As sturtle.com nears the one-year mark, it’s time for me to reconsider my hosting options. I’m at Easyspace right now, and they’ve been very reliable, but I’m considering a move to ReadyHosting: they’re cheaper, and they offer more stuff. Only thing is, it’s hard to get an idea of ReadyHosting’s reliability from their client list. The oh-so-gooey comments are a little staged, if ya’ know what I mean. Anyone had any personal experience with ’em?
Four Things
1. Never underestimate the power of cigarettes and coffee as dieting aids.
2. After a month-and-a-half hiatus, Jason and Gladys are back. We’ll see how long they hold out this time.
3. Everyone probably already knows, but I just discovered it yesterday: they’ve opened up the Stortroopers goth wardrobe. Therefore, three new and improved avatars (Jonno didn’t care much for my version of Fat Tuesday boyfriend, so he created his own):
|
mardi gras me |
my |
jonno’s |
I still can’t seem to get Jonno right, but the eerie likeness to me is, well…eerie.
4. Last night I had the strangest dream. I sailed away to China…in a little rowboat to find ya’…. No seriously. It was odd.
My friends Jim, Kim, and I were extras in a movie about the Israeli army. Wait, let me clarify that: we were extras in a movie musical about the Israeli army. And all the dialogue was in Hebrew. Go figure.
Next thing I know, we’ve been asked to help coordinate a shoot for a horror flick. They want us to pull in an audience full of people for a free screening of some Christopher Durang movies (which strikes me as odd, because as far as I know he’s only made Beyond Therapy, and he hated it) so they can get some good crowd shots for the film. So we’re standing outside a movie theatre, herding people in from off the sidewalk. There must have been a masquerade party nearby, because an unusually large number of folks were wearing costumes–especially chicken costumes. Like the kind schmucks have to wear when they’re handing out flyers in front of Chick-fil-a. (Again, go figure.)
Anyway, we do a pretty good job of rustling up a crowd, and when we finally go in, the theatre’s packed. The only place I can find to sit is next to Mary Garlington (Lu-Lu “For a Quarter I Will” Fishpaw in Polyester). Actually, it’s so crowded, Mary and I have to share a seat. And we do. With room to spare (see #1 above).
So we’re watching these Durang films, and they all look vaguely like low-rent versions of The Year of Living Dangerously, complete with cheesebag Maurice Jarre-esque soundtracks. After a bit, I decide I’m tired and wanna go home. Timo razzes me as I get up to leave, jeering that I’m always prone to flake out early. (And I am. You gotta problem with that?)
I leave the cinema and head off to retrieve my car from a valet parking lot. And as I’m waiting for the guy to bring ’round my vehicle, I’m set upon by some theatre queen who’s telling me all about his latest production (One Flew Over the Cukoo’s Nest, I think) and his night out at the Roxy in New York, and I fall asleep in the middle of his story. (You would have done the same.)
Then I woke up.
You’d think this’d be the last place on earth anyone would come for info on clit piercing. But of course, you’d be wrong.
Holy crap! Must…obtain…Itchy & Scratchy action figures….
All right folks, we’ll see you tonight at the Feast of St. Brigid. We’ll be the ones in pink.
Just one question: why do I always have to be the girl?
Bitch Slap
A work in progress
Stage lights up on a posh but messy green room. The sounds of rhythmic chanting can be heard in the distance. We’re apparently backstage at a concert hall–a very large one, at that. The crowd is growing restless.
Shortly after the lights come up, Madonna enters the green room downstage left. She’s dressed completely in white, with a cascade of auburn ringlets brushing against her shoulders. Surrounded by a six-member beauty SWAT team (Jennifer Grey, Tiffany, Martika, the fat girl from Wilson-Philips, Marcella Detroit, and Rossy de Palma, each of whom sports a long white lab coat), she makes her way to the center of the room and sits in a very minimal-chic recliner, leaning back so that the stylists can do their work. The effect is of crows gorging on a corpse.
After a moment or two, a previously unnoticed barber shop chair spins around upstage right. Sitting in it, we find a woman, although her face is obscured: she’s looking straight down, wearing a very large-brimmed, very white, felt fedora. When she looks up, we realize it’s Grace Jones, naked save the hat. She’s had her nose in a very large pile of…something. There’s a wide straw sticking out of the top of the pile, which we’d assume is cocaine, except it’s green. And it glows with a rhythmic, scintillating, wave-like phosphorescence, like a cuttlefish. She laughs as she raises her head, leveling her eyes at Madonna. Startled, Madonna bolts upright in her chair. She slowly stands.
Madonna: I didn’t expect to see you so soon, Gracie.(Grace breaks into laughter again.) You know, it was foolish of you to come here tonight. My henchwomen have been specially trained to deal with you by Dolph Lundgren himself. (Henchwomen drop lab coats. They’re wearing outfits much like Madonna herself, but much less fabulous and about a half-size too small.) Have at her, girls!
(The SWAT team rushes her. The barber chair spins, Grace disappears. General confusion. Moments later Grace, clad in a leopard print cat suit that would probably look ridiculous on anyone but her, drops from the ceiling onto the pack of women. This is followed by a ten minute kung-fu sequence, choreographed by Maggie Cheung. During the fight, Madonna breast feeds Rocco, looking mildly amused by the goings-on. Grace eventually kicks every last ass and whips out a cigar, striking her match on the nose of Rossy de Palma. She paces slowly toward Madonna, who appears unruffled but puts Rocco in a bassinet nearby–just to be safe. Madonna lunges first.)
Madonna: (Giving her a kick to the head) Send that one to the agent who scored you Vamp, tramp!
Grace: (Flipping her over the shoulder) And that’s for Body of Evidence, you mindless little slut!
Madonna: (Landing on Grace’s shoulder’s with a gravity-defying front somersault) You don’t have room to talk about bodies, ya’ freak! You lousy excuse for a post-op trannie!
Grace: (Falling backwards, pinning Madonna to the ground) Listen here, Eyebags-y Mallone, at least I don’t inject myself with toxic chemicals every day of the week just to look younger. (Pauses. Thinks for a moment.) Well, maybe on the weekends…
Madonna: (Pushing her off with the heel of her 6-inch McQueen pumps) Get your lousy bumper offa me, you cow!
Grace: (Flying jump-kick to the head) Cherish this, bitch! (Madonna’s head is severed, flying off and up. Grace catches it on the sharpened tip of an eyebrow pencil plucked from Martika’s pocket. Grace licks Madonna’s head like a lollipop, then inserts it into her own vagina. Addresses audience directly.) For safekeeping. (Smiles, exits. The sounds of the crowd grow louder as we hear an announcer say “Ladies and gentlemen: Jones, Miss Grace Jones…”)
The End
Director’s note: The above can be performed with Javanese shadow puppets if Ms. Jones and Ms. Ciccone are unavailable at the time of production.
Okay, Bryan, I understand you’re all into this and stuff–and that’s fine–but, yo, why ain’t that shit allowed in France? Frankly, it makes me a little nervous. I mean, take your average Frenchman off la rue, sit him down in front of a 72-hour Jerry Lewis/David Hasslehoff telethon with nothing but a bottle of Pernod and a carton of unfiltered Gitanes by his side, and he’ll come out just fine. They have developed a superior tolerance for pain and horrifying aesthetics. So when the French start whining about something, you know it’s really futup.
Okay. So we’ve got a couple of votes for Nina Simone and Chet Baker, quite a few for the twisted one, Nina Hagen, and her swarthy sister, Ofra Haza, and about one each for Debby Harry, Grace Jones, Annie Lennox, Stevie Nicks, and Dolly Parton. (Ralph also proposed Cyndi Lauper, but I dunno ’bout that.)
Any other nominations for alpha-type vocalists worthy of booting the Lady M from her king-of-the-hill spot atop the queer heap? Preferably someone alive? I mean, Billie Holliday’s great and all, but I prefer heroes with a pulse.
So I’m in the car the other day listening to the radio and, like, there’s this commercial, right? And it’s this guy with a thick-as-a-brick Southern accent who’s supposedly calling some random person to find out if they’re a “real Southerner,” asking them to pronounce “y’all” and wanting to know if they’ve got Bama Jelly in the ‘fridge. So of course, to make the ad funny, the woman who answers is total Brooklyn-down, who can’t seem to manage “y’all” at all and has never even heard of Bama. She says she’s from Florida–obviously a retiree in, like, Naples or Boca or someplace very Golden Girls–and he tries to convince her that to be a true Southerner she’s gotta talk the talk and always have the jelly on-hand. Hahaha, end of commercial.
What’s wrong with this picture?
- The woman, sassy as she is, never hangs up on the freak. Nor does she take his number off the caller id and have him prosecuted for harrassment.
- Bama Jelly is, like, the total crappiest jelly ever. For real. The most generic, insipid toast spread line, bar-none. It’s the condiment equivalent to “cheese food.”
- Bama Jelly is made by Welch’s which is based in Concord, Massachusetts, ground-zero for Yankee carpetbaggers.
- Who cares about definining what is and isn’t “Southern” anyway? Is this part of some conservative, nationalist/regionalist movement, not unlike what the 1990s saw in Rwanda and the former Yugoslavia, where we’re all trying to decide who belongs where? If so, should we prepare now for an impending wave of regional cleansing? Should I stock up on Bama to avoid persecution by the mob? “Please, don’t hurt us! We’ve got the jelly! And we looooooove it!”
Yeah, I know it’s just a commercial. But it’s irritating. I guess it’s particularly annoying to me because New Orleans is so much about what constitutes “real” New Orleans culture. We’ve done such a good job of preserving ourselves that it’s all we can do. You can’t make a movie about New Orleans without it being all jazz and gumbo and red beans and Mardi Gras…. It’s one of the very few gripes I have about the city I otherwise gladly call home.
I got a fairly sad email from Craig Chester this afternoon. Apparently, his cat, Erazmus had an accident, was misdiagnosed by some veterinarians, didn’t improve, finally got the proper diagnosis, underwent a long, painful recovery process, and then died suddenly in the middle of the night. If the first clinic had examined him properly, the outcome would likely have been far different.
Now, most of you who know me know that I’m more of a dog person. But even so, I’m very fond of Lola, our aloof bete noir, and I’d be very distraught if something were to happen to her. Well, Craig is a total cat person, and he’s very, very upset, and pretty angry, too.
The point of the story is that the extensive treatment ran up some bills–over $6,000–and being the struggling actor, Craig and his partner could use some help. I understand it’s got far less immediate effect on you than, say, the Blogger servers that maintain your websites, but still…. I dunno, I’m kind of a bleeding heart when it comes to these things. So, basically, if you’re feeling philanthropic and wanna show some support for one of America’s pioneering queer actors, drop on over to Paypal and spread some love. FYI, Craig’s email address is chestyboi@aol.com.
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