So yes, Mardi Gras was fabulous. Surprisingly fabulous. The weather held off for most of the day, the costumes were fantastic, and our walk to Rex with the Society of Ste. Anne took about half the time it usually does. Many tourists stayed away–presumably because (a) they come down just for the weekend not knowing that it’s all about Tuesday, and (b) because they wussed out over the weather–which meant bars were very, very manageable. Great for us, bad for bar owners, but feh. Got home before sundown (eight hours of corsetry is enough), watched two episodes of The Simpsons, gave myself a girlie facial and took a long bath, finished the gayest thing I’ve ever read, and fell asleep before 9pm. All in all, very cathartic. Very catholic, too. Too bad I’m a Southern Baptist.
For goddess’ sake will one of you Texans please drop me a line? Rumors are flying left and right about your governor and his alleged roll in the hay with his secretary of state, so spill the beans, Mary! Vindictive homos want to know…
And for those of you noticing the time stamp on this post, no, I have nothing better to do on the Friday before Mardi Gras than sit at home and blog. Thanks for making note of my lame social life.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Billy Corgan is the Sixth Spicegirl of the Apocalypse and must be stopped!
I repeat: I’m so totally marrying Frank Rich.
Update: The ball (which is part of what’s been keeping me busy) was pretty damn good: the costumes were extraordinary (if not as comical as last year), and the evening was mercifully short due to the last-minute cancellation of a couple of numbers, including one of Varla’s that was apparently dependent on costumes that never arrived from the airport. I suppose the 8 hours I spent hovering dozens of feet above the ballroom floor, stapling bunting to the balcony ledge, paid off.
Yeah, I’m still busy. Why don’t you enjoy the special Valentine’s Day edition of Cat Town instead of pestering me?
Sorry folks, but I’ve got way too much on my plate today to come up with anything insightful or humorous or stupid or offensive or blasphemous to say, so why not while away the afternoon with a bit of digital activism by suggesting ever-so-politely to G. W. that he should think twice before opening his prim, twitching mouth in support of a hateful, short-sighted constitutional amendment that would keep fags and dykes from getting hitched?
I mean, if you put it that nicely, surely he’ll understand.
On the off-chance that some of you New Yorkers have been living under a rock the past couple of weeks, I’d like to remind you that some of our dear friends will be performing at PS122 tomorrow evening (i.e. Wednesday), recounting for a room of complete strangers a few tales of the worst sex they’ve ever had. Let’s just hope that none of us are on their lists.
Cockfighters, who estimate that there are about 100,000 people who breed gamecocks, contend that Louisiana could lose $206 million in business if out-of-state cockfighters can’t bring their birds here to fight.
I’m sure most of you have noticed a weird trend in spam recently–messages with nonsense subject lines comprised of unconnected, often obscure or archaic words. Well, this weekend, three such emails arrived in my inbox with subject lines bordering on the poetic.
- leviticus empty sandalwood hebraic brushwork
- julia moraine incomparable conservatism gee
- and my personal favorite, ivanhoe
Update: you-know-who just sent me several more from his own inbox:
- honeycomb apparent inflationary intervention
- reject affix filmdom delineament antiquity
- collins anglican pelt afterword megalomania
- definitive railway fatten enthusiasm
- and his pick o’ the day, grin hasn’t raindrop aborigine
On the subject of Hollywood shenanigans, anybody want a gander at Tori Spelling’s wedding registry at Williams-Sonoma? [Courtesy of a friendly local gal via Tribe.]
Update: Of course, I should have checked with Choire first. He had the Tiffany list, too.
sturtle [dot] com 