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[Alex] Borstein interrupted [Seth] MacFarlane to say that, as a Jew, she didn’t like how [Edelweiss] glorified the Austrians’ role in WWII. MacFarlane considered this, and then replied, “Carnegie Hall is not the place to bring your fucking Hebrew baggage.”

—NY Mag

It is entirely possible that I have missed yet another defining cultural moment of my generation.

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I’m looking forward to the 2008 presidential election. You might even say I’m optimistic. Cautiously, anyway.

And it’s not just because I think any one of the four major contenders will be better than The W…although seriously, any of the four major contenders will be totally way better than The W. No, I’m excited because for the first time in 16 years–a full generation in the Spears family–we won’t have a Southerner in the White House.

Now, I’m obviously a Southerner myself, and often proud of the fact. I subscribe to Southern Living (duh: I’m also gay), and I firmly believe that pineapple upside-down cake should be added to the list of major food groups. But there are times I want to distance myself from all that Good Ol’ Boy-ness–thanks largely to the “aw, shucks” attitudes of Bush and, to a lesser extent, Clinton that have radically redefined what it means to be Southern.

See, after The War (as my grandmama refered to it), Southerners needed to boost their self-esteem, and they did so largely through the arts and culture. “Them Yankees may have won The War,” the reasoning went, “but they ain’t nothin’ more than a bunch of savages in suits. Althea, play that lovely waltz on the harpsichord, won’t you, sugar?” They prided themselves on inherited, genetic artistocracy and cultural superiority. Good breedin’, as they might’ve said. (NB: this is not surprising, since it’s practically the same mindset Southerners used to justify slavery.)

Along with all that came a great deal of intellectualism–practical intellectualism, you might say. You see it in the works of William Faulkner, Eudora Welty, Flannery O’Connor, even Fannie Flagg. There’s a quiet intellectual rigor, a willingness to think, to follow ideas and thoughts to their various ends, without being overly philosophical and abstract (though Faulkner admittedly has his moments).

But thanks to Bush–and in fact, thanks to the conservative movement that’s swept the South for 30 years–all that died. Especially since 1994, when the conservative movement really galvanized politically, intellectualism has been looked upon with suspicion: Why you gotta ask so many dang questions? Why can’t you just be content with doing things the way we’ve been doing ’em? My daddy talks like that a lot, which is why most of my trips to the homestead last less than 24 hours.

Now, I’m not saying that Clinton or McCain or Obama or, goddess forbid, Romney, would start up a White House Book Club. And I certainly don’t think that you’re going to see any of the four discussing Hegel in public anytime soon. But at least they won’t be burdened with that tired, tired chestnut, which insists that in order to be themselves, they have to forsake independent thought. It’ll give them more room to do as they please (maybe), and with luck it’ll give Southerners time to rebuild that part of their identity.

As soon as we get rid of Rebecca Wells and that Sweet Potato harlot, that is. Jethro, pass me some cookie dough and my strychnine–I’m gonna make me a bitter pill….

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Fourteen reasons that Britney should End It All now

  • Because suicide’s on the verge of becoming trendy again, and before long everyone will be all like, “Damn copycattin’ bitch.”
  • Because people are starting to take K-Fed’s side, and girl needs the sympathy.
  • Because the public is in danger of forgetting how truly fuhtup she is.
  • Because Mary Hart is running out of things to say and is seriously considering having one of her assistants read up on that Darfur place everyone keeps talking about.
  • Because someone’s gotta beat Amy Winehouse to the punch.
  • Because I’d like a topical costume for Mardi Gras, and I can’t find a John Edwards wig.
  • Because inheritance taxes are lookin’ pretty good right now. You know, for the kids and stuff.
  • Because her sister’s newborn child needs a namesake.
  • Because Nostrodamus said she would. Really.
  • Because there’s construction in the works in downtown New Orleans, but you can’t name federal buildings after anyone with a pulse.
  • Because she’s proven she can perform in her sleep, which means she can probably do so when she’s dead.
  • Because she must prepare the way for The Chosen One.
  • Because it’ll show that she’s environmentally conscious, what with all the decomposing and everything.
  • Because Roy Cohn wants entertainment, dammit, and he wants it now!
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THINGS

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Living in New York in the pre-Giuliani mid-90s was a mixed bag. On the one hand, the city still had its unique, gritty charm: walking to my office on 42nd Street, I passed crackheads and abandoned theaters, whose marquees had been colonized by Jenny Holzer, and my home turf was kept safe by convivial Dominicans with a strong sense of family, plus a couple of well-intentioned smack dealers. On the other hand, I went to NYU, and my department was a total drag. And I lived in the East Village, which is never pretty: it’s slightly out of the way and chock-full of tenements that lack the charm you find in apartments elsewhere in Manhattan. Also, I lived next to a fire station. And my window faced the street. And there were a lot of fires.

The one consistent bright spot in my week was The Mrs. Mouth Show, which ran on New York’s public access station. The show was ingenious and irreverent on a budget of $5.99–basically it consisted of a nut-job from Broomall, Pennsylvania, with Donna Mills-esque eyes painted below his lips and a thrift store wig perched on his chin, doing wacky little things that were recorded on a third-hand video camera. Periodically, Mrs. Mouth, aka Eva Moskowitz, would encourage viewers to run to their windows, throw open the sashes, and scream, “I love Mrs. Mouth” into the night air. Occasionally, people did.

Mrs. Mouth’s best gags were (a) her lengthy phone calls to complete strangers, and (b) the end-of-show snack, the nature of which was often kept secret from her until it had been placed in her mouth by the show’s “producer”. She also put together a soap opera/sitcom kinda thing called The Aunt Gail Show, which was done with a variety of dolls–kinda like Todd Haynes’ Superstar, but Aunt Gail said the word “vagina” a lot more.

For years, I’ve cherished the one and only Mrs. Mouth episode I own. By some strange twist of fate, it’s a Christmas episode, so I’ve had a tendency to drag it out every holiday season. It’s not the best of Mrs. Mouth’s shows, but my friends have all expressed polite amusement.

A couple of days ago, however, the boyfriend informed me that someone recently uploaded a buttload of Mrs. Mouth shows to YouTube. So now I get to inflict them on you, too. My faves so far:

Mrs. Mouth Calls an Italian Person

Yeah, I’m pretty much in heaven.

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Katrina Dawlins, Sissybears, and the Death of Social Networking

1. If New York magazine is to be believed–and granted, I’m never entirely sure they are–the heroes of this year’s Sundance Film Festival are a couple of scrappy, street-smart Katrina survivors from the Lower 9. In an otherwise lackluster year, Kim and Scott Roberts’ footage of the storm’s onslaught and aftermath, cobbled into a documentary by Tia Lessin and Carl Deal and entitled Trouble the Waters, has captured the attention of media bigwigs and audiences alike. The full story’s here, including a couple of unconvincing minutes of video excerpts. Over on YouTube, there’s some crappy handheld video from the premiere–so crappy that it took mom 30 seconds to realize she’d left the lens cap on–but still:

So perhaps it’s premature, but hooray! Maybe.

2. Reasons to love the Gayest Gay of All Gaylandia, aka Chris from Project Runway:

  • I’ve said it loud and said it proud: Sissybears rule! Especially since the show’s been kinda short on sissybears as of late. (Michael Kors doesn’t count, ’cause I’m pretty sure he waxes his raisinets.)
  • Bitch is quick. For someone who can’t run, Miss Chris whips off a lot of snappy lines–enough to keep wee Christian in check anyway.
  • He’s one more thorn in the side of a certain lachrymose queen–a queen whose uppance must soon come, since he’s demonstrated an abiding love for my Least Favorite Person on the Planet, Amy Goddamn Winehouse. I’d like to see Chris do him in personally, like in Desperate Living, where Griselda smothers Mr. Gravel with her ass–Down, down, down!–but I’ll be content if Ricky’s just voted off.

3. WHY, OH WHY, DOES GREG FREAKING BRADY HAVE A SOCIAL NETWORKING SITE? I know the internet is for porn, but this is too much. HAS BARRY WILLIAMS NO DECENCY, SIR?