On that note, why hasn’t anyone ever done a good cover of Calling Occupants Of Interplanetary Craft (The Recognized Anthem Of World Contact Day)? Between you and me, that’s their unacknowledged master work.
And as for that movie, I think I know someone with a copy.
So…there’s this “crackhouse law” that’s used to punish folks who foster environments (e.g. crackhouses) condusive to drug use. Now, prosecutors in New Orleans are trying to use the law to nail the owners of the State Palace Theatre, who have promoted and hosted the city’s largest raves over the past 5 years or so. The argument goes, “the owners knew that all the little ravers would be taking drugs, so they did everything in their power to promote drug use and enhance the collective trip.”
I guess the case has some merit. I mean, it’d be different if the owners were just renting out the space to someone else, but they were active parties. They shared in promoting the event and the profits.
Still, I can’t help feeling there’s something excessive about all this hub bub–especially since these parties have been going on for so long. It’s not like the kids just suddenly discovered ecstasy or anything. Frankly, if anyone should be indicted, it should probably be Barbara Walters. You know how she’s always doing those insightful, tearful exposes? Well, that’s where America’s youth learn about illicit substances…. But then again, I’ve got a soft spot for recreational drug use.
The Times-Picayune applauds the lawsuit, but imply that the rationale of the prosecuting attorneys is seriously flawed. I agree: sue the pants off the owners–not because they promoted drug use among rebellious teenagers (which is like shooting fish in a barrel), but because they insisted on calling the damn things “raves.” I mean, maybe in 1987, but jeez, Louise…
Okay, so I’m swamped. Totally and completely swamped. But I’m getting good press….
If I can make it through this weekend, I should be okay.
(I say that every week.)
Just days after posting to classmates.com, I’ve already gotten emails from two of my high school friends. Funny, I kinda registered with the site out of boredom–nothing better to do on a Saturday morning than peck away at my keyboard, I figured. And there weren’t that many folks listed from my graduating class anyway. Bottom line: I didn’t really expect anything to come from signing up.
Now, don’t get me wrong. It’s not as if I’m overwhelmed by the surprising (albeit meager) response to my post, or suddenly racing out the door to rent Pretty in Pink (although I’ve been meaning to pick up a copy of the kick-ass soundtrack for some time now). It’s just..I dunno, hearing from people I used to know reminds me that my adolescence actually happened.
Best/oddest of all, neither of the folks who wrote to me have been able to deduce the identity of the lesbian who made my life unnecessarily hellish for several very long years. I guess I was right: no one figured her out.
Wheeeeee! This application from Stor Entertainment’s kinda fun–and useful, too (especially when you’re trying to plan that perfect Fat Tuesday look):
|
me |
mardi gras me |
|
jonno |
mardi gras jonno |
(Yeah, yeah, I know–the outfits are a little more “Southern Decadence” than “Mardi Gras.” Sue me.)
Thanks for the link, Keith!
Four Manifestations of Pussy Terwilliger
as Conceived by Ming Cho Lee
A Day Without Whining Is Like a Drag Queen
Without Coty Airspun Powder
(a play in one teeny-tiny act)
When the house lights fade, the stage goes completely black. After a moment, we hear some rustling onstage, then a loud thunk, as though someone might have just rammed her thigh into the jagged corner of the kitchen table for the third time this week. There is a loud but understated “Shit!”
As the stage lights slowly rise, Pussy Terwilliger enters from a small door upstage right. We’re in her apartment: stacks of books–secondhand, but unread–litter every flat surface of the room. A computer workstation is located downstage left, its 19″ computer monitor completely covered in sticky notes. There are an unusually large number of orchids in the room, most of which cling precariously to life; one gets the sense that if Pussy were to remove even half a layer of dust from their glossy leaves, they’d all be doing remarkably better. Unfortunately for the orchids–and for Pussy–she’s not gonna clean dipsquat.
Pussy walks over to the workstation, lights a cigarette, flicks the mouse to turn off the screensaver, and rips down as many Post-Its as she can in one fell swoop, revealing a close-up screen image of a very large, very uncircumcised penis. She recoils slightly; it’s a bit early for all that.
The phone rings. She wanders over to it, hesitates, then answers.
Pussy: Hello? Why yes–yes I am looking to change my long distance carrier! You must be psychic! I simply must invite you to dinner one evening and have you read my tarot or runes or whatever divining tools you use. Just don’t expect much in the way of dinner–it’s as though my opposable digits fly out the window every time I enter a kitchen. I’m practically useless.
(Sips from coffee cup. Grimaces.)
Pussy: You see, my sweet, as a young girl we lived on a pig farm in Botswana. My parents were devout vegetarians, repulsive detritus from that so-called political movement of the 1970s known as “the hippies.” determined that we should appreciate all god’s creatures, they allowed my eleven siblings and me to eat nothing but the very grain which we fed our porcine charges.
(Lights a cigarette without missing a beat.)
Pussy: Luckily, Margaret Mead’s granddaughter was traipsing through our neck o’ the woods one day, making a tour of local hamlets in an effort to prove that at least some of Maggie’s theories weren’t lies. I doubt she succeeded, but that’s neither here nor there. As I was saying, she stumbled upon our lean-to just as I happened to fall in one of the many mud puddles that dotted our small parcel of land. As I stood up, I spat out several pieces of grain, which I was still chewing when I took the proverbial fall. Thinking they were teeth I expelled from my sweet, tender, pouty, prepubescent, coquettish mouth, la Mead picked me up and, without asking my parents, rushed me off to the nearest Red Cross station. There, I was given a thorough examination and heavily interrogated by several very efficient-looking women—by which I mean they had absolutely no fashion sense. After eating a batch of some dreadful “homemade” cookies—Maggie wasn’t much of a cook, you know–I was whisked away to Burkina Faso, then known as Upper Volta, where I lodged with Ms. Mead for a number of years in the quaint capital of Ouagadougou. I love that word. Say it with me.
(She waits, listening.)
Pussy: Excellent. Anyway, my dear, it seems that one particularly irritating June, I found myself selling flowers at the airport. I had just finished making a rather large sale to a honeymoon couple from Mongolia when I caught the unmistakable scent of pigs being prepared for a cargo flight to Paris. Drawing on my vast childhood experience and creative genius, I used my several saleable bouquets to disguise myself as a deliciously svelte sow and proceeded to board the plane. I arrived in Paris two weeks later, even thinner than usual, and became an instant success on the runways of several couturiers, who shall all remain nameless, of course. Finally, after years of living amongst cafe society, I escaped to the States in the dead of night to pursue my dreams of marrying a Texas oil baron, which, as is usually the case, has led me here. And that, you see, is why I cannot cook.
(Stubs out cigarette.)
Pussy: Well, dear, it’s been perfectly lovely chatting with you. I do hope you’ll call me again sometime. I’d so enjoy a companion on my shopping excursions. Ta-ta!
(Slams phone onto receiver. Pauses half a beat.)
Pussy: Not bad for 9am on a Saturday.
Blackout.
Ok, I lied. I’m gonna keep the wishlist thing going. At least for a little while longer.
It just too damn sweet to delete yet–all these folks who signed up to spread comfort and holiday joy, secretly hoping to strike it rich and get paired with Bill freakin’ Gates and score the most extravagant thing on their list…. Ah, the holidays bring out the best in people.
Lemme know if you wanna be added to the lineup.
Ugh. I’m exhausted. I’ve spent the last three and a half days shuttling from one performance to the next. The way the conference is structured, groups from around the country are presented in a “showcase” format: you go to the Joyce Theatre, for example, sit your happy ass down, and watch as dance companies get 20 minutes to show off their best work. Like it? Book ’em. Hate it? Only 19 minutes ’till the next act. Kinda fun, no?
Accordingly, I’ve seen some really amazing work, and some that really sucked (which I won’t link because I’m sure they’re all very nice people). Best of all, one of my favorites is coming to New Orleans this spring.
Q. What’s worse than a queen doing a Judy Garland impersonation?
A: A queen doing a Bette Davis impersonation.
Q: And what’s worse than a queen doing a Bette Davis impersonation?
A: A queen gushing about modern dance. Puh-leeze, Mary….
Oh, Jonno says “hi.” He’s too exhausted to write at the moment. Later, perhaps, when we get back to the Big Easy.
Well, despite the weather, last night was very pleasant, indeed. It was good to see everyone who dropped by, and I hope we’re able to cross paths with the rest of you before we leave.
Today, my conference starts in earnest. It’s a performing arts kinda thing–which is nice, ’cause you get to meet artists and presenters from all around the country. Unfortunately, you also have to meet their agents. Yeah, I know they’re a necessary part of the buisiness, making it easier for producers to find talent in a one-stop-shopping kinda way, but do they have to be so slimy? I’ve yet to meet one who wouldn’t sell his grandmother into slavery if it meant that one of his artists could land a starring role in a Chia Pet commercial.
That brings me to this week’s Like/Loathe List:
Like
Loathe
sturtle [dot] com 