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For those of you who haven’t yet discovered the most recent additions to the Gawker/Nick Denton fine family of blogs, may I suggest a gander at Kotaku and/or Screenhead? It’s thanks to them that I recently experienced the most boring videogame in the history of the world (Yar’s Revenge excluded, of course) and the most disturbing art project I’ve ever seen–and honey, I’ve seen plenty.

May goddess have mercy on our souls.

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There’s an article in this month’s National Geographic about the Phoenicians and how their vast, vibrant society was soundlessly absorbed by other cultures along the Mediterranean. The reporter tagged along with a couple of scientists using DNA tests to find descendants of the Phoenicians, and the magazine published a two-page pull-out featuring portraits of potential candidates. The pull-out was interesting because, although I don’t really have the same facial features as the (mostly Lebanese) men shown there, I do have the same eyes. It kinda makes me wanna just hop on a plane and go door-to-door in Beirut, looking for my bio-father.

But that’s not why I brought up the article. No, I brought up the article because I fell asleep reading the damn thing, and when the boyfriend woke me up several hours later as he rolled into bed, he saw what I’d been reading, and without skipping a beat, he began singing “My Phoenician guy…Oh!” (to the tune of Grace Jones’ always popular “My Jamaican Guy”).

Now that, ladies and gentlemen, is love. Or delirium. Or a particular variety of psychosis. Who can say, really?

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Earlier this weekend…

RICHARD: I dunno, Jonno. I mean, they’re your family. What do you think your mom, your two aunts, and your 80something-year-old grandmother would like to do on the first day of their vacation in New Orleans?

JONNO: Well, since the burlesque show isn’t up yet and Bad Seed doesn’t open ’till next week, I thought we’d take ’em to see Koyaanisqatsi.

RICHARD: O…kay.

JONNO: What? You gotta problem with that?

RICHARD: No, dear…. I think I’ll have a little drink now.

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So, I’m cautiously optimistic:

1. With the overlookable exception of geriatric GOP posterboy Bob Novak, the general concensus seems to be that Kerry had an edge in last night’s debate. Personally, I couldn’t watch it–I would have been holding my breath for the entire thing, and honey, I ain’t Flipper–but I have it on good authority that Mr. Heinz done good. Now if someone could just steer him away from the snowboarding and windsurfing and fake-bake tanning salons, we just might get back on track.

2. The Federal Marriage Amendment tanked in the House yesterday. I’m sure we haven’t heard the last of Ralph and Don and their flying monkey minions–not by a longshot–but hopefully, they’ve been grounded for a while. Why don’t you see how your Representative voted, then send ’em a note either thanking them or condemning them for their position on this divisive, distracting issue?

3. Fuck Cheerios: I woke up singing “Never Say Never”. I don’t know if I was dreaming about Debora Iyall or my junior high foibles or something more erotic, but it was a damn good way to start what’s going to be a very long day.

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never did one title bear so many entendres

REGINA: They say there are children born into the best families, with every advantage of education and discipline, that never acquire any moral scruples. It’s as if they were born blind—-you couldn’t expect to teach them to see.

CHRISTINE: And do they…look like criminals?

REGINA: Sometimes they do. But often they present a more convincing picture of virtue than normal folks.

CHRISTINE: But that’s…horrible.

BRAVO: I’d like to examine the evidence. Until then, there’s not much sense discussing it.

REGINA: Well, I’d like to discuss it with you, Mr. Bravo. This clinic I frequent came long ago to the conclusion that there are bad seeds—just plain bad from the beginning, and nothing can change them.

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is the sort of over-the-top schlock we’ve been dealing with for the past four weeks. Do join us, if you can–it’s going to be delicious….

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I’m sorry, but the soapbox is sticking around for another day or two.

I was all prepared to write about the weather or the Voynich manuscript or porn’s restorative effects on the elderly. Then I got an email.

I’ve mentioned before that I subscribe to the American Family Association newsletter; as far as I’m concerned, it’s the best way to keep tabs on the not-so-secret, oh-so-evil empire. Every week I get a couple of emails asking me to harrass this person or tell off that company. It’s all very interesting.

Yesterday, however, the AFA asked me to boycott Procter & Gamble because they had the audacity to advertise their products–in a gay magazine, no less. Given the impending passage of so much hate-filled legislation across the country and the increasing likelihood of another four years of frat boys in the White House, I guess it just set me off.

So, instead of ignoring the missive or fuming in silence, I think action is required. Care to join me? Here’s what you can do:

  • See the ad for yourself. I’ll admit, it’s a little racy, a little suggestive, but then, it wasn’t meant to run in Highlights freakin’ magazine!
  • Go out and buy a handful of Procter & Gamble products–Crest toothpaste, Tide detergent, or Pampers diapers, for example. Call P&G Chairman A.G. Lafley at 513 983 1100 and assure him that you and your friends will continue to make such purchases. While you’ve got him on the phone, let him know that the AFA is a bunch of right-wing nutjobs. And compliment him on his tie–CEOs just love that kind of thing.
  • For extra credit:
    • Hack the AFA website. Photoshop Don Wildmon‘s face into some hot, Brazilian bisexual three-way porn pics, and post them to the index page. Funnel all of the AFA’s online donations to the ACLU–I mean, who’ll know?
    • Stake out a spot in front of your favorite Pentacostal church and hug a person of color (or a cracker, if you’re a person of color yourself).
    • Invite Don and his family to a service at the local MCC. Make sure to do it on camera, preferably in front of representatives from network and cable news media. If he balks, hint that there might be fruit cocktail with marshmallows after the sermon–I bet he’ll come around.


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    Oh, for the love of….

    It’s not just me, right? It’s frustrating, isn’t it? To see intelligence and articulateness losing out to a comfortable, Andy Griffin-style twang and a handful of down-home half-witticisms? I just don’t understand.

    Even if I wanted to, it’s apparent that I could never be a politician myself. I mean, I’d never consider myself an intellectual, but I do enjoy debate. I can appreciate the nuances of complicated issues. On the color scale, I personally believe that life is a hell of a lot more gray than it is black and/or white. But according to the latest poll numbers, that ain’t what NASCAR fans wanna hear.

    Not that Kerry’s lost. If the press would stop giving GW the benefit of the doubt with regard to his incessant grammatical slip-ups and impossible leaps of logic, Kerry might very well kick George’s butt in the coming presidential debates, which could definitely help his numbers.

    What Kerry really needs, though, is a new, homey, well-lit 30-second spot–the kind filled with golden light and healthy seniors and, most of all, hordes of shiny, happy children. He needs copy that’ll explain the importance of debate and discussion and the impossibility of easy answers. He needs to critique GW’s reliance on platitudes and empty, boilerplate rhetoric and offer plans of his own. Given Bush’s accomplishments (or lack thereof), this ought to be a fucking cakewalk, people!

    Dear goddess, I’m soapboxy these days. Decaf, maybe?

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    Last night, as I was toting half a dozen bags of groceries into the house under a perfectly clear sky, it dawned on me that if I were to hop in my car and drive just a few hours to the east, I probably wouldn’t be able to find a grocery store that was even open, much less one with adequate supplies. And then I remembered that barely a week ago, we were in a similar situation right here in New Orleans–similar, but not the same.

    I recall thinking then–back during Ivan, as Jonno and I were sitting around just waiting for the storm to hit, unable to do anything or go anywhere–I remember thinking, “Damn, those folks in the Midwest don’t know how lucky they are, with their 24 hour stores, their consistent electricity, their unwavering DSL.” Now the storm’s passed, life’s back to normal, and our 24 hours of hardship are all but forgotten.

    To the east, though, it’s different. Floridians, Haitians, and thousands of others across the Gulf of Mexico and the Carribbean are beyond simply envying folks outside the various hurricane paths, beyond appreciating the rarity of a normal day. Hell, Jonno and I stayed at a hotel during Ivan so we wouldn’t lose power for a minute; the thought of being without electricity–not to mention food or drinking water–for weeks is almost beyond my sheltered comprehension. The worst such experience I ever endured was when Frederic hit, but even then, life was back to normal in four or five days.

    And to all you granola-crunching, hackysack-kicking Kucinich supporters, yes, I know that there are parts of the globe where vast numbers of people do without power and running water and food for much, much longer–entire lifetimes, in fact. I fully understand that even the worst suffering in America can’t compare to the troubles people experience in Somalia or Bangladesh.

    All I’m saying is that I’m feeling guilty and lucky and thankful and helpless all at once. Maybe making a donation to the Red Cross would help.

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    Of course, I’d be remiss to talk about Amanda Lepore without also mentioning her mentor in body modification: the increasingly disturbing, the always fascinating, Ms. Jocelyn Wildenstein.

    Being, in the end (heh), a guy from small-town Mississippi, I was denied the opportunity–some would say, privilege–of growing up with women like Jocelyn. Until recently, plastic surgery, divorce, and Judaism were topics my family and other respectable Southern Baptists discussed in hushed tones after dark with the curtains drawn. In fact, were I not inspired by Harriet the Spy to hone my eavesdropping abilities, I might not have heard about la chirurgie en plastique until I reached graduate school, where Orlan was all the rage.

    As it happened, though, I got wind of the concept one July afternoon between fifth and sixth grades when my mother and Aunt Grace were “visiting” in the kitchen over a pot of coffee. I told them was going over to a friend’s house, but I hid in the dining room so I could listen in. (I was worried that my parents had plans to ship me off to school and wanted confirmation.) Sadly, most of their nattering was of the tedious, dull variety of which my mother is so fond. Mom is sweet, yes–even pretty. But a conversationalist? Never.

    Just as I was growing weary of their chit chat about distant relatives I neither knew nor cared about, my mother brought up the topic:

    MOM: Now Gracie, you know I’m not one for gossip, but did you hear about what ol’ Libby Monahan has gone and done to herself?

    GRACE: No, indeed not. Tell it!

    MOM: Shhh! (Looking over her shoulder to make sure they’re alone. I hold my breath and cringe. After a long moment, she continues.) All right…you know how she and John Ed just love to go up to Gatlinburg every summer? Say they wouldn’t miss it for the world?

    GRACE: It is pretty up there, I’ll give her that.

    MOM: Well, I have it on good authority from her cousin Lizabeth Ann that they skipped Gatlinburg altogether last month and made a bee-line for Nashville.

    GRACE: What on earth for?

    MOM: (Whispering so low I can barely hear her) Surgery!

    GRACE: What kind of surgery? It ain’t cancer, is it? Oh, that poor, poor thing…

    MOM: No, Gracie, not cancer.

    (From behind the long runner covering the dining room table, I see MOM put her hands to the side of her head and pull the skin of her face taut.)

    GRACE: You gotta be kiddin’!

    MOM: No m’am, I am serious as a heart attack.

    GRACE: Libby Monahan had (whispering again) plastic surgery?

    MOM: Just like in that Elizabeth Taylor movie where she told everybody she was going on a vacation, but really ran off to this clinic and let a whole football team of doctors take off her face and put it back on again.

    GRACE: Sweet Jesus!

    MOM: Can you believe? …Did you see that thing, by the way? That movie? It was “pure d” awful. Just disgusting what ol’ Liz is doing these days.

    GRACE: Nuh-uh, never saw it. You know I get squeamish about medical things. Doctor Rayburn had to sedate me just to put in my partial.

    In an environment like that, Jocelyn would’ve raised more than a few eyebrows–and not in the surgical way. In fact, odds are pretty good that her cosmetic hubris would’ve inspired a mass uprising a la the torch-wielding mob at the end of Frankenstein. She never would have stood a chance.

    Of course, she wasn’t always a mutant. I guess it all began as a way of staying young and pretty for her hubby. Or maybe years of powdered bleach eventually took a toll on her brain. Or maybe she was just really inspired by a trip to the Bronx Zoo. Whatever the case, these days she’s definitely got a unique look.

    And that’s my take on Jocelyn–or, as my friend, Jon, likes to call her and those of her ilk, “Jocelyn Wildenstein, brought to you by DuPont.”