid in Ms. Ciccone’s home under an assumed name.

Thankfully, Ms. Ciccone’s forward-thinking backers had planned for just such an incident and hired Regina Belle at a much reduced rate (she isn’t working much these days, now is she?) to sing new material, and brought on Debbie/Deborah Gibson to serve as a body double for a limited number of live performances. Of course, most of Ms. Ciccone’s appearances these days are on video, made from splicings of old footage and new, digitally enhanced work, based on Ms. Gibson’s languid movements in a specially designed electronic catsuit. We are unfamiliar with the specifics of this process, but the results have been very impressive, have they not?

Of course, this is all classified information, and it is given with the understanding that you will keep it private. Should you choose to violate this implied agreement, let us just say that (a) we know where you live, and (b) little Lourdes has taken very well to her private handgun lessons. We hope you gather our meaning.

Thinking of you during this time of grief, we remain,

Carlisle, Martika, & Hoffs, Partners in Law

Like most superheroes, I could be using my powers for good–“powers” in this case meaning time alone in my house. I could be organizing my three-foot-high stack of miscellaneous bills, stickynotes, and ungraded mid-terms. I could be emptying trash cans and washing dishes. I could be mopping, for chrissake.

But like many who have come before me, I am weak. I have been swallowed up by the dark side, revelling in the Seven Deadly Sins and even thinking up some new ones. My latest invention is “Sluttony.” Sloth + Gluttony = Sluttony. It refers to my habit of eating copious amounts of food while laying in bed watching repeats of National Geographic specials I’ve seen five times already. Of course, now that I look at it, it could have other meanings, too. Like gorging yourself on…well, I’ll leave it to your imagination.

If anyone sees my boyfriend this afternoon, tell him that I miss him dearly and that the house is, indeed, still standing, although I broke a glass pitcher yesterday because it wasn’t able to handle the half-gallon of still-hot iced tea I’d just made. (The hounds and I avoided the glass shrapnel, and the sound was kinda cool, so everything worked out fine.) You can give him a kiss, too, if you like.

Oh. One more thing: ask him to call or email me at some point. I just want to know that he’s still alive and that his friends haven’t secretly set him up with a job and an apartment or anything. Nothing serious.

When did this turn into va–fucking–cation week?

I haven’t been out of town in over a year. And I don’t mean, like, I haven’t been on a real vacation in over a year. No. I mean that for the past 12 months, I have been held prisoner within the city limits of New Orleans, the Big Easy, Sweet Lady Gumbo, Old…Swampy. Except for the occasional Wal-Mart spree in the suburbs, I’ve not strayed more than five miles from my own home. And I’m not even under house arrest or anything. And I can’t feasibly go anywhere interesting for many more months.

<tantrum> Wah, wah, wah. Blech. Phooey. </tantrum>

Although I detest the thought of moving, even that’s starting to look appealing.

Calgon, take me away.

How’s about helping a guy out? I want a little break from humdrum reality. I’m not asking for a free trip to the Ural Mountains or anything. Tell me a story, share some exceptionally good porn, whatever. Entertain me.

Fine, just fine! In retaliation, I hereby vow before goddess and everyone never to buy another any more a Metallica CD.

Of course, it’s only a District Court, and even if the Supreme Court concurs, the ruling can’t be completely effective (can it?). I mean, the Internet’s “about” a lot of things–ease of communication, speedy data transfer, and porn come first to mind–but all of it seems dependent in part on the “public domain” nature of previously restricted property. You know, porn sites don’t call up sweet little Talvin Demachio and ask if they can use his picture, nor do they call the porn studios who own the copyright. I promise.

And besides, can you imagine the nightmare that this sort of standard, taken at face-value, would impose on web hosters, ISPs, and the like, ensuring that not a single one of their users transmits any sort of data branded explicitly or implicitly with a copyright? Maybe technology can be altered to adapt to such restrictions (I dunno, I’m no propellerhead), but if they put me in charge, I’d start with a massive overhaul of copyright law.

The opinions expressed on this site are solely those of the author and are protected under copyright and droit moral legislation worldwide. Theft, plagiarism, or other misuse of this content constitutes a violation of the law and will result in prosecution, perhaps even fellatio. Don’t make me hurt you, sucka.

New Yorkers beware: Jonno is sporting one of his patented facial masques. I’m not exactly sure what that portends, but it can’t be good.

I just thought you should know what you’re getting yourselves into.

Like I said, Angels in America is a beautiful play: smart, poetic, real, magical, sexy. And it’s a great work to put on a syllabus, because no matter what your students wanna discuss, it’s in there.

I keep coming back to it year after year because it unsettles and saddens me. So much of the play is about love and transformation and life-changes and things falling apart: relationships crack, lovers outgrow one another, sometimes die. And it’s not just the Hedda Gabler/Titanic kind of splitting where one of the pair is clearly the martyr, the other a vandal. Kushner’s smarter than that; every character is likeable in his own way. Even Roy Cohn has a certain charm–although in real life he was the apparent reincarnation of Vlad the Impaler. What I mean to say is that there are no obvious solutions here. If these characters were placed on a deserted island by a major television network, viewers would have a hard time picking which one to boot off first.

If you’ve ever had someone suddenly taken away from you, the play’s narratives of love and tragic loss are particularly poignant. You remember that feeling you once had, that promise you made to yourself about never taking people for granted, and you’re slightly ashamed that you forgot it so quickly.

When you say goodbye to someone, even if you’re just going to bed in the next room, say it like you might never have the chance to say it again.