Ugh! I feel as though I’ve been run over by Emily Dickinson’s 18-wheeled carriage of death. You see, Jonno and I were forced to work this private party at Lucky Cheng’s on Saturday night–some lame pseudo-house bullshit put together by a couple of second-rate South Beach circuit fags. Today my lungs hurt from smoking nearly a full pack of cigarettes in six hours (the “party” was so dull I had nothing better to do than chase cancer willy-nilly) and I’m groggy from the disruption of my normal sleep habits (12 – 6am, generally speaking).

Ergo, I could write a long account of current bodily complaints, or I could launch a tirade against the Circuit, but instead, I think I’ll send you here. Run along now. Have some comic relief. Don’t say I never gave you anything.

be vewwwy qwiet. i’m supposed to be working this open house event we’re having, but instead i’ve ducked out and i’m hiding in my office, hammering out some long-overdue responses to month-old email. among those missives was a new one from my boyfiend complaining of some chick’s use of the adjective “fiendish” on her website, as though his/our own fiendishness were some birthright upon which she’s impinging. if, however, he’d gone so far as to look here, he might have been less upset. i mean, at least she’s got a pretty good sense of humor….

Okay, enough hiding. If they want me, they’ll find me, whether I’m under the desk or not….

Recurring concern: I’m not reading enough. I used to read all the time–E. F. Benson, Christoper Durang, Mark Leyner, and of course the scrumpdelicious E. M. Delafield. These days, though, it takes me a week to finish one of Tennessee Williams’ shortest stories. Yeah, I guess I’ve gone through phases like this before, but they usually don’t last as long as this }:>(

So, am I going through a gradual process of “dumbening”? Is the drug abuse of my youth finally catching up with me? Haven’t they just created a means of regenerating lost brain cells? Should I sign up? Or is it just that I’ve been too busy? Or that it’s too hot? Or maybe I’m allergic to paper…. Whatever the reason, I feel like a waste. Anyone wanna cheer me up?

So very insanely busy am I. So very bleary, too–last night being weekly po’ch ‘ho night with Ashley, Mara, and Joe, which basically means sitting on our semi-uncomfortable stoop for 4 – 6 hours drinking cheap beer, smoking twice as much as garden-variety nicotine fiends, and playing with the hounds. Keeping it real in the Marigny with full-on proletarian effeka…

So I guess it’s only right and natural that I should have a really plebian song running through my head this morning. And I do. Can you guess what it is?

Britney? No.

These guys? I wish.

Keep guessing. Are you guessing? If you guess correctly, you’ll win a prize! How’s about your choice of 1) Jonno’s relatively unused sleep mask, 2) Gaston’s old dog tag, or 3) an item chosen at random from my extensive collection of happy meal bibelots?

Got your guess written out? Pencils down, please. If you guessed track #2 on this album, you’re the luck winner! Congratulate yourself on your tragic taste in music, my friend.

Contest valid only in the 48 continental United States. Sorry Canada, Mexico–NAFTA don’t cover this shit, yo. I reserve the right to reject claims to any and/or all of these fabulous prizes from anyone anywhere. Yield to my whimsy, Mary!

There is something decidedly comforting yet disturbing about the emotional fragility that goes along with being ragged out. Like, when you’re really, really hungover and you’re watching TV and you’re too lazy to change the channel when the latest Pam Dawber/Lindsay Wagner/Meredith Baxter Birney movie of the week comes on and it’s ludicrously sappy but at the end when the mom and the daughter finally come together over the brother/husband/grandfather’s death you can’t help but get all weepy. I swear, sometimes Norman Lear can play me like a cheap Steinway.

I experienced such a hokey frisson today at the Mayor’s Art Awards–a really large banquet held to honor a few artists, arts organizations, charitable foundations, and corporations that have made an impact on the arts here in New Orleans. And like any awards show (goddess, how I loathe them) they played this 15-minute video montage featuring the work of each artist/group and at the end of it all, I couldn’t help but think, “These people really are special. They make our arts scene so vibrant.” Of course, being the po-mo guy I am, I immediately realized how shallow my sentiments were and sorta wanted to throw up into my pecan pie, but, you know, at the same time, I felt it. Irony without the irony. Alannis, are you listening, you fetid little sow? I guess I should attribute it to the fact that I’m still feeling groggy from my restless night of half-sleep.

On a completely different subject (actually, going back to the previous entry that dealt tangentially with 80s pop), is there anyone out there who remembers the rap song with this little break:

The two great tastes that taste great together

Will be around forever and ever–

A symbol of love that will last through time

A river in France, a statue in the Guggenheim

Every so often, it runs through my head, and it’s the only time I can ever remember hearing the Guggenheim mentioned in a song of any sort so I’d like to have a copy. I think the title was something like “You’re My One and Only True Love,” but I dunno. It came out around the same time as “It Takes Two”–not the Rob Base and DJ EZ Rock version, the soft, girly version. Little help, please?

So, it’s another one of those vaguely unsettling mornings. Not only was my sleep unrestful–maybe I was too keyed up from the excitement of finally posting this website–but I awoke groggily to no coffee, a queasy stomach, and that insipid Baby One More Time Britney Spears diddy running through my head. (If any of you actually add that to your shopping cart, I don’t wanna know. Just send me a copy as soon as you possibly can.) Why’s the damn thing so catchy, anyway? It’s like e-@#$%!-bola virus.

Now that I think of it, forget Marilyn Manson: how many psycho teens have been driven to the brink of campus carnage by the unholy trinity of Spears/Aguilera/Lopez? It’s my vaguely educated guess that the (until recently) American school shooting fad didn’t hit until the 1990s simply because Debbie/Tiffany/Martika hadn’t sold their virginal temptress souls to Beelzebub in exchange for unforgettable melodies. I mean, really, how many of us remember the tune to Toy Soldiers?

Lookie, lookie–I’m blogging. I feel so, well, digital. Maybe I should tell someone, just to get it off my chest. Hey, jOnnO….