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I thought we might go out on the town for a bit of carousing this steamy evening, but my ever-sensible domestic partner brought it to my attention that we’ll be seeing a lot of moonlight the next several days and should probably charge our batteries tonight. Unfortunately, he chose to remind me of this after I got all hopped up on two gallons of caffeine. To calm myself down, I traipsed around the corner for a cocktail to go. Unfortunately, I’ve drunk 2601 completely out of Pernod, so I had to settle for Herbsaint, which is close, but not the same.

Coming home, I was reminded of a phrase often repeated by a New Orleans performer qui s’appelle Becky Allen, which goes something like “New Orleans is the uterus of the world: we can grow anything.” And as I walked up the stoop to see a fistful of slugs slowly dragging their slimy, glabrous bodies over the cat food we leave out for the half-dozen strays we’ve adopted over the past several months, I thought, “Maybe Becky’s onto something.” Multi-cellular organisms are just plain weird. (Yeah, us, too.)

Okay, goddess: enough with the waterworks. Just ’cause we went a couple of months without it doesn’t mean we wanna make up for it all at once….

Zoinks! Two of my all-time faves–on the same couch!

Warning: the following post is even more tedious and self-indulgent than usual. Proceed at your own risk.

Since everyone else is weighing in on the Boy Scouts thing today, I could reasonably let it drop and move on. But there are a couple of things about it that interest me. Notably, it bears a striking resemblance to an incident that took place here in New Orleans back in the early 90s in which Mardi Gras krewes (basically social clubs that get together every year during Carnival to host a ball and run a parade) were ordered by the City Council to integrate.

Now, krewes are fundamental to the social hierarchy in New Orleans. If you grow up here, your identity and your social milieu are somewhat determined by the krewe to which your family belongs. If you’re part of an old-skool krewe like Rex or Comus, you’ve got it made. If, on the other hand, you belong to one of the newer, pretender-to-the-throne sort of krewes (e.g. Tucks, Thoth), you’re gonna have to work a lot harder at it. So it’s not surprising that the krewes were reluctant to adhere to the City Council’s edict (perhaps the most understated thing I’ve ever written). In fact, many krewes went on hiatus in protest, bringing to an end parades that had been running for nearly 200 years. They thought, like the Boy Scouts, that krewes are social organizations and that they can associate with whomever they want.

Although not technically business, I’m assuming that the City Council based their decision in part on the precent set by the Civil Rights Act of 1964:

SEC. 2000e-2. [Section 703]

(a) It shall be an unlawful employment practice for an employer –

(1) to fail or refuse to hire or to discharge any individual, or otherwise to discriminate against any individual with respect to his compensation, terms, conditions, or privileges of employment, because of such individual’s race, color, religion, sex, or national origin; or

(2) to limit, segregate, or classify his employees or applicants for employment in any way which would deprive or tend to deprive any individual of employment opportunities or otherwise adversely affect his status as an employee, because of such individual’s race, color, religion, sex, or national origin.

(b) It shall be an unlawful employment practice for an employment agency to fail or refuse to refer for employment, or otherwise to discriminate against, any individual because of his race, color, religion, sex, or national origin, or to classify or refer for employment any individual on the basis of his race, color, religion, sex, or national origin.

If that’s the case–if the City Council used the Act as its precedent–then social organizations are subject to these guidelines, right? And so for homo activists, it’s just a matter of amending the Civil Right Act to include “sexual orientation” so that homos are officially protected just like everyone else. And in fact, according to the precedent set by the Supreme Court’s ruling against Colorado’s Amendment 2, homosexuals do constitute a protected “class” of citizen, not unlike African Americans or women:

We must conclude that Amendment 2 classifies homosexuals not to further a proper legislative end but to make them unequal to everyone else. This Colorado cannot do. A State cannot so deem a class of persons a stranger to its laws. Amendment 2 violates the Equal Protection Clause, and the judgment of the Supreme Court of Colorado is affirmed.

(full text here)

So, even though homos aren’t mentioned specifically in the Civil Rights Act, the Court has essentially ruled that like Ragu, we’re in there and we’re protected. Which would mean that we should be able to belong to any social group we want, right?

Then, yo, why’d we get dissed? Are they speaking out of both sides of their mouth, or what? Or maybe the City Council’s edict is just unconstitutional.

Of course, come to think about it, the Colorado Amendment smackdown flew somewhat in the face of the Bowers v. Hardwick decision, which essentially said that homos aren’t a protected class at all–at least, not when it comes down to fudgepacking. Maybe the Court’s decided to do a bit of backpedaling on homo rights for now.

Or maybe I’m completely off-base. Just food for thought, I guess.

[Note: Regardless of the convoluted arguments expressed here, Justice Anthony Scalia is still the Antichrist.]

Well, well. It looks as if Moesha is on her way to Memphis after all.

Help! I awoke this morning to the realization that the fetish party at which Jonno and I agreed to perform is this Friday, not next Friday. And of course, being the professional procrastinators that we are, we haven’t the vaguest notion what we’re doing. I mean, yes, we know that we’re in charge of the “doghouse” room, but, well, we probably need more than just a couple of dog bowls and collars lying around, don’cha think?

The good news is that the party’s held in the glamorously run-down Audubon Hotel, which was formerly inhabited by aging junkies and prostitutes. (Actually, that’s the way it still is, more or less.) Management kicks guests out of the second and third floor rooms and turns ’em over to people like me and Jonno who have to redecorate ’em with a theme. Cool setup, no?

The bad news, of course, is that it’s a fetish party. Fetish parties may sound exciting and interesting and all, but as many of you know, in the end they rank among the dullest events you can ever attend. Why? Because after a while, as Perry Farrell once said, nothing’s shocking:

“Look, hon. Another flogging.”

“Yeah.”

“You know, Bob’s getting branded on the second floor. Wanna go watch?”

“Nah. I went with him to get his dick tattooed. I don’t like the way he moans when he’s in pain. Too fake.”

It’s a bit like preaching to the converted, you know. You think the idea is to shock partygoers with displays of wanton debauchery, but it’s pretty hard to get a rise out of anyone with more than 12 clit piercings.

So, any suggestions on how to make this doghouse/obedience theme more fun and interactive for our very jaded guests?

Okay, so I think I may have recovered from this weekend. My eyes no longer have that delightful hepatitis-yellow tinge, and my hands aren’t shaking any more than usual. In short, it’s that weird transitional time: the one between “I never, ever wanna see alcohol again” and “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, who do I have to felch around here to get an Absolut/rocks/dirty?”

On a completely different note, I now seem to have two pals in the American Southwest (Albequerque, to be exact): first Corky and now Drioux. Historically, I’ve not encountered too many people from this part of the country, but what I see, I like….

After spending 24 of the last 48 hours at Lucky Cheng’s slinging parasol-type girlie drinks to heterosexuals who still think drag is funny, and after waking up feeling vaguely like I’d been gang raped by the LA Lakers (no lube), I come to work and spend the better part of my morning debating, essentially, whether our annual membership solicitation should be on regular letterhead or special letterhead. As Sarah Michelle Gellar once said, “Jesus-effing-Christ.”

It’s funny how dawn can make almost anyplace beautiful–with the notable exception, perhaps, of Elizabeth, New Jersey (but that’s another story). I, however, prefer to rise with the dawn than to see it on my way home from working an all-night party for South Beach pseudo-circuit, pseudo-homos. Maybe it’s the Protestant-work-ethic/Sunday-school side of me, or maybe it’s that vampire thing so prevalent in New Orleans, but I have to be home before the sun comes up. Staying out all night is something I just don’t do.

I’ve made it with 15 minutes to spare.

Someone’s done an update (though, sadly, it’s left the site much smaller than before). For jaded types like myself who tend to stay in on Saturday nights (in New Orleans, Saturdays are for amateurs), you might pass a pleasant half hour looking for the half-nekkid pic of Andrew Cunanan that Mr. Hawkins has left lying around. It’s hidden in one of the old galleries listed here. His own hint: “look for some of the only imagery on this site pertaining to Versace’s clothes and Miami Beach.” Happy hunting.