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Yes, ladies and gentlemen, America [almost] has its first-ever lesbian Secretary of State!

Eh? What’s that? …Oh, yeah. Sorry: African American lesbian Secretary of State. So many labels to remember.

Kinda makes Clinton’s brazen appointment of boy-kisser James C. Hormel as ambassador to Luxembourg (if “brazen” and “Luxembourg” can be used in the same sentence) pale by comparison.

I just wish Condi would occasionally smile at these hearings. Turn that frown upside-down, Madame Secretary! You’re on top of the world! True, a slightly more attractive target for assassins–especially attractive with that vampy red lipstick–but on top of the world nonetheless.

The story that [Khaled] el-Masri tells … is extraordinary: a story of how an unemployed German car salesman from the town of Ulm went on a New Year’s holiday to Macedonia, was seized by Macedonian police at the border, held incommunicado for weeks without charge, then beaten, stripped, shackled and blindfolded and flown to a jail in Afghanistan, run by Afghans but controlled by Americans. Five months after first being seized, he says, still with no explanation or charge, he was flown back to Europe and dumped in an unknown country which turned out to be Albania.

—The Guardian, New York Times, Al-Jazeerah.info, Deutsche Welle

Funny: Fox News and CNN seem to have ignored this story altogether…

President Bush said the public’s decision to reelect him was a ratification of his approach toward Iraq and that there was no reason to hold any administration officials accountable for mistakes or misjudgments in prewar planning or managing the violent aftermath.

“We had an accountability moment, and that’s called the 2004 elections,” Bush said in an interview with The Washington Post. “The American people listened to different assessments made about what was taking place in Iraq, and they looked at the two candidates, and chose me.”

—The Washington Post

But…

Well…

I…

Holy crap, how the hell do you respond to that? Bush is essentially saying, “You can’t punish me for anything that happened in my first four years because ‘the people’ [Ed. note: well, 51% of them] re-elected me.” Which is not only offensive and arrogant and completely infuriating, but also, like, employs some impossibly freaky logic. Just look at it the way his argument flows:

a. The president of the United States is ipso facto innocent of any wrongdoing because the people have all the facts and they wouldn’t elect a crook or a fuckup [Richard Nixon and Andrew Johnson excluded];

b. In November, voters elected me; therefore,

c. I made no mistakes at all during my first four years.

d. Nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah.

Hello? Even sporting events don’t grant you that kind of clean slate. Say Venus Williams is playing, oh, I dunno, Jennifer Capriati at some tournament. And Venus is wearing these really ugly shoes and a low-slung top and a miniskirt that grants the entire world a view of physical terrain previously know only to her gynecologist. And Venus has a couple of bobbles here and there, and her boob pops out a la Miss Jackson on one particularly tough overhead, but in the end, she whips Jennifer’s ass and moves on to the semifinals. She is not, however, completely out of the woods:

a. She could be held accountable for cheating. If she’s found to have done some shady stuff during the match–using steroids or illegal, performance-enhancing equipment, for example–she could be fined, or the match could be taken from her.

b. She could be held accountable for indecency. The Federal Communications Commission could and likely would levy fines against her for the nip-slip. And of course, she’d have to explain and apologize to fans, friends, and foes for years to come.

c. She could be held accountable for her wardrobe. Bad fashion is an unforgivable sin. Venus might go on to win the tournament title, the lottery, and the race for county commissioner, but she’d still be guilty of making an offensive sartorial statement.

But then, all this comes from the man who led us into what Jon Stewart quite aptly calls “Mess-O-Potamia,” based not on logic, but rather on some half-baked intelligence cobbled together by GW’s unnerving, single-minded desire to oust a delusional dictator. If the whole “Iraqi Freedom” thing isn’t a textbook example of faulty logic, I dunno what is.

Sample question from the SSSEAT
[Shamelessly Sibilant Sturtelian Ethical Aptitude Test]

32. Which of the following situations is most ethically egregious?

a. Party animal-cum-crooner Kid Rock, who for many weeks had been unofficially slated to perform at the inaugural festivities, will not be participating after all, thanks in part to the prudish, letter-writing efforts of the American Family Association–a right-wing, v-chipping, teetotaling organization so dedicated to kissing the president’s pasty white ass that it’s completely willing to overlook the fact that GW’s cock-gobbling daughters could easily drink Monsieur Rock under the table, so formidable is their lust for the “Devil’s Urine” (as booze was often called by Southern Baptists in my neck of the woods).

b. Babs (Walters, not Mrs. Bush 41 or daughter of Bush 43) earns another “get” notch on her belt tonight thanks to an allegedly upfront, candid chat with the First Family on one of ABC’s most popular hard-news programs, 20/20, which Babs continues to co-host, despite her demonstrated penchant for smarmy, softball, lachrymose chats with the PARADE magazine set.

c. Intellectual top [clue: dog-eared copy of Das Capital in left rear pocket of well-worn Dockers] Frank Rich possesses the ability to expose corruption, subterfuge, and general hypocrisy all the live-long day, but he has yet to awaken me in the middle of the night, carry me off to his secret pied-a-terre, and ravish me with breathless readings of The 9/11 Commission Report.

d. For centuries, the sassy, back-talking servant has been a failsafe device for comic relief (c.f. Tartuffe, 1664; The Jeffersons, 1975 – 1985), but in fact, this has only served to justify conditions of socio-economic inequity: like black minstrels, know-it-all maids and butlers who save the day prove once and for all that happy-go-lucky underlings make the most of the hand life deals them, so why would we even bother to offer them better wages?

e. All of the above.

f. None of the above.

g. Both a & b. The rest is a load of crap, you big honky fudgepacker.

P.S. Yes, I’m aware that The Cum Crooner would make an excellent title for an adult film catering to the world’s gargling fetishists. I’ll get right on it.

This is a joke, right? I mean, New Orleans isn’t really hosting an ass conference, is it? Or rather, an äss conference?

Not that we ain’t got some junk up our trunks, ’cause we do, baby. We do.

[Thanks for the tip-off, Tyler.]

Southern men have this thing about their bodies. Or maybe it’s American men in general. Or at least white men. Whatever: for certain segments of this country’s male population, when it comes to clothes–particularly beach attire–hiding the goods is very important.

It’s not a modesty thing. Modesty is Muslim women taking the veil or Pentacostal gals wearing ankle-length skirts. Modesty is me buttoning up my shirt an extra notch when I go to see Jonno’s grandmother. No, if Amerihonky beachwear was modesty-driven, it stands to reason that white men would cover up their beer guts and bare arms, too. As it is though, they’re all-too-content to show off above the waistline.

It’s a macho thing, I guess. These guys wear big, baggy swimsuits to hide the fact that they’re not well-endowed–or perhaps to hide the fact that they’re very well endowed. They follow a set of implicit rules that men in the rest of the world never picked up on: “Don’t draw attention to your crotch, buddy, ’cause I don’t wanna start comparing. I don’t even wanna look at it ’cause it makes me uncomfortable, looking at your schlong.” Same thing goes for hiding the ass. Size-envy and homophobia, wrapped up in one sartorial package.

That’s why the Hispandex site has intrigued me for years. These guys–mostly Hispanic, but sometimes Eastern European, too–aren’t shy about showing off. I get the feeling that in Puerto Rico or Moscow, finding an oversized pair of Jams would be nearly impossible: just racks and racks of Speedos. The thought of my family visiting such a beach or, conversely, a busload of these guys descending on the Mississippi Gulf Coast, is enough to make me squirm. In a good way.

Poetryfagitis is a well-documented condition that commonly affects young males age 14 – 25. Despite my steadfast efforts to avoid that demographic at work, at play, and everywhere in-between, I have apparently contracted a mild but persistent case of the disease.

Now, to the casual observer, I may appear the very picture of health. And in point of fact, I suffer from only one symptom: an unusual, nagging–nay, consuming–obsession with a fairly obscure poem by Charles Bukowski called “Party Girl” published alongside an interview of the poet (conducted by Mr. B’s acolyte, Sean Penn) in the September 1987 issue of Interview magazine.

I am well aware that a poem about party girls–much less one by macho asshole Bukowski–seems an unlikely object of fascination for someone afflicted with poetryfagitis. All I can say is that I originally read the piece long ago, during my semi-carefree fagolescence, so maybe it has sentimental value.

Having suffered for weeks, I’ve come to the conclusion that the only way to cure myself is to dig up the poem, photocopy it or print it out, and post it on the bathroom mirror so I can read it every day. Unfortunately, it ain’t that easy. There’s very little of Bukowski’s work online, leading me to believe that webgeeks love the occasional Byron/Keats/Shelley ode but look far less kindly on work written after 1900 (unless, of course, said geeks have written it themselves). Hard copies are hard to come by, too: generations of GloomBetties and GothBobs from Decatur Street to Avenue A have ravaged libraries in vain hope of following in Bukowski’s allegedly reckless, booze-filled footsteps. Whatever shall I do?

Starting next week, the checkout counters of 7-11s across America will feature empty pickle jars with Xeroxed pictures of me. Below will run the caption: “Poetryfagitis isn’t pretty. Won’t someone cut this queen a break?”

Three Non-Related Quotes from
Two Non-Contemporaries for
One Very Gloomy Day

“Other nations use ‘force’; we Britons alone use ‘Might’.”

“Punctuality is the virtue of the bored.”

— Evelyn Waugh

“Nine-tenths of the people were created so you would want to be with the other tenth.”

— Horace Walpole

Unless it’s sex, death, or murder, I just don’t have time for it.

That didn’t really hit me until night before last when I was talking to a friend about the basic divide in 20th century theatre [Ed. note: Yes, I am (a) dull, and (b) a theatre fag], which essentially comes down to Bertold Brecht vs. Antonin Artaud. And Brecht was all like, “Ach! I’m gonna turn up the lights in the theatre and talk directly to the audience so they’ll know they’re at a play and they can really think about the issues onstage instead of getting caught up in the emotional story. Ya?” And Artaud was all like, “Mon dieu! Dude, that is so not what theatre is about. I’m gonna create a terrifying, wordless spectacle with no logical narrative. I’m going to get at their gut, not their brain. Enculeur!”

Now, I used to like the Brecht stuff. I used to think that sort of approach to art could create social change. [I know: whatever, right?] But one day I woke up and I said, “Damn, she’s preachy, ain’t she? Screw that condescending bitch!”

So maybe it’s intellectual laziness on my part. Maybe it’s my unwillingness to really think about issues and things. Maybe it’s my natural impatience, my inability to focus on complex arguments for too long and see all the nuances. But for whatever reason, I’m totally on the Artaud tip these days.

I want to see news broadcasts full of death and destruction artlessly captured on fuzzy home video. I want to see ain’t-life-grand sunny days turn suddenly black with gore. I want pornography that’s pure animal rutting. Screw all this conceptual stuff: I want theatre and dance and photography and everything else to be sexy, painful, horrifying, sad. I want to be totally aroused or nauseous or dizzy or furious or some combination thereof. Tell me: is that too much to ask?!?

. . . Whew.

Sorry about that. I’ve seen too many Agnes Martins the past few days, and it’s starting to get on my nerves.

In case any of you missed it…

Homophobia (noun)

Definition: The fear of men or the male sex; fear of human beings.

Usage: Since an article in the London Times in 1969, the word has been widely misused to mean homosexophobia “the fear of homosexuals.” Time has not proven that this use of the term will become a permanent alternative meaning.

Suggested Usage: This word may be used to refer to a fear of men or all males: “I don’t think my daughter will ever get married; I think she is homophobic.” It may also refer to the fear of humankind: “You will never see such a homophobic soul as Melvin at a party.”

[Link courtesy of Elizabeth]