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When did this turn into va–fucking–cation week?

I haven’t been out of town in over a year. And I don’t mean, like, I haven’t been on a real vacation in over a year. No. I mean that for the past 12 months, I have been held prisoner within the city limits of New Orleans, the Big Easy, Sweet Lady Gumbo, Old…Swampy. Except for the occasional Wal-Mart spree in the suburbs, I’ve not strayed more than five miles from my own home. And I’m not even under house arrest or anything. And I can’t feasibly go anywhere interesting for many more months.

<tantrum> Wah, wah, wah. Blech. Phooey. </tantrum>

Although I detest the thought of moving, even that’s starting to look appealing.

Calgon, take me away.

How’s about helping a guy out? I want a little break from humdrum reality. I’m not asking for a free trip to the Ural Mountains or anything. Tell me a story, share some exceptionally good porn, whatever. Entertain me.

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Fine, just fine! In retaliation, I hereby vow before goddess and everyone never to buy another any more a Metallica CD.

Of course, it’s only a District Court, and even if the Supreme Court concurs, the ruling can’t be completely effective (can it?). I mean, the Internet’s “about” a lot of things–ease of communication, speedy data transfer, and porn come first to mind–but all of it seems dependent in part on the “public domain” nature of previously restricted property. You know, porn sites don’t call up sweet little Talvin Demachio and ask if they can use his picture, nor do they call the porn studios who own the copyright. I promise.

And besides, can you imagine the nightmare that this sort of standard, taken at face-value, would impose on web hosters, ISPs, and the like, ensuring that not a single one of their users transmits any sort of data branded explicitly or implicitly with a copyright? Maybe technology can be altered to adapt to such restrictions (I dunno, I’m no propellerhead), but if they put me in charge, I’d start with a massive overhaul of copyright law.

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New Yorkers beware: Jonno is sporting one of his patented facial masques. I’m not exactly sure what that portends, but it can’t be good.

I just thought you should know what you’re getting yourselves into.

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Like I said, Angels in America is a beautiful play: smart, poetic, real, magical, sexy. And it’s a great work to put on a syllabus, because no matter what your students wanna discuss, it’s in there.

I keep coming back to it year after year because it unsettles and saddens me. So much of the play is about love and transformation and life-changes and things falling apart: relationships crack, lovers outgrow one another, sometimes die. And it’s not just the Hedda Gabler/Titanic kind of splitting where one of the pair is clearly the martyr, the other a vandal. Kushner’s smarter than that; every character is likeable in his own way. Even Roy Cohn has a certain charm–although in real life he was the apparent reincarnation of Vlad the Impaler. What I mean to say is that there are no obvious solutions here. If these characters were placed on a deserted island by a major television network, viewers would have a hard time picking which one to boot off first.

If you’ve ever had someone suddenly taken away from you, the play’s narratives of love and tragic loss are particularly poignant. You remember that feeling you once had, that promise you made to yourself about never taking people for granted, and you’re slightly ashamed that you forgot it so quickly.

When you say goodbye to someone, even if you’re just going to bed in the next room, say it like you might never have the chance to say it again.

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Okay guys, today I’m trying to polish off an article on the sex life of homos in the provinces. Given my personal peccadilloes, it should come as no surprise that I’ve chosen to focus on the various elements of cruising in the sticks: how to get laid in Redneckistan. I’ve already got a list of pointers worked up (e.g. develop a taste for Coors Lite and don’t be shocked that the local DJ hasn’t got Kevin Aviance’s latest white-label single handy), but I’m wondering if you boys and girls might have anything to add.

Those of you who live outside the metropolis, how is homo culture different in your neck of the woods? What do you find appealing in strangers? Repulsive?

And you city-dwellers who occasionally visit the country, what things do you notice when you go there? What do you find most unusual? Most exotic? Most appealing?

The article’s framed as sort of a Cosmo guide to sex among the haystacks, but I think there are some interesting issues at work here that might make for good reading (if I can manage some good writing to convey it all). So what are you waiting for?

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It is a rule of etiquette in the South to refer to certain persons as “Mister/Miss + His/Her First Name.” For example, if I were addressing Leah Chase, famed proprietor of Dooky Chase Restaurant, I might call her “Miss Leah.” It’s a practice more commonly used for women, though I couldn’t say why.

I think it’s great to use a semi-formal term of address like that. It’s a simple, genteel way of showing respect to someone while maintaining the intimacy associated with first-name-basis relationships. Of course, maybe my affinity for the formality has something to do with my upbringing: as a child, if I didn’t respond to an adult with “m’am” or “sir” my daddy would have knocked me into the middle of next week. (In fact, he probably still would.) And if I’d even thought of calling an adult by first name, there’s no telling what would have happened.

Only thing is, this form of address is typically reserved for use with people of color to whom one is obligated to show respect because of their age. The implication is that “Miss Chase” would be too formal, too respectful to be used with a person of color. So by saying “Miss Leah” (and she is, fyi, a woman of color–Creole, to be specific), the subtext goes something like, “I could call you Miss Chase, but since you’re a person of color, I’m not gonna go quite that far. I’ll show you some respect, but not as much as I would a white woman of your same age.”

Of course, that’s pretty fucking lousy. What do you do with a custom that’s so charming and despicable?