Saudi Arabia issues Islamic edict banning Pokemon. A Saudi official, speaking on condition of anonymity, says that the government hopes children will return to Islam’s time-honored childhood traditions: zealous rage, female genital mutilation, and the decorative arts, including the creation of china, silverware, and cabbage-rose wallpaper.
But will I have my very own fatwa tomorrow? That’s the question…
My, how the world sucks ass today–all because a bunch of nitwit, low-rent printers won’t return my phone calls. I could provide a link to their company website, but I’ll be nice. For the moment.
In other, far less frustrating news, the house is coming along well. The rewiring’s done, the roofing will be finished tomorrow, and they hang the sheetrock on Friday and Saturday. After that, it’s mostly piddly crap: painting the walls, sanding the floors and the stairs, installing the bathtub and the kitchen cabinets. Things are looking up.
And we got our houseguest for the weekend. I found out about his arrival too late to warn him, but for the rest of our soon-to-be visitors (you know who you are), might I suggest you bring: (a) walking shoes, (b) sunscreen, (c) clean linens, and (d) Extra-Strength Claritin (unless your allergies are somehow immune to the quadruple whammy of 1 cat, 2 dogs, 12,000 cubic feet of cigarette smoke, and innumerable mold spores)?
Three Bile-Inducing Character Traits
Incompetence
Inability to communicate
Inability to think for oneself
Three Reasons to Hate Macs
crash
CrasH
CRASH
Today’s post courtesy of Mr. Christopher Durang:
Jane: (Talking to her therapist) A few days ago, I woke up and I heard this voice saying, “It wasn’t enough.”
Summers: Did you recognize the voice?
Jane: Not at first. But then it started to come back to me. When I was eight years old, someone brought me to a theatre with a lot of other children. We had come to see a production of Peter Pan. And I remember something seemed wrong with the whole production, odd things kept happening. Like when the children would fly, the ropes would keep breaking and the actors would come thumping to the ground and they’d have to be carried off by the stagehands. There seemed to be an unlimited supply of understudies to take the children’s places, and then they’d fall to the ground. And then the crocodile that chases Captain Hook seemed to be a real crocodile, it wasn’t an actor, and at one point it fell off the stage crushing several children in the front row.
Summers: What happened to the children?
Jane: Several understudies came and took their places in the audience. And from scene to scene Wendy seemed to get fatter and fatter until finally by the second act she was immobile and had to be moved with a cart.
Summers: Where does the voice fit in?
Jane: The voice belonged to the actress playing Peter Pan. You remember how in the second act Tinkerbell drinks some poison that Peter’s about to drink, in order to save him? And then Peter turns to the audience and he says that Tinkerbell’s going to die because not enough people believe in fairies, but that if everybody in the audience claps real hard to show that they do believe in fairies, then maybe Tinkerbell won’t die. And so then all the children started to clap. We clapped very hard and very long. My palms hurt and even started to bleed I clapped so hard. Then suddenly the actress playing Peter Pan turned to the audience and she said, “That wasn’t enough. You didn’t clap hard enough. Tinkerbell’s dead.” Uh…well, and…and then everyone started to cry. The actress stalked offstage and refused to continue with the play, and they finally had to bring down the curtain. No one could see anything through all the tears, and the ushers had to come help the children up the aisles and out into the street. I don’t think any of us were the same after that experience.
Actually, boyfriend, I’ve always thought Pizza Hut’s argument was groundless. Not only does Papa John’s use of the slogan “Better ingredients. Better pizza,” avoid stating directly that its product is better than Pizza Hut’s, but it’s also a fairly straightforward example of “fluffing” (not to be confused with the other variety of fluffing). Fluffing is a commonplace, quite legal advertising practice, in which it’s assumed that potential customers will understand you’re bragging about your product. If I’m running a feline sterilization clinic, I can put out an ad that says “We’re the best cat castrators in town!” and no one will really believe that there’s quantitative or qualitative evidence to back up the claim.
Of course, the ads in which Pizza Hut is mentioned specifically…well, they’re a little trickier. Still, the case is weak.
I can’t believe I’m chatting about advertising and pizza franchises this early in the day.
In other news, Millsaps graduates might be interested to know that Lance Goss passed away last week. For the majority of you, the name won’t ring the dimmest of bells, but for those of us who endured four (or more) long years in Jackson, Mississippi, Lance was a fixture of note. Lance had been at Millsaps since before my father was there. He ruled the theatre department with an iron fist and a pack of Carltons. He was also a quasi-closeted homosexual.
Lance cast me in my first play at Millsaps, Dark of the Moon, which was essentially the beginning of the end of my acting days. It was a dreadful experience, a dreadful play, a dreadful costume (Lance personally slit my hillbilly pants up to a height that would have made Barbi Benton blush). I barely saw him for the next two years.
I can’t say I particularly liked the man. He had a fairly serene exterior, but underneath, there was a heap of bitterness. When I refused to wear the aforementioned costume–something that apparently no one had ever had the gall to do–he went into a snit and put me in long pants and didn’t speak to me much for the run of the show. And when another prof in the department had the audacity to ask if he could direct Ibsen’s Ghosts (Lance directed everything, even in the summer), the Lord thy Goss crumpled into a twisted ball of cane-wielding venom. Still, many people adored him, and for them, I’m sorry for the loss.
Goodbye, Lance. Maybe Broadway will make you a happier man in your next life.
I don’t know why people suddenly think I’m some sort of club child. I mean, I admit I’ve always been, um…gregarious, but I’m hardly a regular on the nighttime scene. Anymore.
Nevertheless, people insist on approaching me with ideas for club nights as if I’m some kind of authority on the subject. Just this week, someone came to me with the idea of doing a gay night at an Uptown bar–one that typically draws a heavy cigar-and-cognac crowd, with the occasional batch of Tulane students mixed in for good measure. The owner of the place envisions small-scale circuit-type events. I, of course, think that’s about as exciting as suet pudding.
I mean, is it just me, or is the idea of doing a “gay night” irrelevant these days? Okay, I know I’m speaking from a position of slight privilege, living in the gay ghetto, surrounded by normative, homogenizing queerness every goddamn day of my life, but still, I don’t go to parties simply because they’re being thrown by a bunch of ‘mos. There has to be a draw–performance, cheap drinks, a unique atmosphere, something to get my ass out of the house.
Luckily, the resident dj and I think alike. Only thing is, we’re having trouble thinking of acts and events beyond the first couple of parties. Maybe a good night of sleep would help…. But until that happens, perhaps you have some ideas you’d be willing to share?
Well, I guess I won’t have to carry out my threat. The only people who didn’t show up this weekend really do shop at Sansabelt, and I guess there’s no fun in spreading truth, now is there?
Seriously though, the performances went beautifully. Jonno was particularly good in the role of Eustace, which he played with eye-smudged, Edward Gorey-esque panache. All he had to do was sit at the front table and wave drunkenly to the crowd every so often when his wife (Kiki, the party’s hostess) called out to him, but he did it ever so well.
In fact, everyone enjoyed it so much–audience and performers alike–that we’re hoping to turn it into an ongoing series, with maybe two or three events a year. Hot damn.
And on top of that, we did well enough to cover nearly all our production costs for Camille. Not bad, considering how expensive wiglets and hoop skirts and maribou frippery can be….
And did I mention how incredibly gorgeous it is today? Life’s grand.
Until tomorrow, that is. Sigh.
Equations
small penis=big mouth
warmer weather=fewer panhandling gutterpunks on the streets=time to stock up on Pernod
Missy Misdemeanor Elliot’s new diddy, “Get Your Freak On”=hottt
drink less=smoke less
eat less=smoke more
architectural drawings=clutter=fire hazard
stacks of unread magazines=no leisure time
artist awake=artist neurotic
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