sturtle [dot] com

Hey, Democrats:

Forget about it.

Please, please, please, just forget about it. Knock it off. Throw in the towel.

Yes, I know he isn’t quite what you were hoping for. And I agree, she’s kinda creepy. But let it go. It’s a lost cause.

Americans have already fallen for his boyish charm, his cherubic smile, and his ADD-addled son. Pundits across the political spectrum have noted his remarkably uncontroversial record, his fair-mindedness, his demonstrated willingness to respect the law above ideology. I mean, hell, given the extremist tendencies of this particular administration, Roberts is about as middle-of-the-road as you could’ve hoped for. He’s the political equivalent of Midwestern gumbo: probably substantial, but very, very bland.

So cut it out already. Sure, you can ask a couple of good questions during the confirmation hearings. And by all means, look into his tax records. See if he’s hired an illegal immigrant as a maid or a gardener or something–that’s brought down more than a few otherwise respectable folks in the past. Just don’t drag it out. Don’t look like obstructionist sticks in the mud. And above all, don’t put his wife on trial.

Move through this as quickly as possible, and you’ll come out smelling like roses. Then you can get back to persecuting that obese, blondined, vaguely pedophilic youth minister otherwise known as Karl Rove. When it comes to placing eggs, ladies and gentlemen, that’s the basket in which to put them.

Capisce?

Sincerely,

Sturtle for the Democratic Way

Remember New Orleans in the early 1990s?

Remember the filming of JFK? The erstwhile glory of Trent Reznor? The Utne Reader‘s declaration that the Lower Garden District was the coolest place to live in the USofA?

Well, in case you missed it, it was…interesting. I’m still not sure what started the boom, but suddenly, celebs were flocking to the city–some, like the ill-omened Kevin Costner, even bought homes here. Spokespeople for the tourism industry were calling New Orleans the “Third Coast,” despite the fact that we’re at least an hour’s drive from the Gulf of Mexico. Locals, in their predictably provincial, genteel way, were terrified that New Orleans would become a playground for the nouveau riche–conveniently forgetting, of course, that their own “old money” had disappeared before World War II.

In the end, it was kind of a non-event. The glitz and glamour levels ticked steadily upward, and then just as we achieved superstar supersaturation, it was all over. One day, I glimpsed Courtney Love’s pasty ass entering the tanning salon, and the next, nothing but Duck Girls and Bead Ladies for as far as the eye could see.

Now I’m wondering if we’re on the upswing again. Spokespeople for the tourism industry are calling New Orleans “Hollywood South” (and I thought “Third Coast” was as bad as it could get). TV dweebs like Frankie Muniz are sinking their claws into beloved local hipsters. And of course, Lenny’s making noise again. Can velveteen ropes at Acme Oyster House be far behind?

Somewhere in this house, beneath layers of dust and dog hair, is a photo of me dressed as Aeon Flux.

Well, kinda.

If you’re old enough to remember the animated series on MTV, you know how insane her costumes were. To call them “extreme” would be an understatement: they were little more than cleverly positioned webs of leatherette. Of course, she was able to wear such things because she was a cartoon and not bound to the conventions of three-dimensional human physique.

When I decided to recreate that look for Carnival in 1995, I was faced with two serious problems. First, I had to find the costume–I mean, you don’t find that kind of stuff lying around Banana Republic (or Frederick’s of Hollywood, for that matter). And second, I had to tailor the costume to my own body: whereas Aeon was tall and sinewy, with broad shoulders, zero body fat, and crazy, crazy hair, I’m of average height, average build, and prone to chunkiness. And I think I had a crew cut at the time. Clearly, I had to adapt. Either that, or I’d come off looking like Comic Book Guy dressed for a Star Trek convention.

By the time I was done, I looked nothing like the bitch. I’d gone for a black meshy top that clung to my body but still managed to hide a lot. On the bottom, I had some good over-the-knee tights, but I didn’t have the cash to spend on a pair of thigh-high boots, so I went with my usual Doc Martens–practical, but so clearly not the look. The hair proved hardest: in the end, I was stuck with a very thick, very hot wig that reminded me of Jackie O in the 1970s. And for reasons I can’t recall, I topped the whole thing off with a Hello Kitty umbrella.

Ah, to be young, dumb, and full of drugs.

I mention all this because I recently stumbled across the site for the impending Aeon Flux big-screen blockbuster, which will be released in conjunction with a videogame for Xbox and a new comic book. Both the video game and the comic book feature a revamped, younger, more pop star-esque heroine–presumably to reinforce the image of Charlize Theron in the title role of the film. But most important is Aeon’s revised wardrobe: that strappy stuff is gone, and Charlize-cum-Aeon is wearing nothing but sheaths. So apparently, I’m not the only person who’s been forced to adpat the Aeon look to fit my needs. And hey, if Hollywood can’t pull it off, I don’t feel so bad.

The boyfriend and I took a ride on behalf of the dogs last night. To suburbia.

Of the many things I noticed during our voyage to this strange land, three stand out:

• I understand that we Americans have too much money and too few children, but I still feel guilty spending half my disposable income on pet products. I haven’t yet started with the puppy pinafores and the doggie do-rags, but I’m afraid it’s only a matter of time.
• The store formerly known as “The Bombay Company” has implemented a strategy of simplicity, shortening its name to “Bombay.” Perhaps the CEOs will consider a parallel strategy of accuracy and change the store’s name once more to “Mumbai.”
• As a general rule, I should know by now that when I ask a waitress at a Vietnamese restaurant to suggest “a little something sweet,” the glass of cracked ice, stringy gelatin, and candied plums she brings to the table will in no way resemble the dessert I’d envisioned.

So, the big Exodus International conference starts today. I was thinking about shirking my thespian responsibilities and sneaking up for it. I mean, call me a dacryphiliac, but I don’t think there’s anything more arousing than a tearful, late-night coming-out, followed by hours of tearful, we-shouldn’t-be-doing-this, shockingly hot monkey love with someone who thinks he’s confused about his sexuality.

Then I read the conference’s Code of Conduct policy–specifically the part that prohibits attendees from “seeking sexual contacts.” So, I guess that’s out. I mean, why waste $300 when I could just as easily live out my Lothario fantasy with a self-hating closet-case by moseying up to the Louisiana Republican Party Headquarters?

For months, Arabic-language channels have been broadcasting confessions of terrorist suspects that have at once increased ratings and raised suspicions that the statements may have been coerced or staged.

But Sheik Zana’s confessions, delivered in Kurdish, stand out because he and his followers had a habit of videotaping not only what appear to be horrific murders and rapes, but also sex among themselves and with the young men whom they were trying to recruit for their cause….

Among the elements of the Arabic-language confessions that some viewers regard as suspicious are stock admissions by the supposed terrorists that they are gay. Because gay sex is haram, or forbidden, in the Koran, some critics have suggested that the speakers have been induced to make those statements to embarrass themselves.

— New York Times

So on the surface, it seems that one of two things is going on: either (a) a group of gay extremists has been carrying out terrorist activities in the name of Iraqi Kurdistan and/or Islam, or (b) a group of non-gay extremists, which has been carrying out terrorist activities in the name of Iraqi Kurdistan and/or Islam, has finally been caught and forced to confess that they’re homos, just to drive the proverbial nail a little deeper into their collective coffin during their prosecution.

From the story in the NYT (one of only three English-language articles I can find on this particular topic), it seems that a considerable segment of Iraq’s population is going with Option B, despite the fact that there’s apparently all this video footage of Kurdish Guys Gone Wild. In an act of willful blindness eerily reminiscent of the nutty refutations surrounding Gameel el-Batouty and the crash of EgyptAir 990 nearly six years ago, devout Muslims are happy to fall back on one of their favorite syllogisms:

Muslims are forbidden from X.

Y is a good Muslim.

Therefore, Y cannot be guilty of X.

And although no one’s made the logistical jump just yet, it’s only a matter of time until someone blurts out the traditional fourth line:

Therefore, the recent incidents of X are part of a plot by Israel and Mossad.

But for me, what’s really troubling is not the ludicrousness of the denials, nor the lack of discussion in these articles about the complex issues surrounding homosexuality in Islam, including the lingering distinctions between homosexuality and sodomy. No, the problem is that it calls to mind similarly freakish leaps of faith I witnessed growing up as a Southern Baptist, and I realize that I may have been guilty of some blind-eyed assessments of my own. For example:

Southern Baptists are forbidden to drink alcohol.

My mother is a good Southern Baptist.

Therefore, my mother can’t be an alcoholic.

You know, that “opiate of the people” guy may have been onto something….

Perhaps I was too coy in my last post. Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. Let me rephrase it for you:

Come see our freaking show this weekend, girlyman.

Sheesh. Always have to be so direct with you people….

Got some time on your hands now that summer’s here? Wondering what to do with yourself in the coming days? Might I suggest a trip to the theatre? I hear there are some terrif shows opening this weekend.

But perhaps that’s not your thing. Perhaps you’d rather hustle down to the Bywater this Saturday night and shake a tailfeather with Voodou priestess Sallie Ann Glassman. She’ll be working the gris-gris hard, hard, hard to make sure New Orleans stays high and dry this season.

And yes, ladies and gentlemen, despite her name, Sallie Ann is most definitely the real deal…

HURRICANE CEREMONY VIII

WHAT: Public prayer ceremony dedicated to Our Lady of Prompt Succor (who has intervened historically on New Orleans’ behalf when a hurricane has threatened) and Ezili Dantò (also associated with Mater Salvatoris and Mt Carmel) to ask for protection from hurricanes

WHEN: Saturday, July 16th, at 7:00pm

WHERE: Achade Meadows peristyle, 3319 Rosalie Alley, off of Rampart, between Piety and Desire. (It’s a dirt alley to the left. Check my magnificent photo collage above for distinguishing topographical characteristics.)

WHAT TO BRING IN OFFERING:

For Our Lady: flowers, statues, candles, religious pictures, jewelry

For Dantò: Barbancourt rum, florida water, candles, daggers, dolls dressed in red and blue or calico prints, spicy black beans, peasant cakes, unfiltered cigarettes, fried pork

WHAT TO WEAR: It’s suggested that attendees dress in white (the color of purity) with red head scarves, or in all red (the color of Petwo rites).

MORE INFO: Call Sallie Ann at The Island of Salvation Botanica, 504 948 9961

The last bit of an apparently vehement, lengthy conversation between two schizophrenic homeless people, which I overheard Sunday morning as I biked through Jackson Square:

“Bitch, you got to get yourself a mirror and talk that shit out.”

Which proves that (a) we’ve got some clever nutcases in the Quarter, and (b) sometimes just hearing the punch line is better than sitting through the whole joke.

An Open Letter to the Citizens of New Orleans

My Fellow New Orleanians:

You are all a bunch of pussies.

Actually, let me rephrase that: you are all a bunch of water-hoarding, Margaret Orr-loving, I-10-clogging evacuation monkeys.

For days, every meteorological model has shown Dennis hitting the Floribama coast, but still, you’re closing up shop. You’re cancelling events. You’re running for the hills (literally, since Monkey Hill doesn’t count).

You’re on the streets at 7:00am, eyes wide with hysteria as you make one last run to Home Depot for plywood. Your minivans teeter from side to side, piled high with children and pets and shabbat candles (the only ones you could still find at Robert’s). At the Shell station, you pump gallon after gallon of gas, remembering your evacuation in the face of Ivan and hoping that it doesn’t take you another eight hours just to reach Aunt Judy’s house in Baton Rouge.

And so I ask, could you pantywaists stop with the kvetching and the tsoris and the powerdrills before dawn and please listen to Bob freaking Breck? Yes, I know: with that shrill little voice and those unfortunate hair plugs, he’s sometimes tough to stomach, but underneath all those Cassandra-Complex trappings, he’s a rational guy, and he’s saying “Sit your ass back down.” (I paraphrase.)

Seriously, if you’re gonna fly into a tizzy every time a low pressure system creeps toward the Gulf Coast, maybe y’all ought to move someplace else. There’s Minneapolis, for example. Or St. Louis. Or Hershey, Pennsylvania–you like chocolate, don’t you? Fact is, there’s a zillion places unlike New Orleans where you could live, so do us all a favor and hit the road. We have enough to worry about with crime and public schools and those goddamn new parking thingamajigs without you screaming gloom and doom in our ears every other week.

Good riddance. Don’t forget to drop us a line now and then from whatever godforsaken Midwestern hellhole you land in.

Sincerely,

Your neighbor, who is trying to get some sleep