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So I’m sitting here, not watching the Superbowl, not doing laundry, just hoping to watch The Simpsons in peace, and at the appropriate time, I switch to Fox, but Fox, as it turns out, is not showing the aforementioned animated series and has instead chosen to broadcast Independence Day for, like, the 30 millionth time. (I can only assume Mr. Murdoch’s minions think that, being a popular Hollywood blockbuster, its potential demographic is entirely different from that of America’s most popular sporting event.) I flip around a little, not really wanting to do anything other than lie on the couch and watch TV and laugh (especially after the spectacular-though-gruelling success that was last night), but nothing else is on, so I go back to the aforementioned sci-fi special-effects showcase.

A few minutes later, I find myself strangely affected by the film. All these shots of fiery destruction, of people dying left and right, separated from their loved ones with no chance to utter a final goodbye–it’s the kind of mass-catastrophe stuff that’s terrified me since childhood. (You-know-what only made it worse.) And I have this moment of morbid lucidity, and I realize that the fact of the matter is, although their deaths may not be as spectacular and cinematic as the ones I’m watching now, everyone I love will eventually pass away: my dogs, my parents, my friends…and I can’t even think about him.

Then Fox cuts to a commercial, and I notice I have a tear in my eye, and that tips me off that something is rotten in Demark, because the only time I cry during movies is (a) when I’m watching Lana Turner vehicles or (b) when I’m exhausted and fragile. Then the commercial’s over, and the movie cuts in with a post-apocalyptic shot of the Statue of Liberty’s head, severed and lying among the smoldering remains of New York City, and the cynical, oh-my-god-couldn’t-they-come-up-with-something-more-original me is back, and I realize that DramaRama just kicked my ass is all, and I need a good night’s sleep. Within seconds, I’m seeing through, jaundiced eyes again–and, oh, the things I see:

  • It’s sad to watch people die. Especially pretty people. Especially, especially pretty people who have stirring, swelling, banks of amped-up violin players behind them. (Note for theatre types: you can put Albinoni’s Adagio behind Neil Freaking Simon and have ’em weeping in the aisles.)
  • If trapped in the Lincoln Tunnel during a nuclear-type blast, none of my dogs will be intelligent enough to follow me to safety. Hot, hot dogs they will be.
  • Nothing is worse than bad child actors, except perhaps Jeff Goldblum. Even on a good day, he’s only fit to do commercial voiceovers and play beleaguered scientists to whom no one will listen until things begin going tragically awry. Off with her head.
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As is always the case when my posts get sparse like this, I’ve been busy. It’ll be that way through mid-May, then I get a reprieve for a week or so, and then it starts up again.

My current project is the annual DramaRama festival. I’ve been doing it so long, I can’t even remember how I first became involved. I must enjoy it, though, or I would have bailed ages ago. Or maybe I’m just a masochist.

BTW, the DramaRama line-up is particularly good this year. And moneywise, it’s the best deal in town. If you’re in New Orleans, you ought to come and see it. Or I’ll break your legs.

In other news, my sister just released her new single, with a remix by none other than the artist formerly known as Adamski. It’s not in public release–just for DJs at this point–but you can still get a listen.

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It’s funny how, like, you can be doing something completely innocuous, completely normal, and suddenly you remember things of minute importance from ten or fifteen years ago. Like yesterday, I was walking up the steps, and maybe it was the quality of the light or maybe it was a smell in the air, but suddenly I remembered my long-lost friends Buck and Silas and that, for two-and-a-half weeks in 1988, they referred to themselves as Mary-Ellen Cheesetoast and Helen Fruitsalad. I promptly exploded in laughter.

I guess you had to be there.

In other news, Jeremy send ’round a fantastic link to a proposed Superbowl advertisement that may or may not have been canned by CBS. Whether or not that’s the case, why don’t you take a moment out of your busy, jet-setting schedule and drop the friendly folks at Columbia Broadcasting Systems a line and tell ’em not to censor your freakin’ programming… Hell, nobody watches that network anyway–they’ll be happy to get the email. Provided, of course, that the creators of smash hits like Becker and Cupid and (formerly) Matlock know how to use email…

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Such us-vs.-them religious oneupmanship is more about political partisanship than liturgical debate. Its adherents practice what can only be called spiritual McCarthyism, a witch hunt in which “secularists” are targeted as if they were subversives and those who ostentatiously wrap themselves in God are patriots.

—New York Times

I so totally want to marry Frank Rich and have, like, 10,000 of his babies.

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He launched a war that killed hundreds of Americans and thousands of Iraqis (and it ain’t over yet!) just to settle a personal score.

He blathered Robert Heinlein-esque sci-fi-babble about condos on Mars in order to boost his pre-election ratings.

And now, Senor Bush et al. are trying to put a spin on fat.

I can only assume that the administration’s next initiative will include some sort of ad campaign to promote Twinkies as the only combat-resistant, space-friendly, cellulite-enhancing food that patriotic, red-blooded Americans will ever need.

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Things I Have Hated This Week

  • Snow: I know it sounds strange, but I’m allergic to severely cold weather. My body shuts down when the temperature hits the single digits. The first several days in the city–which started out at one, singular, less-than-sensational degree above zero–were no picnic.
  • Ice and snow: See above.
  • Fear of falling icicles: So pretty, but so dangerous when hurtling to the ground at 100 miles per hour.
  • Art that’s so bad they ought to pay us for watching it.
  • The knowing “hmph” that some (generally male) audience members feel compelled to emit after enduring a hideous section of dance, as if to say, “Oh, I see what he’s saying. How clever and curious…” They should be screaming for the artist’s head on a goddamn silver platter is what I think.
  • Knowing that dozens, if not hundreds, of crappy artists are getting booked around the country, when I know that our theatre company could beat up their theatre company with one arm tied behind its back.
  • Booking crap performances and sacrificing the few standards I have left for the sake of the bottom line.
  • Not seeing my pornmogul boyfriend for days at a time.

So, I endure all this, and then I find out that the town I call home and to which I’m returning is actually more stressful than this place? What the hell?

P. S. There are, however several things I love about New York–notably those dealing with the subway. I love the rush of air as a train enters the station. I love sidewalk goodbyes cut short as squeaks and rattles float up through gratings, announcing a train’s approach. Other stuff, too, but that’s all for now.

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TWO THINGS

1. I’ll be in New York this weekend. Friends will get calls. Others, look me up.

2. I’m so busy getting ready for this damn trip (business, not pleasure, BTW), that I barely have time to breathe–much less create a new wallpaper for my poor little laptop. If a kind soul were to borrow one of these images for such purposes and convert it to 1024×768, yours truly would be very grateful (not to mention stunned).

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Like many of you, I hate New Year’s Eve. It’s the worst holiday on the books for many reasons, including:

a. The champagne — I can’t abide the stuff. It’s overpriced and underwhelming–not to mention sickening. Even the dry stuff. Nothing will make me ill faster than a glass of White Star. Yet somehow it’s become associated with festive occasions and refinement. It’s not New Year’s Eve without a midnight champagne toast. Blech. I’d rather drink gasoline. Or gin. Same diff.

b. The dress code — You can’t drink sparkling, pretty, festive champagne without being sparkling and pretty yourself. Polish the shoes, press the shirt, find the cufflinks, de-lint the jacket. Shave. Feh. If I’m going to all that trouble, there better be a corpse laid out in a lucite casket when I arrive.

c. The enforced gaiety — All right, here’s the game plan: we’re gonna go out, pay an exorbitant fee for a prix fixe meal, drink our complimentary glass of crap champagne (see above), get hammered by 11:00pm, and scream real loud at midnight while we watch reruns of Dick Clark celebrating in Times Square from an hour before. Sounds like fun, doesn’t it?

Frankly, the only New Year’s Eve events I ever enjoyed were at the home of my friends Trey and Dana. Every December 31st, they’d host a party, and every year, the same twenty of us would show up–twenty people who’d come of age together, yet never seemed to run into one another any more. That one evening was the only time of the year I was sure to see all the folks who’d once meant so much to me.

But Trey and Dana broke up ages ago, and the parties abruptly stopped. So did the fun.

Which is why the boyfriend and I decided to throw our own New Year’s Eve party, which, I’m happy to say, was quite a success. Have a gander, won’t you?