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I have a weakness for Nice Jewish Boys. Why? I dunno–though I admittedly find them vaguely exotic. (Remember folks, I’m from Mississippi.)

As a grad student at Tulane, of course, I was like a kid in a candy store. The lush, green campus was and is packed to the gills with Nice Jewish Boys from New Jersey, Long Island, the City. If I wasn’t careful in class, my attention would inevitably drift from the prof’s droning lecture to fantasies involving the underclassmen playing soccer on the quad. It was kinda like being back in junior high, having no control over my nether region. I kept my legs crossed a lot.

Anyway, I was at Kinko’s the other day–ground zero for Nice Jewish Boys in chambray and khaki–and the guy at the counter caught my eye. He looked exactly like Daniel, a kid I had a crush on all those years ago: deep brown eyes, pale skin…. Mmm.

Then I got to the counter. His nametag said “Christian.”

So many layers of irony. I’m sure there’s a joke in there somewhere, but I’m not sure how to get to it.

Whatever, his name/religious preference wasn’t a turn-off–I mean, I don’t fetishize Jewishness itself. I just know my own history, the look I like. It’s the same way with Italian men: I’ve got a long, well-established pattern of lusting after ’em. Christian was a total hottie, foreskin or not. Unfortunately, he never gave me a second glance.

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At 2pm on Decadence Sunday, Royal Street is a sea of glitter, wigs, booze, and smiles. It’s friendly, egalitarian, and very, very festive. No cover, no confines, the Decadence Parade is fun, fabulous (in the most Latinate sense of the word), and completely chaotic. There’s never a set parade route: it’s basically a big ol’ bar-hop led by the Grand Marshals that eventually finds its way to faggotini ground zero, the intersection of Bourbon Street and St. Ann. Of course, most folks–yours truly included–tend to veer off after half an hour or so and make their own parties, but it’s good for a while.

With less than two hours before the parade–which, despite universal drag logic, starts precisely on time every year–today’s skies are black, by all appearances ready to pour the equivalent of four Great Lakes on the French Quarter. Maybe Jonno and I should just cuddle up and skip the festivities this year.

Yeah, right.

Entering makeup mode…now.

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In my head: Old skool MC Solaar, courtesy of the mysterious birthday gift-giver.

In my face: Bizarre error messages from the most cantankerous laser printer I’ve ever used. It’s like a grumpy 200-pound tamagotchi on the edge of my desk.

In my head: Tiny voices telling me to shout at passing strangers; to bitch slap coworkers as we’re having afternoon coffee; to drop my pants and piss in the middle of Esplanade Mall; to put the make on unsuspecting blue-collar workers; to rip off my shirt and do cartwheels in the street… Sounds like the early stages of Tourette Syndrome, no? But despite my childhood rage attacks, I think this current mania is probably attributable to my preemptive dread of Decadence…

Calgon?!

Still no answer.

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All right: who’s the wiseguy (or wisegal) that sent me b’day prezzies without sending along her/his name?

<shake fist> Why I oughtta… </shake fist>

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It’s funny how things just happen:

  • I happen to be an American.
  • I happen to live in the South.
  • I happen to be a man.
  • I happen to like kissing other men. A lot.
  • I happen to have found my other half.

And so on.

Over time, these things accumulate like so much silt at the mouth of the Mississippi River–or maybe, to be poetic, I could compare the process to that of mineral deposits creating stalagmites in a forgotten cave…nah, that’s gay. Silt, stalagmites, whatever, my point is–and I barely have one–that these things ultimately create us and our others: when it comes right down to it, the decisions we consciously make have very little to do with it.

Please note: I’m NOT trying to say that “everything happens for a reason;” 99% of the time, it doesn’t. It’s arbitrary. Attributing fate to some goddess or poltergeist or some otherwise omniscient entity is spiritualism at its worst. All’s I’m saying is that we ain’t necessarily masters of our own ship.

…Good lord, what a crappy way to start your Tuesday: reading obvious and depressing truisms from an undercaffeinated homosexual. When I began this post I meant to talk about a new gig I’ve accidentally landed–something else that’s just happened to me: I’m officially co-director of The Shim Shamettes, the world’s hippest, sassiest vintage burlesque troupe. How my excitement over working with the girls morphed into existential angst, I dunno. Sorry.

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It’s less than a week ’till the big event, and I still haven’t a clue about what I’m wearing. Yeah, I know it’ll be skimpy, and more than likely, it’ll be black, and if I have any say at all in the matter, it’ll be vaguely Asian (I’ve got a whore-red geisha girl parasol I can’t bear to give up just yet), but beyond that… I mean, hair? Ladyface? And most importantly: shoes? I’m beginning to get anxious.

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All is quiet. Finally…

I guess that’s great for me, but dullsville for any of you who happen to stop by. Sorry.

‘Till something of note happens, why not look in on Yoshitomo Nara? He makes Afro Ken look about as harmless as Snagglefreakinpuss…

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Do you ever have that dream where you’re in your favorite bar, just

kicking back with a friend or two and you’re having a drink and everything

seems nice and normal, but then suddenly the scene changes and you’re kinda

tense, kinda like you’re back in college and you’ve taken a hit of really

strong somethingorother and it’s just kicking in, and you turn around to

see, oh, I don’t know, Julianne Moore, and you go up to her, hesitantly at

first, then bravely, and you say hello, but she brushes you off, and you try

to say, “But Julie, it’s me, Richard! Don’t you remember me from college?

You dated my roommate? We had classes together? We did drugs in the faculty

bathroom together? Ring any bells?”, and from just looking at her face and

watching it change, you can tell she sorta remembers you, but she’s dressed

nicely and you’re not and she’s beautiful and you’re not and she’s famous

and you’re not and she just kinda sneers like she’s smiling but totally

insincerely, and she touches you lightly on the shoulder and makes her way

to the door, clearly happy to be leaving such a plebe-magnet of a bar?

Well, do you?

‘Cause I did. Last night.

Only thing: I’ve never even met the bitch.

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The Realm of the Senses

Seeing: webpages rendered on a low-end computer; office plants that refuse to die; the new Afro Ken clip my boyfriend brought back from NYC.

Hearing: the whir of a fan trying in vain to cool a low-end computer; an unbearably long discussion between our office manager and bookkeeper on the subject of snap beans; snatches of music my boyfriend brought back from NYC.

Feeling: the tender slit of an early-morning paper cut; well-worn denim on my thighs; the underside of my desk on my shaking, overcaffeinated knee.

Tasting: long-cold coffee; a stale Fig Newton; Wrigley’s Winterfresh Gum.

Smelling: dank, sodden earth; plastic components slowly melting deep within the heart of a low-end computer; the overpowering yet nostalgia-inducing scent of Speed Stick Musk that my boyfriend brought back from NYC.