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Here’s a shocker: I’m not wealthy.

It took a while for that to sink in. For years I lived slightly beyond my means, enjoying weekends (and weeknights) at clubs, treating friends and strangers to dinner, downing rounds of drinks and other comsumables of dubious legal status. Frankly, I had a great time, and if I were to do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing. Well, maybe I’d skip those Fluevogs that made my feet hurt, but other than that….

For whatever reason–boredom, age, a growing list of watering holes from which I’d been forcibly removed–I gradually pulled myself together and began living like a responsible adult. Today, I pay my bills, taxes, yadda, yadda, yadda. Dullsville. Bring on the tapioca pudding. When do they replace my hip?

Yes, this is all going somewhere.

Due to the weird timing of certain financial obligations, I’m experiencing a bit of a cash crunch this month. Nothing too bad, but I need to watch my spending. The problem? It’s Carnival, and I’ve got three costumes to build–two for me, one for Jonno. I suppose I could just recycle bits from last year, but where’s the fun in that?

So although I’ve gotten out of the habit, I’m going to live in willful ignorance for the next few days. I’m going to pull an Edie Sedgwick:

When the bills would mount up
she’d stuff them all in a big envelope
and she’d take a dozen people
to the Ginger Man for drinks
—Edie: American Girl

And fyi, that has nothing whatsoever to do with the impending release of the film and everything to do with a youth spent reading the Stein/Plimpton oeuvre and poring over the pages of Interview magazine (shoulder-to-shoulder with our school’s own Edie, Missy/Parker Posey). What else was a kid from Mississippi to do?

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So, my sister has been entering her animations in film festivals, and her video for “The Rebel” has been nominated for a People’s Choice award at one of them. Why don’t you drop in and give her a vote or two? (Note: “The Rebel” is video #12).

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Given the less-than-encouraging events of the past month or so, I hesitate to post this New York Times article about brain-drain in New Orleans, but it’s a real problem–moreso now than before Katrina or even immediately after it. Not many of us want to talk about it, and I don’t know of much that’s been written on the phenomenon lately, at least not in any complex or meaningful way. It’s not for the faint of heart:

As a city in flux, New Orleans remains statistically murky, but demographers generally agree that the population replenishment after the storm, as measured by things like the amount of mail sent and employment in main economic sectors, has leveled off. While many poorer residents have moved back to the city, the “brain drain” of professionals that the city was experiencing before the storm appears to have accelerated.

. . .

In battered but proud New Orleans, abandonment is a highly emotional subject, in part because many have made sacrifices to stay and rebuild. To some, leaving now is tantamount to treason. When a report appeared a year ago that Emeril Lagasse, the famed chef, had said the city would “never come back,” reservations at his restaurants were canceled and strangers berated him. He insisted he had been misquoted.

And in response to an article in The Times-Picayune of New Orleans about a woman who had decided to move on, Poppy Z. Brite, a New Orleans novelist, wrote: “This isn’t an easy place to be right now, and the decision to stay or go is deeply personal. But why must some people use the media to take a parting shot at the city?”

On another occasion, Ms. Brite said, “If a place takes you in and you take it into yourself, you don’t desert it just because it can kill you. There are some things more valuable than life.”

—New York Times

In the end it’s a little vague, a little ambiguous, a little “Here are the facts, now figure it out for yourself, reader”, but then, that’s how it is, right?

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Let’s be honest: we all want to love Top Design. The concept’s clean and simple, the hosts are kinda hip, and its spot on Wednesday night fills a gaping hole in our entertainment calendars until Project Runway returns. (Or at least until the weather heats up enough to warrant leaving the goddamn house.) But perhaps most importantly, as homosexualists, Top Design really speaks to us. Or rather, it should….

If the Bravo execs were to ask me–and surely they will someday–I’d tell those fatcats in their big fancy Aeron chairs and their three-piece suits and their big cigars, which they have to smoke on the terrace of the skylobby because the building’s non-smoking, that there are two simple, fixable problems with the show: the writing and the casting. Allow me to elaborate.

The writing: Okay, so Top Design is produced in Los Angeles, a city of how many million people? And they hired writers who pen alleged catchphrases like “You can stay” (when designers are allowed to stay), “Goodbye” (when they aren’t), and “See you later, decorator” (as a final, unnecessary kick in the ass as the loser is leaving the studio)? Did they find those writers in a parking lot at the Galleria? Were they a gift-with-purchase at the Clinique counter? Or was the script drawn at random from entries submitted by third-graders across the country? (Congratulations, Susie Higginbotham of Dothan, Alabama!) The producers need to firebomb the writing pool and start from scratch with native English speakers. Like me, for example.

The casting: Let’s start by looking at casting that works–namely that of Project Runway. We’ve got a lovable mentor in Tim Gunn (everyone’s favorite gay high school teacher); a sassy, supersexy, opinionated host in Heidi Klum; and bitchyfunny sidekicks in Nina Garcia and Michael Kors. One big, happy, fashionably dysfunctional family.

Top Design‘s producers have tried to mimic this arrangement, but like Todd Oldham’s bronzer, they’re a little off. Todd is, of course, an accomplished designer, but he’s got a deeply disturbing teleprompter-of-the mind thing going on. Even when speaking off-the-cuff, he sounds like he was programmed by Stanley Kubrik. He’s more wooden than some of that crappy pressboard furniture they use on the show. (Case in point.) And I see the Botox fairy has come to visit. Repeatedly. He looks like a cute, talented, mahogany camel. Please call in Amy Sedaris for an intervention.

Then we have Jonathan Adler–another great designer who’s as stiff as brushed aluminum for most of the show. Occasionally he’ll revert to human form, but only when he’s dishing with the other judges. On the plus side however, those Windsor knots are ferocious.

As it stands, the only likeable people–nay, the only people–on Top Design‘s panel of experts are Kelly Wearstler (good-natured, friendly, stunning, hot socks) and Margaret Russell (patrician, catty, gorgeous, MILF). They bring originality and spunk to a show that’s obviously based on a formula where someone forgot to carry the two.

The solution? Fix the fags. Boot Todd altogether and move Jonathan into the teacher slot. Bring in someone with personality for the judging–someone likeable. Mizrahi comes to mind, though he’s not considered an interior designer. At least he’s got some range in his vocal cords. Alternately, the producers can hire me.

And the girls? They can, like, totally stay.

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Courtesy of Slate, one of six great poems about sex:

BODY, REMEMBER

Body, remember not only how much you were loved,

not only the beds on which you lay,

but also those desires for you

that glowed plainly in the eyes,

and trembled in the voice—and some

chance obstacle made futile.

Now that all of them belong to the past,

it almost seems as if you had yielded

to those desires—how they glowed,

remember, in the eyes gazing at you;

how they trembled in the voice, for you, remember, body.

—Constantine Cavafy

And yes, I’m still busy, but very, very bored.

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HEY FAITH!!!!!!!

Thank you SO much for letting me borrow your car last week! Mine gets out of the shop today!! Who’d have thought that a homeless guy could cause so much damage to an engine?!? What woulda happened if I’d hit his grocery cart, too?!? OMG! Can you imagine??!! HAHAHA!!

Anyway, my new boyfriend, Lenny, is coming over in a minute to drive me to the garage. You’d love him–he’s got TONS of tattoos, and he’s TOTALLY mysterious and stuff!! HOTTT! I’m gonna leave your car key on the front porch under the ficus, and I’ll put your house key under the cactus-lookin’ thing. (Whatever it is, it sure is cute!!) I don’t know your code, so I guess I’ll have to leave the burglar alarm off, but you’re a big star!!! I’m sure it’ll be fine!!!

Thanks again, Faith! Tell Tim I said HEY! See you soon!!!!!!

XXOO BFF (I MEAN IT!!)
TRIXIE

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Grand Time: Thanks to Ray “Undisclosed Location” Nagin’s stellar inability to get things done, New Orleans’ Municipal Auditorium remains out of commission, so we held this year’s Mystic Krewe of Satyricon bal masque in a warehouse space that no one in the krewe was very excited about. And wouldn’t you know, it was fan-freaking-tastic. Maybe the best ever. The Boyfriend got some beautiful pics. Me, not so much.

Grand Guignol: On behalf of crackers everywhere, I would like to apologize to anyone born south of the Rio Grande for the allegedly journalistic, allegedly comic writings of irrelevant lunkhead Angus Lind–in particular, today’s “guide to all things Mardi Gras”, intended for New Orleans’ “new Hispanic neighbors”. Although Lind tries to play up the quirks of Carnival à la Nouvelle Orléans, in the end he sounds like a fatass gringo in some Tijuana cantina who’s had one too many shots of tequila and is now dancing an atrocious hat dance around a novelty sombrero.

I mean, Lind could’ve addressed the article to anyone residing outside the levee system and it would’ve been fine–hell, there are still oodles of things New Orleanians themselves don’t understand about our city’s version of Carnival. There’s a cultural barrier there that’s tailor-made for comedy. (And one that’s been milked to death, but whatevs.) Lind, however, goes one step further and adds a language barrier to the mix, and…well, you know how it is when you’ve got on the perfect dress or suit or costume, and you add that one brooch too many, and suddenly you look like an idiot? That’s what happened.

And to my lesbian friends and other politically correct types, let me be perfectly clear: I don’t care whether or not Lind is being culturally or racially insensitive. I care only about the fact that the Times-Picayune hasn’t yet put the man out to pasture.

Grand Gaffe: Does anyone find it slightly ironic that a Grammy™ winner–a Grammy™ winner receiving an award for a song called “”Jesus, Take the Wheel”, no less–would blurt out “This is unbelievable. I owe everything to Simon Fuller” during her acceptance speech?

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Oh, Anna. In the immortal words of Joan Jett, I hate myself for loving…well, not you per se, but your boundless spirit of fucked-uppedness, your joi de vivre (or perhaps, joi d’ivre), your willingness to grab a stereotype by the triple-Ds and run with it all the way to the bank. Case in point:

You may be dead, but your spirit, your breasts, your nose, and portions of your lips will remain with us always.