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Haikus for a muggy afternoon:

The blood in my brain

drips like leaves after a storm.

Who’s got Tylenol?

To the person in the car outside my office window:

Cher is not my friend.

Cher is no one’s friend.

So turn that crap off, Mary.

Cold coffee is fine

but warm Coke always sucks ass.

Bring it on, Jean-Luc.

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(In the manner of Hattie McDaniel) Lerd, lerd, lerd today, chile…

Or, alternately…

(In the manner of Bella Abzug) Oy, such a weekend.

A combination of good weather, limited work/rehearsal duties, and plenty of lazy time made the weekend pretty near perfect. The capper? Two–count ’em–two drag shows that restored my faith in the art form.

Most drag shows…well, to say they’re boring would be kind. To say that they’re half-assed, hackneyed, public demonstrations of manic insecurity, served at room temperature with a side of cold beets, that’d be more to the point. I’m serious. I don’t mean to be all Dorian Corey or anything, but there’s something lackluster about drag now, n’est-ce pas? It’s no longer showgirl glam, it’s more like a bunch of 14 year old closeted nancy boys dressed up in mommy’s camisole pretending they’re Mariah/Whitney/Celine. Ugh.

Saturday, however, I got a good dose of oooooold skool drag–the kind they used to have in the separate-but-certainly-not-equal black gay bars in Mississippi when I was a wee lassie. Grande dames cutting up–no trannies, just a bunch of screamin’, over-emotin’ queens singing songs from Doris Day and Patsy Cline and–Heavens to Betsy!–Dreamgirls.

But the best part of the evening was the tipping ritual. These girls stayed onstage and worked their little Lee Press Ons to the nub and made us get up and bring the tips to ’em. Every time someone new came on, there was a mad rush to the front of the stage, with dozens of queens holding singles like dirty diapers. And I thought to myself: what a strange ritual this is. If someone who’d never seen a drag show walked into the room, would s/he understand why on earth a bunch of otherwise sensible sissies are practically throwing money at a bunch of hard-lookin’, beat-to-Jesus drag queens who are, at best, simply cavorting in time with the music and mouthing about half the song’s words properly? I dunno if I understand it completely myself… Still, it was fun, and the energy of the performers and the crowd was nice.

Last night, we crossed to the other side for the quasi-monthly drag king show (put together in part by our very own Alana) at the Shim-Sham Club. No Whitney. No Britney. There was, however, a particularly charming Madonna number, a couple of diddies performed by a striking red-haired chick I don’t know, and, the best bit, an N*Sync routine. It was cute and sexy and fun and packed with screaming grrls and queens and straight folks and it’s how more drag shows should be. Props to the ladyboys.

Now, of course, it’s back to the daily grind. Ugh. Must. Have. More. Diet. Coke….

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‘Abortion ship’ arrives in Ireland? Well, if that’s not a sitcom in the making, I don’t know what is:

Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale,

a tale of a fateful trip.

That started from this papist port,

aboard this rusty ship.

The mate was a bonny, brawny lass,

the skipper an MD.

Five hundred gals set sail that day,

for a minimal fee, a minimal fee….

(shout from poop deck: “Goddess bless Socialism!”)

The weather then got bloody rough,

the creaking ship was tossed.

If not for the courage of the fearless crew,

the Aurora would be lost, like that freakin’ albatross.

The ship took ground on the shore of the well-charted Isle of Man,

with Anne Vanderhoot, and Inga, too,

the Governess, and her charge,

the Shepherdess,

a lass, Siobahn, and a leprechaun:

Abortionists in exile.

What’s the title, though? “Abortionists in Exile” is far too many syllables for primetime. Perhaps “The Isle of Woman”? Oh, wait, of course: “Manx Minxes!” With lots of showy musical numbers involving those precious little tail-less cats.

[Ed. note: I seem to have gone completely insane.]

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Amended excerpt from an email to one of you, re: “naming your gay lover”:

The question of what to call one another has perplexed both Jonno and me. “Lover” is way too faggoty, as is “husband” and the never-to-be-pronounced-aloud “husbear.” “Boyfriend” seems too non-committal, and “significant other” makes him sound like a tumor. I like the concept behind “spouse,” but the word’s not quite Germanic enough for me–I want at least one hard consonant. Call me old fashioned, but I do.

Linguistically stranded thus, in polite conversation I usually refer to Jonno as my “partner.” Occasionally, though, people don’t quite get the implications–it sounds

like a business relationship, no?–so I explain that he’s my “fudgepacking buttlover,” which usually sets things straight. Or gay. Or something.

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So very many people to thank today….

  • Thanks, Patrick, for the kick-ass illustration of Hedwig.
  • Thanks, Keith, for the sassy single. I know she’s not your style–in fact, I’m not so sure I’m as smitten with her as I once thought–but it’s nice for now.
  • Thanks, Troy, for attempting to put me in touch with John Cameron Mitchell and/or Stephen Trask. I know if anyone could pull that off, it’d be you, my little social mariposa. Of course, if anyone else knows how to reach ’em, that’d be cool, too. You know I’d love you forever and a day. Plus one.
  • Thanks, goddess, for keeping me safe from falling trees, thunderstorms, flash floods, and at least one tornado–not to mention all those hydroplane-inducing puddles–as I dashed up to Mississippi for a breakfast meeting, then back to the Big Easy. No lie: there were four counties under severe weather warnings, and I drove through each of ’em, hazards blinking, wipers wiping, listening to recap after recap of McVeigh’s execution. Just lil’ Allison to keep me company. Whee.
  • Thanks, Flynn et al., for letting me perform scary songs a la Mummenchantz without fear of reprisal.
  • And thanks, boyfriend, for understanding that although I’m very, very busy now, I’ll soon slow down, and then we’ll have a nice long vacation. After which, you’ll probably be desperate to spend the next 11 months away from my evil clutches…
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Given my current fondness for Gore Vidal, I was quite pleased to find the trailer for Myra Breckinridge online. I ask you: what’s not to love about Raquel Welch simultaneously butt-pirating the young, hung, soon-to-be-ignored Roger Herren and engaging in a world-class, behind-the-scenes catfight with Mae West? If only you could hear Rex Reed’s hysterical, though well-rehearsed, anecdotes about the production…. Oy.

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Ten thoughts:

1. Should I be concerned that five days into hurricane season we’ve already had our first named storm?

2. If I’m such a coffee person, why haven’t I bought a new coffee pot to replace the one that fell victim to Spontaneous Combustion Syndrome six months ago?

3. Have I never been mellow?

4. Have I never tried?

5. Is my boyfriend the most adorable thing on the planet or what?

6. Do these pants make me look fat(ter)?

7. What’s the Next Big Thing?

8. Am I fulfilling all of my adolescent fantasies?

9. Is it really that hard being green?

10. What’s for dinner?

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She’s bold! She’s sassy!! She’s helpful!!! She’s the Lipstick Librarian! (In fact, she’s kinda like my Mississippi pal Tessa [unflatteringly pictured above with her hubby, David], who supplied me the link via her very own, first-ever homepage…. Except I don’t think I’ve ever seen Tessa sporting lipstick.)