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I am not a philosopher, and I don’t read much philosophy. I know a bit of literary theory, and I remember Plato’s allegory of the cave and his theory of forms, and I’ve read No Exit more times than I care to recall. Other than that…um, does The Philosophy of Andy Warhol count?

That said, I do enjoy listening to people with some life experience under their belts. And of those wisemen and wisewomen, one of my faves is the late, great Dorian Corey. When I heard her speak these words at the end of Paris is Burning all those years ago (yes, I saw it during its first run, thankyouverymuch), it was a revelation. It was an epiphany. I can’t say it totally changed my life then and there, but I know that I breathed a little easier.

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That’s my friend Elizabeth, charming her fellow revelers at the Saint Anne ball a couple of Carnivals ago. I believe she was a garden fountain that year (those are birds meant to be bathing in the spray). It was a pretty spectacular costume.

Anyway, Elizabeth is an amazing person: smart and quirky and forthright and always smiling and surrounded by dogs. She genuinely loves life, and she’s an outstanding cook. I guess you could say that she’s similar to a lot of people you find in New Orleans, but also totally unique.

Elizabeth was recently laid off from her job–her dream job, no less. The position is being held for her, and she’s still doing things for the company here and there, but to pay the rent, Elizabeth has returned to her pre-dream-job gigs, like teaching for the Princeton Review. It’s been a weird and unpleasant couple of months for her, but so far, she’s come through with flying colors.

Yesterday, Elizabeth sent me this email, which perfectly encapsulates her personality and some of my own feelings about life and dogs and everything else. I asked to reprint it, and she agreed. Enjoy:

So I came home from Princeton Review LSAT training feeling very woe is me, even though I asked it in the “Why this?” instead of “Why me?” way. Anyway, I opened a can of butter beans, ate them and then poured wine and crawled in the tub and started reading an old Food and Wine from July because I am very behind. And I started reading this article by Lettie Teague about how people only drink cheap wine and rosé in the summer and how everyone should be drinking “better,” and she made “reasonable” suggestions including a $40 bottle! Hmmm. Then I read about how Jean George Von whateverhisnameis was cooking a spit roast pig that he ordered from some organic pig farmer, on a spit from some special website that sells pig roasting equipment for only several thousand dollars, at his house that was not in the Hamptons, but close, and everyone sat at a teak table, drinking cocktails made from fruits I’ve never heard of and then wandered off to the dock to fish for trout. And I thought of my 8 hours of logic games training, and my canned butter beans, and I looked at my glass of wine from the $3 bottle that I bought at Suda Salvage, and I started feeling very very sorry for myself. And I hated them. I hated them all. And I started descending to that place, you know, that place. And I tried to be grateful for my life, that I am not some tortured sex slave in Thailand that I read about in the Times, and also not some oblivious fool on MTV’s “My Sweet 16” who is unhappy because I didn’t get the Porsche I wanted, and I tried to find balance and peace and and and.

And then all of a sudden, one of my dogs (I’m not sure which, but it was probably Maddie) farted a very big dog fart. I heard the hiss first and then smelled the powerful diamond-cutting smell. And of course I had to ask aloud , like an 8 year old, “WHO FARTED?!” and they both came up to me and started licking me, not understanding or caring. And then I didn’t care anymore, either. I am so glad I have these creatures who find such happiness just because the pack is together. I come home and it’s like I’ve been off to war for 10 years. “She’s home!” and it’s all licks and sniffs and “Look at me!” And they are happy even if it’s only chicken liver, as long as the fleas aren’t too bad, as long as they can lay in front of the AC or the heater and occasionally on the bed, and as long as they get to the dog park every day, well, life is pretty damn good.

And I remembered how not so long ago all of my pack wasn’t together, scattered in Baton Rouge and Houston and NY and Mississippi and Alabama and whereverthefuck. And even now, the whole pack is still not here. And now there’s new parts of my pack, too. And I just wanted to say that the powerful smell (the last sense that leaves you, thanks Proust) nudged me, reminded me to just be present here. And not ask “Why?” Or “When?” But to just be glad that the fleas aren’t bad. And that the heater and AC are both working. And that I have ways of paying for the chicken livers, and some are even good and interesting ways. And mostly to count on my hands over and over all the friends and loved ones I have, both near and far, who pour me drinks, feed me good food, and help me not to worry. And best of all, who make me laugh, almost as loudly as a dog’s fart can.

And I gazed on the twinkling lights of my Mardi Gras Christmas tree and the shiny pink fabric waiting to be turned into my ham costume, and listened to the gentle snores of the dogs as we half-watched Ben-Hur (and boy am I glad I’m not him!) and I am glad and so grateful for my lovely, lovely pack, both four and two legged.

I love all of you.

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I was getting nostalgic for TRANNYSHACK and stumbled across this: Precious Moments in blackface doing Marlena Shaw’s “Woman of the Ghetto”. It’s one of Michael’s best numbers (right after that “cheeseburger ass” song). Oh, but I love his fabulous mind….

And for those who are interested, we’re working to bring TRANNYSHACK back to New Orleans this May. Stay tuned!

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I’ve had My Brightest Diamond’s Bring Me the Workhorse running on replay for a week–especially the “Freak Out” single. Is there something wrong with me?

Here’s a concert clip, though I’m not sold on her live performance:

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The Many Moods of Me: Wednesday Edition

Happy: A coalition of groups in the UK have launched an ad campaign for atheism and harmony. Which sounds like the sort of thing that will generate the opposite of harmony, but whatever: you gotta believe in something. [via BB]

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Angry: Apparently, Rick Warren is semi-secretly the homophobic, right-wing douchebag I’d though he might be. Seriously, fuck him to death. [via TR]

* * * * *

Amused: Phoenix-based substitute preacher Matthew Stucky isn’t a douchebag at all:

“Hollywood has always had agendas they are trying to push and one of those major agendas is homosexuality is ok. It’s no big deal. Another one they are trying to push is ‘It’s ok for women to work.'”

That motherhumper’s just freakin’ NUTS.

* * * * *

Less amused: Video has emerged of James Josh Brolin and Jeffrey Wright getting arrested outside a Shreveport bar last summer. The charges are being dropped, and no one died, but mama please don’t let me get arrested north of I-10.

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Intrigued: “Digital guru” Clay Shirkey has penned an interesting piece on the immediate future of media. On magazines, he has this to say:

The great advantage magazines have is glossy pictures. It’s better to read on paper than on the web but it’s much better to look at pictures on paper than on the net. Brides magazine is going to be the last one standing.

As for newspapers, he says that they’ll move to extremes of elitism–either totally elitist (with a specific, finely crafted voice) or totally populist (with content freely pulled from readers and others). Then, as if on cue, Su points me to ThePrintedBlog.com, which is probably the single dumbest idea I’ve ever laid eyes on.

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So yes, that’s me on the left. Your eyes do not deceive you: I’m wearing a sash and a crown. And if you subscribe to my Twitter feed, you already know the truth: I am King of Carnival 2009. More precisely, I’m king of my Carnival krewe, the Mystic Krewe of Satyricon. (That’s my queen, Wedon, on the right.)

In New Orleans, there are a lot of Mardi Gras krewes, but the king of the krewe of Rex is commonly referred to as the “King of Carnival” since he is the symbolic mayor of the city on Fat Tuesday. Rex is a very old krewe with a place of privilege on the parade circuit (it rolls on Fat Tuesday morning), and the conclusion of the krewe’s ball–when the king of Rex meets the king of Comus–marks the official end of Carnival.

There’s not really an equivalent “overlord” position among gay krewes, but since there are only seven such organizations, I’m going to be really cavalier and claim the title for myself: King of Gay Carnival! I will thumb-wrestle all those who wish to challenge me.

As far as duties are concerned, I’ll be presented at the Satyricon ball (February 15!), and I’ll parade around the hall balancing a weighty headpiece. Yay. I’ll also attend the balls of the other gay krewes, where we’ll exchange regal gifts like silver-plated letter openers, hand-tooled leather riding crops, and the occasional page. I will also drink my weight in alcohol. Repeatedly.

I couldn’t find any footage of gay Carnival balls on YouTube, which is really strange and really sad. I’ll do my best to film this year’s event so you can see what all the fuss is about. Rest assured, most Carnival balls–at least the gay ones–aren’t really “balls”, in the sense that there’s not much live music or general dancing. It’s a lot of sitting and watching tableaux vivants. (Yes, we use the term tableaux vivants in our programs. It’s that old-skool.) Stay tuned.

P.S. On a completely unrelated note, will someone please explain why the New York Times is allowing claptrap like this whiny, sophomoric screed on sexual addiction to sully its shrinking pages? Not only is the piece poorly crafted and self-indulgent–some might say “masturbatory”, which would be totally appropriate–but it’s penned by a 30something. Reading a 30something confess his dark love of self-love is like reading about a NASCAR fan’s love of fast cars: IT COMES WITH THE TERRITORY.

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I’d said I was going to throw a New Year’s Eve party for the hounds, but when the potentially glorious moment arrived, they were totally uninterested. In fact, between the sound of premature bottle rockets, the crowds of noisy hipsters passing on the street, and the abundance of tinseled party hats littering the kitchen table, they were pretty damn terrified.

Of course, that did not stop me.

I tried to engage them, to amp them up. We ate. We ran up and down the hall. We played fetch (well, Tania did). But when the party favors came out and the champagne cork popped, they went all Cinderella on me–and it wasn’t even midnight. I forced them to sit for a few pics, then decided to try my hand at bipeds.

It went no better. Quite possibly, it went worse.

For one, the streets were packed with folks in town for the Sugar Bowl. Now, don’t get me wrong: I’m happy that tourism has returned to the French Quarter. I’m happy that people from Alabama and Utah and other football hotspots are enjoying themselves and supporting our local businesses. But like every other group of visitors, last night’s revelers took to walking down the middle of the street and throwing their go-cups wherever they liked. I’ve seen that happen for decades, but last night, it was all I could do not to cut someone with my rat-tail comb. (Just kidding: I don’t carry a rat-tail comb. But I aspire to.)

I joined Dave and Bud for a couple of drinks and a drag show at the Golden Lantern, which would’ve been fun under normal circumstances. Alas, we were right next to the bar, so I felt like I was in the way, and the only people I knew in the place were Dave and Bud, who are a couple, so I felt even more in the way. I stepped outside for some air during a break in the action and never looked back. Clearly, I didn’t want or need to be out. From the time I locked up to the time I returned home: less than one hour.

By midnight, I was nodding off. I heard a bunch of fireworks go off down the block, turned to Kika and wished her a happy new year, closed my laptop, and bedded down on the sofa.

I haven’t even kissed anyone yet. I’m like a NYE virgin or something. Can I eBay that, you think?

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“We Feel Fine” isn’t new, but I think it’s a nice way to end the year. If you’re unfamiliar with the website, here’s a good description:

Every few minutes, [WE FEEL FINE] searches the world’s newly posted blog entries for occurrences of the phrases “I feel” and “I am feeling”. When it finds such a phrase, it records the full sentence, up to the period, and identifies the “feeling” expressed in that sentence (e.g. sad, happy, depressed, etc.). Because blogs are structured in largely standard ways, the age, gender, and geographical location of the author can often be extracted and saved along with the sentence, as can the local weather conditions at the time the sentence was written…. The result is a database of several million human feelings, increasing by 15,000 – 20,000 new feelings per day. (Eyebeam.org)

Just click the big pink heart to start. (FYI, I like the “Murmurs” and the “Mounds” applications, but wander around–it’s all pretty nifty.)

And obviously: happy New Year, y’all.

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Today’s Times-Picayune posted an interesting update on the current gay adoption conflamma. It seems that back in the heady days of helmet-hating Mike Foster, something called the “Commission on Marriage and Family” was established–presumably to talk about, you know, marriage and families and stuff. It’s never been very active, but the folks at Forum for Equality are concerned that the adoption case will spur the commission–which is now appointed by the similarly helmet-hating Bobby Jindal–to push new legislation banning gay adoption. That wouldn’t be surprising, given the fact that (a) we’re in the bright red state of Louisiana, and (b) the committee’s membership includes folks like Puritan-at-Large Tony Perkins. However, other members of the commission seem somewhat more level-headed:

Jindal appointee Gene Mills, Louisiana Family Forum director, said he believes gay rights advocates are simply overreacting to the Arkansas vote and California voters’ rejection of same-sex marriages. Mills’ group bills itself as “your voice for traditional families.” He said the commission could yield ideas such as continuing to make it harder to divorce; devoting more resources to job training for single parents; and increasing state prisoners’ opportunities to interact with their children.

But Mills and [commission chair Senator Sharon Weston Broome, D-Baton Rouge] demurred on the question of gay adoption. Mills said, “That’s really up to the Legislature.” Broome did not offer her position.

Asked through his aides about the commission and specifically about his position on gay adoption, Jindal released a one-sentence statement: “I believe family is the cornerstone of our society and look forward to the commission’s work on how we can do more to support healthy families.”

At least one member of the clergy serving on the commission said he has no intention of parroting views of the traditional social conservatives….

The Rev. Chris Andrews of First United Methodist Church in Baton Rouge said he wants to discuss ways to help all families, regardless of composition. He said he will resist any attempts to reduce the likelihood that a child might be adopted.

“In general, I would view adoption issues through the lens of whether an individual or couple has the ability to love and care for a child, ” Andrews said. “I do not think that is something that is limited to a particular sexual orientation.”

–full article at NOLA.com

Am I being a total Pollyanna? Am I putting too much faith in the common sense of our elected and appointed officials? Or am I being lazy? Probably all of the above.

Note: none of this is to say that I want kids–I have four dogs, which must be the equivalent of at least one child–but as an adoptee myself, I understand the value of placing kids in good homes. I fail to understand how anyone can argue against that.