Aurally Fixated

If you’re one of the two folks out there who don’t read the boyfriend on a daily basis, you may have missed Amanda Lepore’s fabulously outgoing outgoing message. Funny: she looks like such a wallflower…

If you’re one of those politically minded iPod freaks who seems eternally occupied with sending texties, here’s a few ditties to put a spring in your step and a smile on your lips–assuming you enjoy clever comic jabs at the current Commander in Chief.

On the other hand, if you’re not the politically sensitive type, you might prefer a visit to comic genius extraordinare (and my homegirl) Miss Shirley Q. Liquor. She doesn’t have as much free stuff on the site as she used to (hell, bitch-on-the-rise has figured out a way to charge $50 for a phone call), but you can still find “Ebonics Airways,” which had Jason, Jonno, and I giggling all last weekend.

So yesterday, as I was walking down Broadway, anticipating yet another afternoon-long shopping extravaganza in my hands-down all-time favorite communo-capitalist emporium, I saw a gaggle of gay men slip into Sephora, and it suddenly hit me: all that 60s/70s crap about women burning bras and not shaving their legs and throwing their makeup in the garbage, just so they could be “natural” and “unaffected” and (they thought) equal to men? Well, it backfired. Or flipped. Or got spun on its head. Nowadays, fuzzy-legged womyn have gone the way of the dodo, and their antitheses–metrosexuals–roam the streets with lipstick lesbian galpals, all of them tweezed, moisturized, and botoxed, eternally on the lookout for the Next Great Tanning Salon. Oscar Wilde would love it: we’ve said, “Fuck nature, we’ll take artifice any day of the week–provided we can squeeze it in between pilates class and spinning.”

I’m sure others have come to the same conclusion and noted it more cleverly, succintly, and humorously, but whatever.

Oh, and for those who missed it, last night’s concert was incredible. In fact, I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say it was infuckingcredible. I’m tempted to call it a defining moment for certain members of a certain generation of Young Queer Americans, but maybe that’s pushing it. Hell, just get the cd (produced by the formerly blogtastic and always extraordinary Julian Fleisher) and judge for your freaking self.

Update: Dan, Chris, and Andy have posted their thoughts on the K&H show, as well as a couple of pics. Given the vast number of blogosphere luminaries in attendance, there’ll undoubtedly be more as the week goes on.

There comes a point in every faggot’s life when he has to wonder, “Do I stick around and fight this out, or do I just pick up my toys and go home?” I suppose that now is one of those times.

Summoning the earnestly questioning voice of Carrie Bradshaw yet again: What’s to be done when folks just can’t be persuaded? Are there some people with whom we simply can’t communicate? And what happens in a democracy when the vote doesn’t go your way?

Yo, Alanis, this is irony: sitting here at Starbucks on Eighth Avenue (which, if you know me, is in itself ironic), I’ve seen Ivan dump more rain on New York in the past 15 minutes than he did over the course of his entire visit to New Orleans.

<![CDATA[
Bunny Didn’t Budge
1024 x 768. Open edition. Sold with matching banana bush.

Morning-After Glory
1024 x 768. Sold with signed, limited-edition sample of RU486 (placebo only).

Scene From an AOL Homepage
1024 x 756. Comes on CD ROM with complementary animated gif set.

Hmmm. All that low-pressure must’ve affected my Kinsey rating, ’cause I feel somehow gayer than I was before (if you can imagine). I mean, I don’t think I ever posted a cat pic before Ivan swished through.

Then again, I’m still a little stir-crazy from Ivan holding us hostage in the hotel room, so I suppose I was bound to resort to cat pictures sooner or later. Some people Visit FoxyBingo others play endless games of scrabble, but it’s feline photos for little ol’ me. Between the evacuated friends and rumors of a lingering curfew, this is all I’ve got. Sorry folks, it seems that this is the price we pay for staying safe while Ivan wreaks havoc all over the city.

By the way: for anyone in New Orleans looking to evacuate “up” instead of “out”, I highly recommend the Bourbon Orleans Hotel: the location is great, they’re pet-friendly, and the marble in the lobby is polished to a high gloss, which makes dogs tiptoe across it with great disease. It’s quite a spectacle. And really, if you’re going to go to all that trouble of moving to a hotel for a hurricane — even one like Ivan that proved to be kind of a non-event — it seems like you’d at least want a floor show.

Also: the hotel bar ain’t too shabby. Neither are the seven located across the street.

P.S. New Yorkers, if we don’t see you over the next couple of days, we’ll definitely meet up on Sunday.

Because the Powers That Be have asked us not to cross-post our Metroblog entries, and because I generally do as I’m asked, I’ll simply refer you here for my closing (or near-closing) remarks on ye olde hurricane.

Thanks for the emails of concern, y’all. You folks will be pleased (and others will certainly be pissed) to learn that Jonno and I have wussed out and taken a hotel room for this evening. After much debate about the inevitable loss of power at our home and the rarity of power loss in the Quarter, we decided it would be best to relocate for the night–not least of all because the boyfriend’s work schedule doesn’t let up for hurricanes and this hotel has DSL.

To be fair, most of the reluctance about changing locations came from me. That grizzled “I lived through Camille/Frederic/Andrew, and I’ll make it through this one” mindset has clearly been ingrained in me–courtesy of my father, no doubt. I take some solace, though, in the fact that our shameful retreat doesn’t constitute a bona fide evacuation: I mean, we’re only ten blocks from the house.

I am, however, annoyed–not about the move or the wretched timing of this damn hurricane, but about the open-ended curfew put in place by our very fuckable yet very conservative mayor. I mean, we’re at a hotel in the middle of the French Quarter fercryinoutloud, and we can’t go across the street for a drink with our fellow ‘mos? Where’s the fun in that?

What To Do About Ivan

Option #1: Stay

I’ve never evacuated from a hurricane zone before, so why start now?

We live in a 150-year-old house that’s survived numerous hurricanes, including one of the biggest ever to hit the city directly, and it’s still standing.

At the moment, Ivan is expected to hit a good distance to the east, meaning not only that we’re on the “good side” of the hurricane (for those who’ve never been through one, the east side of a hurricane gets the brutal first wave of storms as they spin counterclockwise off the Gulf), but that we stand a chance–albeit slim–of missing the bulk of the storm altogether.

The only place I could feasibly go in an evacuation is Mississippi, which will likely get hit just as badly as New Orleans.

The highways are jammed: to get anywhere reasonably safe (i.e. two hours to the west), I’d have to spend at least six hours on the road with car full of three dogs, a cat, numerous suitcases, and one slightly grouchy boyfriend.

For months now, we’ve been planning a very special trip out of town for a very special event, and if we leave, I’m afraid we wouldn’t be able to get back in time for our flight out Friday morning.

I want to teach myself to bake, and since I have a gas stove and several days off from work, what better to do?

Option #2: Go

Even though the temperatures aren’t as brutal as they’ve been, living without power for any stretch of time (which is a near certainty at this point) is no fun in New Orleans.

Between the lack of air conditioning and the nervous clatter of our dog Ruffin’s nails on the hardwood floor as he scurries from hiding place to hiding place, sleeping tomorrow night won’t be easy.

My dad’s house is newer and loses power less frequently than ours.

There’s always a first time for everything–including hurricane evacuation.

Well, the “stays” outweigh the “gos,” so I guess we’ll be sticking around. Just don’t be surprised if I’m quiet for a couple of days.

Wish us luck.

<![CDATA[Porno moment of the day: yesterday afternoon, while I was trying to be all butch and do some work around the house, this hot, trashy coonass, who looked like the sort of guy who spent his evenings dancing atop the bar of the Corner Pocket, knocked on my door and asked if I wanted to buy some powertools.

Seriously. Hot.

An hour or so ago, I was about to post something really silly, really ridiculous, but I made the mistake of looking up. Or, not mistake. I just looked up from my keyboard to the TV playing silently in front of me. NOVA was on–a Saturday afternoon favorite–but it was a very old episode, one about the collapse of the World Trade Center. And I thought, “Jeez, how many times are they gonna show this one? I mean, it’s a poignant documentary, but c’mon…”

I’d completely forgotten, of course.

Despite the fact that I’d seen the piece no less than three times previously, I turned up the volume and began watching. I couldn’t stop. You know the analogies. And when I finally remembered today’s date, I shut my laptop and bumped up the volume some more. Despite my reluctance to be sentimental about anything, despite my attempts at iconoclasm, I guess I have limits. In a weird, childish way, I guess watching the episode was my way of paying some kind of respect, or at least chastising myself for being forgetful.

Sure, I have more connections to New York than some people I know, but far fewer than others. Fact of the matter is, I live over a thousand miles from the city, and I knew no one who died on the 11th of September, 2001. So, on the one hand, I’m awed by the impact such a distant event has had on me and by the level of empathy it’s aroused. On the other, what right do I really have to feel connected to it, being, ultimately, a guy who lost nothing truly significant that day?