sturtle [dot] com

So, Tuesday’s votes were clearly troubling–if not for our simpleton of a president and his NASCAR-loving, fag-hating constituents, then at least for me. But what’s a gal to do? Get the hell out of Dodge? Harper’s Magazine makes it pretty clear that that’s not much of an option. Hire a squadron of assassins to take out Karl Rove and Karen Hughes? Fun, perhaps, but there’s probably more where they came from. A good old fashioned suicide bombing? We’ll see.

In the meantime, try these on for size. I know they’re silly and sophomoric. Sorry, but that’s just where I am right now…

It’s hard not to take this election very, very personally. It’s clear that homophobes–toiling under the allegedly more compassionate banner of “social conservatives”–mobilized voters through campaigns wrought with homophobic invective. As a result, not only did Monkeybrain McGruff win another four years in office, but also anti-gay marriage amendments were written into 11 state constitutions. Maybe I’ve got a bit of martyr’s complex going on, but I’m feeling very Helen Reddy/”You and Me Against the World” right now.

Isn’t there someplace I can go for one of them free lobotomy dealie-os? I mean, where do all those Republicans get theirs? …It’d just make my life so much easier. And it might help with this sudden urge I have to buy half a dozen handguns and start mowing down everyone with a Bush/Cheney sticker on the back of his SUV.

If (a) you’re dreading the next 18 hours of election day-TV and (b) you dig on 80s-style LA/Euro rock (think The Romantics) and (c) you have a speedy web connection, by all means check out the Flash video for TISM’s “Everyone Else Has Had More Sex Than Me”. It’s easily worth a good five minutes of distraction from all the newsanchor autobabble. Hell–play it once for each time you hear Tom Brokaw utter the word “poll,” and it’ll be midnight before you know it. [Via Screenhead, of course.]

And the word of the day is…Cyprian (SIP-ree-uhn):

Adjective

1. Of, or pertaining to Cyprus.

2. Lewd.

Noun

1. A native or inhabitant of Cyprus; a Cypriot.

2. A lewd person.

Just like teacher used to tell you: use it three times a sentence and it’s yours forever. In this case, stick to the secondary meanings–they’ll come in far more handy. For example:

Last night, as Lily Crystalle removed her shimmering brassiere while dancing en pointe, the mood of the men in the grand ballroom (and of many women, too) shifted from bemused and buoyant to downright Cyprian.

“Next on Oprah, please welcome one of the best-known performers of yesteryear, everyone’s favorite troubled troubador, that Cyprian songstress of the South, Ms. Britney Spears-Federline.”

“Sir, I assure you that in grasping your buttocks and shoving you headlong into the canned fruit display, I was only trying to prevent you from being run down by an errant shopping cart: my motives were entirely selfless, not Cyprian.”

You know that feeling where it’s like you’ve been run over by a Mack truck? Where you’re vaguely feverish and your muscles ache and you just can’t seem to wake up, no matter how much coffee you drink? Kinda like if you were living in a bubble–a big, big bubble that looked exactly like your kitchen or living room or bathroom, only fuzzier?

That’s how I’m feeling today.

No, I’m not hungover. Those who know me know full well my feelings about the local Halloween shenanigans: Not. My. Cup. Of. Chai…. Last night I went to the theater, and after the show, I came right home. Seven hours later, I rolled out of bed (having forgotten to re-set my clock, thankyouverymuch) feeling like I’d been gang raped by the LA Lakers. And not in the good way.

So that’s as much as I can manage today. If you’re truly bored, you can have a go at this. I’m heading back to bed.

So, Timothy Greenfield-Sanders. The photographer behind the ostensibly edgy coffee table opus XXX: 30 Porn-Star Portraits. Last night, HBO aired a documentary about the making of the book called, half-cleverly, Thinking XXX. And so, I’m thinking…

In the mainstream media, porn can be discussed in one of two ways:

(A) Porn is what desperate, drugged-out child abuse victims do to support their narcissistic needs and their 17 unwanted kids,

or

(B) Porn is a fabulously liberating, beautiful means by which people just like you and me express themselves on camera for the enjoyment of others.

Generally speaking, I can tell in a matter of seconds which way it’s gonna go–often before the program has even begun. CBS? A. Fox? B. Drs. Laura or Phil? A. Dr. Ruth? B.

Given that this special was being aired on HBO–which, as we all know, is often a mere penetration shot away from Spice Channel territory–and that it centered around an artiste and his elaborate, high-priced, high art creations, I could see where this one was headed long before I looked up from my improvised dinner of…well, let’s just leave it at “improvised.”

In case you missed it, here’s what you were meant to walk away with: “Omigod! She’s so normal! I have a dog just like that! Wow, he had a really rough life, but he’s come through it just fine! I had no idea that women were the real money-makers in straight porn! There sure are a lot of pornstars from the Czech Republic! I do the same cardio routine when I work out! Older women and men can be sexy, too! If I hadn’t masturbated so often to her nude, sweat-drenched image, I could totally see her at a shopping mall and think she’s just a regular person! Oh, look at all these smart, funny people like Gore Vidal and John Waters talking about porn and not blushing–if they can enjoy it, so can I! Sweet Jesus, Karen Finley is really turning into a whiny grandma of the Catskills!”

Which is to say that I have the same problem with the documentary as I have with the book: too much talk. In the book, there are all these essays, and the documentary features all these interviews, and honestly, I don’t fucking care. My days of giving a shit about Judith Butler and Eve Sedgwick and other Smart Sex Theorists are long gone, people. I like the book because it’s an art book. It has pretty pictures of pretty people. I don’t need the blah, blah, blah to justify owning it. And why the hell did they need a documentary in the first place? So Mr. Greenfield-Sanders could talk about his work? He barely gets a word in edgewise. The only truly interesting thing in it is the massively endowed camera used to take the damn photos.

Well, that and the fact that they used Peaches’ “AA XXX” for the lead in. She will always and forever rock.

MAN SUPERGLUES CONDOM TO PENIS

Proving once again that it’s just as much fun to laugh at people as it is to laugh with them.

It’s funny: you think you’re invincible, like nothing can hurt you, like you’re all immortal and shit, then something goes tragically, horribly awry, and you realize that in point of fact, you’re nothing but a big ol’ meatbag.

Yes, that’s me in the photo. (It’s the best I could do with the low-end camera on my Palm; if you didn’t know what you were seeing, you might assume I was one of the pinheads from Tod Browning’s Freaks.) It’s a shot of my chin. The muddled bit around the tip is where I cut myself wide open last night–like, seriously. Stab wound-deep.

I wish there were a glamorous story to go along with it–you know, a high speed car chase, a knife fight on the deck of a yacht, an attempted mugging in which I turned the tables and beat the holy hell out of my assailant while screaming, “You’re getting whipped by a pansy, boy!”

No such luck.

Fact of the matter is, I was setting up for an event yesterday afternoon, and as usual, I was running behind schedule. I dashed into the venue, arms loaded with crap, and proceeded to slam smack into a bench, which was placed conveniently at knee-level and was conveniently black, making it invisible to someone like me whose eyes were only beginning to adjust from afternoon glare to interior gloom. I went flying and caught myself with my chin. Perhaps a hand or arm would have been more sensible, but then, no one’s ever accused me of being the practical type.

Ultimately, I was fine. Sure, it was a little jarring, but I got right up and continued on my way. Staff at the venue were kinda freaked out and rushed over to help me, but I was all like, “Just get me to my co-workers, I’m running late.” Then I noticed the blood. Floor, shirt, tie: covered.

Thirty seconds later, I was in the men’s room, assessing the situation. The jittery staff (one of whom seemed less than keen on treating a bleeding faggot) brought me alcohol swabs, spray clotter, and butterfly stitches–none of which really solved the problem. Eventually the bleeding stopped enough so that I could wash out my tie in the sink (it’s a favorite of mine), but it was all too clear that I needed bona fide medical attention. Like, the kind you get at an emergency room. I washed up as best I could, checked in with my colleagues to make sure that everything was on-track, and left.

Four hours later, I arrived home with eight new stitches, a sore shoulder, a bruised calf, and a prescription for Vicodin. And only three days to go before the big homo Halloween weekend. If that ain’t perfect timing, I don’t know what is.

I’m the worst sort of voter: I’m a single-issue kind of guy. This election, as in most, my vote’s going to the candidate with the best record on queer rights.

I know that’s not ideal. Nor is entirely honest: if I were really going for the most GLBT-friendly person on the ballot, I’d be voting for Nader or some other fringe nutjob, but I’m not stupid.

Generally speaking, my theory is that presidents–hell, elected officials in general–don’t have too much individual effect on sprawling issues like the economy or health care, so where candidates stand on those topics is almost negligible. On less complex, more polarized issues, though, elected officials can exert real influence.

How very disturbing, then, to read this:

In an interview on Sunday with Charles Gibson, an anchor of “Good Morning America” on ABC, Mr. Bush said, “I don’t think we should deny people rights to a civil union, a legal arrangement, if that’s what a state chooses to do so.” ABC, which broadcast part of the interview on Monday, is to broadcast the part about civil unions on Tuesday.

—New York Times

Which makes me wonder:

(a) If GW had a more pro-gay stance, would I be weighing my vote more carefully?

(b) Am I being a nelly Uncle Thomasina by getting giddy at the prospect of legal civil unions instead of being angered by the dubious, pale line of distinction that GW and others are drawing between the unions and marriage?

(c) When civil unions become common (as eventually they must), how long will it be before the courts find them the equivalent of separate-but-equal marriages, and, following precedent set in Brown v. Board of Education, allow homos to marry?

(d) When will the day come (as eventually it must) that the social issues that matter to me stop being issues and disappear from party platforms?

(e) When “c” happens, what social issues will be of concern for future generations?

Sorry, it’s just one of those pensive, over-caffienated, under-rested mornings.

I’ve been a thrift-store shopper for a long, long time. Sure, for a while back in junior high I may have been a little squeamish about cast-off clothing, but then Molly Ringwald showed up and, well, you know, things changed.

Still…even after all these years of sorting through bargain bins and fingering overcrowded racks of soiled sportcoats, there are some varieties of thrifting I simply can’t endure: discount grocery stores, for example. You see, secondhand clothing can be cool: it’s like playing dress-up, like living the life of a complete stranger, literally walking in someone else’s shoes (though truth be told, I’ve never had much luck with thrift-store shoes, thanks to my very curious gait). Secondhand food, though, is so obviously a necessity. It lacks the style, the glitz, the personality of an abandoned seersucker suit or a discarded Pucci-print chemise. Maybe it’s just me, but there’s something unbearably depressing about buying canned yams manufactured by a third-tier co-op in rural Montana. It’s sad and lonely and reeks of poverty. It’s the food you’d eat as an illegal immigrant or if you were on the lam in Guatemala.

Just a thought–you know, in case any of you were already planning out your Chriskwaanzukkah presents or anything.