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Epigram for Friday, February 16, 2001 (courtesy of Jocko):

    When bankers get together for dinner they discuss art.
    When artists get
    together for dinner they discuss money.

    —Oscar Wilde

* * * * *

On an unrelated note, do any of you ‘mos know who sings the song “Bill”? I hear it all the time on one of the local soul stations, and I’ve even seen the video, but for the life of me, I can’t recall the artist. Black woman of a certain age, looks kinda like Della Reese with a gin hangover, singing about finding her hubby in the arms of another man… I’ll paraphrase the refrain:

I was ready
for Betty,
Susan, Mary, or Ann,
but all the time
it was Bill
sleepin’ with my man.

Anyone? …Bueller? …Bueller? …Bueller?

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Three Things

1. Tonight we have our first rehearsal for Camille, which’ll go up in April. Just for the hell of it, I went back and re-read Ludlam’s manifesto for the Ridiculous Theatre. I was particularly struck by item number seven:

The theatre is a humble materialist enterprise which seeks to produce riches of the imagination, not the other way around. The theatre is an event not an object. Theatre workers need not blush and conceal their desperate struggle to pay the landlords their rents. Theatre without the stink of art.

I’m not sure I completely agree. I mean, yeah, I can appreciate fine art, art for art’s sake. But I can also appreciate art that’s designed solely to wow the audience, to entertain, to make moolah, moolah, moolah. And I have a particularly low tolerance for artists who deny/are ignorant of the commercial possibilities inherent to their own art.

Bottom line: professional artists are just that–professionals, no less than doctors, lawyers, or Tiger Woods. There are good doctors and bad doctors; there are good artists and bad artists. Art is worth paying for, and it’s up to the artist to figure out how to get people to cough up dough. If that means futzing with their work–which is not the same as self-censorship, it just means being more precise–so be it.

Paint, dance, sing, whatever. But for goddess’ sake, don’t suffer because of it.

2. The house that Jonno and I bought nearly a year ago is entering the final stages of renovation. Or rather, the final stages of phase 1 of the renovations. Phases 2, 3, 4, and 5 to follow….

3. I said yesterday that I wasn’t really concerned about the origins of Valentine’s Day, but Sister Taffy’s essay is so compelling…well, see for yourself. (Thanks for the link, George!)

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To me, Valentine’s Day is one of the great riddles of Western Civilization. Like W’s popularity, the success of Andrew Lloyd Weber, and the inner life of cats (Cats, too, for that matter), it mystifies me.

When I ask someone to “be my Valentine,” what, exactly, am I asking? I’m not talking about in the seminal sense–like, of what origin is the expression and all that crap. I simply mean, in semiotic terms, what do I signify with those three signifiers? Will you sleep with me? Will you be my paramour? Will you be my dearest platonic friend? Can I bum a cigarette?

Inevitably, I feel like Ralph Wiggum when Lisa Simpson choo-choo-chooses him on the big VD.

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I’m not a very romantic person. To be as silly and dramatic and–some would say–nelly as I am, I’ve got very little of the Casanova in my bones.

Luckily, my boyfriend understands that my lack of romantic affection (or affectation) doesn’t mean I don’t love him. It just means I’m completely self-absorbed and thoughtless, that’s all.

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The weather here has been miserable all day. Gray, rainy. Not the warm, gooey sort of gray and rainy that makes you wanna curl up by the fire with someone you love, but the insipid, torpid sort that drains the life from every living thing and makes you wonder, “What’s the point?” Thanks for the pick-me-up, Mother Nature. Your timing couldn’t be better.

On top of that, I’m surrounded by artists–the needy sort.

Luckily, we start working on Camille this week. Few needy folks or egos in our group, mostly because none of us are actors.

Does that make sense?

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I am officially bored.

I am officially uncomfortable.

I am officially a boy-kisser.

I am officially uninterested in the fate of my first true love.

I am officially unable to recall my first true love.

I am offically a fascist, in my own way.

I am officially tired of dealing with artists.

I am officially glad that it’s Carnival time.

I am officially looking forward to the Krewe du Vieux parade this weekend.

I am officially not ready for the Society of St. Anne Ball.

I am officially unprepared to begin directing Camille.

I am officially in love with Jonno.

I am officially not in love with Will and Grace.

I am officially thrilled that we’re having houseguests for Mardi Gras.

I am officially excited by tornadoes.

I am officially uninterested in “twinks”.

I am officially frustrated with my external modem.

I am officially in search of an official to propogate my official pronouncements.

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Chance sighting: as I sat down at my desk, I happened to glance over at the circa-1951 Big-Ass Dictionary that’s so big-assed the only place I can find to put it is the floor of my office. An entry at the top of the page caught my eye. It dovetails nicely with Andy’s anti-consumerist rant from yesterday:

Say’s Law (n.): a statement in economics: production creates not only the supply of goods, but also the demand for them.

Funny, I don’t remember learning that in Econ 101. But then, it sounds a little too marxist for Mississippi classrooms.

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Congratulations, papist webheads! You’re about to have your very own patron saint to watch over your travels down the world wide internet superhighway thingummy. I just hope you remembered to say the appropriate prayer before logging on today.

Two questions, though:

  • Do you have to say the prayer if you’ve got DSL?
  • Will his feast day be 01/01? (nyuk, nyuk…ugh)