“Faggot!”

He despised the officer. He kept on smiling, allowing himself to be lulled by the monstrous and ill-defined notion of “faggot” sweeping back and forth inside his head.

“Faggot, what’s a faggot? One who lets other guys screw him in the ass?” he thought. And gradually, while his smile faded, lines of disdain appeared at the corners of his mouth. Then again, another phrase drifted through his mind, inducing a vague feeling of torpor: “Me, I’m one too.” A thought he had difficulty focusing on, though he did not find it repulsive, but of whose sadness he was aware when he realized that he was pulling his buttocks in so tight (or so it seemed to him) that they no longer touched the seat of his trousers. And this fleeting, yet quite depressing thought generated, up his spine, an immediate and rapid series of vibrations which quickly spread out over the entire surface of his black shoulders and covered them with a shawl woven out of shivers. Querelle raised his arm, to smooth back his hair. The gesture was so beautiful, unveiling, as it did, the armpit as pale and taut as a trout’s belly, that the Lieutenant could not prevent his eyes from betraying how very weary he was of this state of unrequited passion. His eyes cried for mercy. Their expression made him look more humble, even, than if he had fallen on his knees. Querelle felt very strong. If he despised the Lieutenant, he felt no impulse to laugh at him, as on other days. It seemed unnecessary to him to exert his charm, as he had an inkling that his true power was of another kind. It rose from the depths of hell, yet from a certain region in hell where the bodies and the faces are beautiful. Querelle felt the coal dust on his body, as women feel, on their arms and hip, the folds of a material that transforms them into queens. It was a make-up that did not interfere with his nakedness, that turned him into a god.

–from Jean Genet’s Querelle de Brest (Amazon link here)

No one has ever accused me of being quiet. However, I’ll admit that I haven’t been as chatty as usual. In case you’re wondering why, please note:

Yes, we are going head-to-head with Miss Susann. (Har: I said “head”. TWICE!)

Now, you might think that a mostly gay group of theatre peeps performing one of Camp’s Holy Trinity (cf. The Women, Baby Jane) for a mostly gay audience would be like shooting mostly gay fish in a barrel. And it is kind of that–but sooooo much more.

In sum: yay. In fact: HOLY CRAP YAY.

David Vitter Found Living Under Rock With Nothing To Do

I love getting emails from Senator David Vitter. Really. They’re the highlight of my morning. Because nothing says “I am not a whoremonger” better than a short list of “news items” wherein (a) Vitter takes credit for other people’s work or (b) Vitter takes credit for his own work, which is usually mostly 99% not a great a idea.

Today’s pick of the litter (which I would happily link to, but Vitter’s technology director hasn’t unraveled the process of archiving, so you’ll just have to trust me):

Earlier this month I introduced a joint resolution that would allow Congress to protect the flag of the United States by preventing its desecration. The bill would give Congress the power to overrule a 1989 Supreme Court decision that declared previous flag protection laws unconstitutional.

This year marks the 20th anniversary of that 5-4 Supreme Court vote to declare the desecration of our flag to be constitutional, yet millions of Americans and all 50 state legislatures have endorsed prohibiting flag desecration. This resolution will illustrate Congress’s support for protecting this symbol of our freedom.

Which is just great, because those kinds of things always pass. They’re not time-wasters like silly legislation about the economy, or healthcare, or crime, or education. That’s our man.

GOLDWYN WAS GOLDEN, EVEN WHEN HE WASN’T

Sexual liberation in the sixties turned the motion picture screen into an orgiastic playground, and most of Hollywood’s latest product turned Goldwyn off. His private screening of Blow-Up in 1966 was going just fine until the scene in which David Hemmings cavorts with a couple of young girls. “Oh God,” Goldwyn cried out, calling a stop to the screening; “this is a goddamned dirty picture!” Not long after that, Goldwyn complained to Billy Wilder that he had seen an even more disgusting disply [sic]–Hello, Dolly! Wilder was puzzled–not only because he could not imagine anything scurrilous in that harmless musical but also because Darryl Zanuck had not released it yet. Goldwyn insisted he knew what he saw, and it was one of the filthiest pictures he had ever seen. Wilder asked him to recite the plot. “Sam,” he interrupted upon hearing about the drug-taking and sex lives of three aspiring actresses, “I think you’re referring to Valley of the Dolls.” “That’s just what I said,” Goldwyn insisted. “Valley of the Hello Dollies.”

[Goldwyn: A Biography via Self-Styled Siren via the incomparable Jon Newlin]

Etherpeople: are you reading The Awl, and if so, could you read it aloud to me, since my computer is now covered in Diet Coke* and not working so well? Thanks.

* The Diet Coke disaster of aught-nine was brought on by reading this summary of Angels and Demons while swilling same. Not recommended.

There are two things on Planet Earth that make me cringe:

1. Anyone strumming an acoustic guitar beside a campfire.

2. Adults exploiting teen trends in an effort to look cool.

I’m lucky on that first one. Since I lost interest in the Boy Scouts, campfires have been mostly absent from my life. Not that I mind open fires, mind you; I just don’t appreciate the insects and people that are drawn to their flames.

I see the second almost every day: McDonald’s using Twitter. Cocoa Puffs on Facebook. Hip-hoperas. My feelings are pretty much summed up in that episode of The Simpsons, when the Itchy and Scratchy producers decide to add Poochie, the rapping dog, to the cast. Poor Poochie.

Given that, it might seem like you’d know where I’d stand on a videogame that’s based on Dante’s Inferno. However, I’m not sure you’d be right:

Yeah, I’d totally hit that.

If you’re in New Orleans, I can only assume that I’ll be seeing you tonight:

Yep: TRANNYSHACK is back at One Eyed Jacks. Doors open at 9, the show’s at 11, and the cover is a measly $8. Wave to me in the booth–I’ll be down as soon as the dancing starts. And you know I will.

OMG. OMG. OMG. OMG. OMG.

Deborah Gibson is back. AND HER OCTOPUS IS HUGE.

Holy crap, do I want to see this.

Sorry, that should’ve been: Holy crap, do I want to see this?

[via JonCarnero]

THE VIEW FROM MY CAR ON 5-13-09

Driving down Elysian Fields yesterday afternoon, I saw dozens of these signs staked into the neutral ground. As far as I could tell, each was different. If you enlarge that photo, you’ll see it’s a poem that reads:

HOOVES CLANK ON GRATING
THE ABRUPT CLAMOR RINGS OUT
THE MULE DOESN’T SWERVE

Aesthetically speaking, it’s abysmal, but the would-be poet gets props for enthusiasm. Me, I kinda like living in a neighborhood where artful litter pops up on the street.

Enough sadness: now, anger.

State representative Jonathan Perry (R-Abbeville), is sponsoring a bill that insists children’s birth certificates can only include the names of married parents or single individuals. It is targeted directly at GLBT couples, who obviously can’t marry in the great state of Louisiana.

Not only is the legislation mean-spirited and homophobic, but it’s also an endangerment to kids. For example: if a kid and one of his GLBT moms were in an  car accident, the other GLBT mom would have to go through a fair chunk of legal maneuvering to ensure visitation and other rights to care for the child and in Boston the line up for legal aid is long. And that’s just one of many unpleasant scenarios.

Asked about this, Perry said he really doesn’t care:

If you’re in Louisiana, do us all a favor: visit the Forum for Equality website now, and contact your legislator before the bill (HB 60) comes up for debate tomorrow morning.

I love being a New Orleanian, and I love Louisiana–mostly–but crap like this make me want to break out the flannel and head to Vermont. I just don’t understand where it comes from. I can only assume that Perry needs a distraction to take his mind off the fact that his party is dead.

UPDATE: For more on the perils of gay parenting (in Louisiana and elsewhere), check out “The Gay Parent Trap” in this week’s Gambit Weekly, penned by the always-charming David Winkler-Schmit, who happens to be an adoptive parent himself. Good stuff. Not necessarily encouraging or uplifting or even optimistic, but good stuff.