This morning someone asked me if I thought this guy was for real. I can’t say for sure, but it looks a little too horrific to be faked. I mean, yeah, anybody could put together the bad pics and the Times Roman, but something about the airbrushed DJ stand just screams “Yo, I ain’t frontin’.”
Some people apparently have nothing better to do with their waking hours than drive high school boys crazy (in a bad way, that is). Is he a freak or an idiot? Probably a little bit of both, but as we say down here: it’s not the heat, it’s the stupidity.
Of course, it has been pretty hot around here lately, and that can make people do some damn strange things. In fact, that’s how one of my old theatre profs used to explain the antics of Shakespeare’s Spaniards and Italians: he argued that they’re all crazy as loons because they’ve got the Mediterranean sun beating down on their heads all day. Maybe that sounds silly if you’re from Wisconsin, but for those of you residing south of the Mason-Dixon, I think you know what he was getting at.
Three Limericks for the Lunch Hour
New Orleans? Girl, my oh my.
I love it so much I could die.
But the summer heat–oh!–
Makes my nuts hang so low
That they stick to the back of my thigh.
New Orleans has a colorful past.
The locals are genteel, not crass.
But its tropical air
Makes summer hard to bear
‘Cause there’s sweat in the crack of my ass.
New Orleans is pretty and gay
(and yes, I mean “gay” in that way).
The queens come for frolics
And leave alcoholics
Then claim that we led them astray.
Um, so, if you were in New York and you were applying for the position of magazine editor-in-chief, wouldn’t you assume that speaking reasonably fluent English would be part of the job description? Just curious…
Huzzah! Pics from the Southern Decadence festivities! (Such a speedy and efficient boyfriend have I….)
Four Haikus for the Weekend
Southern Decadence:
My mouth tastes of cigarettes and absinthe
and sweat.
Houston Queens:
Leaving something to the imagination
is sexy.
Atlanta is pretty,
but apparently the men there
don’t wear shirts.
Every year
friends come to town
wondering why they ever left this place.
Special Advertising Section
Do you remember your first game of tic-tac-toe? Or hangman? Or Candyland?
You felt a special little frisson, didn’t you? A tiny electric charge, a huge synapse that washed over your nubile, pre-teen body. Like a hip, downtown junkie, you were hooked before you knew it, and there was no turning back.
As you now know, games are more American than apple pie, more mind-boggling than Shonen Knife, more important to the fabric of our nation than the WWF or Tommy Hilfiger. They are the best and most consuming way to distract yourself from the meaninglessness of your pitiful little life until you accidentally step out in front of that cross-town bus and shuffle off the proverbial mortal coil.
Of course, some people need more distraction than others. Some people, weighed down by ruts and habits, throw themselves into games and other pastimes with a vengeance. We prey on them.
We’re Maxis.
We recently introduced our friend Richard to the wonderful world of The Sims. At first he was reticent, having recently overcome quasi-addiction to another game and completed an unusually large number of writing projects. He had hoped to revive his lagging journal and do some writing for himself, and perhaps entertain/irritate some passers-by in the process.
We caught him just in time.
The Sims, you see, is the ultimate experience for obsessive/compulsive personalities like Richard. Our insidious programmers have provided you, the gaming public, so many means of customizing the gaming environment–with houses, furniture, artwork, and hot leather daddies deployed at your discretion–folks like Richard can spend hours just futzing with the color of the carpet. Anyone who organizes their stationery collection on a regular basis is in for the ride of his life.
On behalf of everyone who worked on the creation of The Sims, we hope you’ll give The Sims a try. For breakfast, lunch, or an afternoon snack, there’s nothing like The Sims to get you through your day and render you oblivious to the dreadful state of the modern world. Stock up now–just in case a certain daddy’s-boy finds himself in the White House come fall. You’ll be glad you did…
Oh. There’s the sandman. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz….
My sleeping pattern cannot be broken. Case in point: last night we went to the Crack Whore Ball (a little Decadence warm-up party thrown by the kinky Krewe de Qui Tu Connais) and kikied and carried on ’till almost 1am and finally came home and watched a little boob-tube and I should be exhausted, but now, less than six hours later, I’m bright eyed and bushy tailed (though I’m always kinda bushy, you know). Basically, I wanna sleep, but I can’t. My father insists it’s a sign of getting older. Hmph.
In case you didn’t know, John Lennon is a trademark owned by Yoko Ono Lennon. Greedy tuneless bitch. At least she had the good taste to let the vastly underrated Zbignew Rybchinski direct a video for one of her songs. I bet someone else gave her the idea, though….
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