Fellow Gays:

Please stop. In the name of all that is good and holy and Judy Garland, I beseech you. Please.

Please stop wearing cargo shorts.

I know that there’s a lot going on today. I know that there’s a ruling on Prop 8 due in California, I know that Hillary Clinton is pushing to acquire benefits for same-sex partners of diplomats, I know there’s a big move to repeal Don’t Ask/Don’t Tell, I know there’s a lot of really important stuff on the burner. However, this is also big.

Let me repeat: please stop wearing cargo shorts.

You want to wear shorts? Fine. You want to wear cargo pants? Fine. Well, possibly fine. But miscegenation of the two sartorial strains has resulted in a godless hybrid that makes any wearer look like an eight-year-old in hand-me-downs. And I understand that many of you would like to look eight years old again, but this is not the way to do it. No, this is classic Peter Pan Syndrome.

But that is not all. Please note this:

Do you see who that is? Can you make it out? It’s David Beckham. Normally smokin’ hot David Beckham. But look closely. Is he hot here? From the waist down? No. In fact, he looks like a douchebag–a douchebag who’s suffering from that Lily Tomlin/shrinking woman syndrome. Under normal circumstances, normally smokin’ hot David Beckham should not look like a douchebag. And yet, here we are.

So please: do yourself a favor. Do our great big sparkly unicorn rainbow community a favor. Put down the cargo shorts. Put them down into a very big Hefty bag and high-tail it to Goodwill.

If none of that has persuaded you, here is a list of ten people who never, ever wore cargo shorts:

1. Marlon Brando
2. Jimmy Carter
3. Jean Cocteau
4. John Hodgman
5. Gene Kelly
6. Karl Lagerfeld
7. Colin Powell
8. Vincent Price
9. Frank Rich
10. David Sedaris

You are not alone in this. I, too, have sinned. But together, we can make it through. Amen, sisters.

In other news: he’s not especially my type, but Zachary Quinto is kind of adorable.

I’ve said so much about the Times-Picayune over the years that I doubt I can add anything more to the discussion. Let’s just say, what was once a moderately interesting newspaper that seemed to me a tad exotic–mostly because of my Aunt Doris, colloquially known as “Aunt Tiny”, who preferred the Picayune to that dull sack of twigs and ink known as the Clarion-Ledger–has now become shadow of its former self, in line for serious changes or brutal death.

The biggest problem: the company’s online strategy (i.e. outsourcing to the craptacular C-list template factory Advance Internet). That may have been convenient ten years ago, but it’s seriously dated now; the folks at 3800 Howard Avenue need to ditch AI and hire an 8th grader–any 8th grader will do–to install WordPress and give the Picayune a nifty, pretty web presence, ideally one with an archive of permalinks. Otherwise, the citizens of Greater New Orleans are going to be left with a museum piece of a daily whose only readable sections are its two society pages. (NB: I love the society pages. Awesomeness abounds.)

That said, the Picayune has cranked out some great stories in recent weeks. I was just catching up on my RSS feeds (which I’m always surprised to see up and running at NOLA.com), and stumbled across these sweet headlines:

Little-known legislator pulled ‘rookie-doo’ on state House

Man with knife threatens to eat girlfriend and her grandchildren, police say

House defeats equal pay for women bill

Such hilarity. Daily, even.

Just for the record, I sincerely hope that the Picayune survives. Even though the stories from the inside sound awfully grim–it’s like Survivor in there, complete with mutiny, cannibalism, and poisoning the water cooler–I’d like to see the paper hang around in some form. Otherwise, we’re stuck with getting info from the alleged “evening news” and Norman freakin’ Robinson. May the great green goddess have mercy on our soulless souls.

“In 1966 and again in 1968 a man heads to the roof of a YMCA to model dozens of pairs of women’s bikini bottoms. Then in 1969 and 1972 he heads to the beach to model some more.” — The Man on the Roof

“Faggot!”

He despised the officer. He kept on smiling, allowing himself to be lulled by the monstrous and ill-defined notion of “faggot” sweeping back and forth inside his head.

“Faggot, what’s a faggot? One who lets other guys screw him in the ass?” he thought. And gradually, while his smile faded, lines of disdain appeared at the corners of his mouth. Then again, another phrase drifted through his mind, inducing a vague feeling of torpor: “Me, I’m one too.” A thought he had difficulty focusing on, though he did not find it repulsive, but of whose sadness he was aware when he realized that he was pulling his buttocks in so tight (or so it seemed to him) that they no longer touched the seat of his trousers. And this fleeting, yet quite depressing thought generated, up his spine, an immediate and rapid series of vibrations which quickly spread out over the entire surface of his black shoulders and covered them with a shawl woven out of shivers. Querelle raised his arm, to smooth back his hair. The gesture was so beautiful, unveiling, as it did, the armpit as pale and taut as a trout’s belly, that the Lieutenant could not prevent his eyes from betraying how very weary he was of this state of unrequited passion. His eyes cried for mercy. Their expression made him look more humble, even, than if he had fallen on his knees. Querelle felt very strong. If he despised the Lieutenant, he felt no impulse to laugh at him, as on other days. It seemed unnecessary to him to exert his charm, as he had an inkling that his true power was of another kind. It rose from the depths of hell, yet from a certain region in hell where the bodies and the faces are beautiful. Querelle felt the coal dust on his body, as women feel, on their arms and hip, the folds of a material that transforms them into queens. It was a make-up that did not interfere with his nakedness, that turned him into a god.

–from Jean Genet’s Querelle de Brest (Amazon link here)

No one has ever accused me of being quiet. However, I’ll admit that I haven’t been as chatty as usual. In case you’re wondering why, please note:

Yes, we are going head-to-head with Miss Susann. (Har: I said “head”. TWICE!)

Now, you might think that a mostly gay group of theatre peeps performing one of Camp’s Holy Trinity (cf. The Women, Baby Jane) for a mostly gay audience would be like shooting mostly gay fish in a barrel. And it is kind of that–but sooooo much more.

In sum: yay. In fact: HOLY CRAP YAY.

David Vitter Found Living Under Rock With Nothing To Do

I love getting emails from Senator David Vitter. Really. They’re the highlight of my morning. Because nothing says “I am not a whoremonger” better than a short list of “news items” wherein (a) Vitter takes credit for other people’s work or (b) Vitter takes credit for his own work, which is usually mostly 99% not a great a idea.

Today’s pick of the litter (which I would happily link to, but Vitter’s technology director hasn’t unraveled the process of archiving, so you’ll just have to trust me):

Earlier this month I introduced a joint resolution that would allow Congress to protect the flag of the United States by preventing its desecration. The bill would give Congress the power to overrule a 1989 Supreme Court decision that declared previous flag protection laws unconstitutional.

This year marks the 20th anniversary of that 5-4 Supreme Court vote to declare the desecration of our flag to be constitutional, yet millions of Americans and all 50 state legislatures have endorsed prohibiting flag desecration. This resolution will illustrate Congress’s support for protecting this symbol of our freedom.

Which is just great, because those kinds of things always pass. They’re not time-wasters like silly legislation about the economy, or healthcare, or crime, or education. That’s our man.

GOLDWYN WAS GOLDEN, EVEN WHEN HE WASN’T

Sexual liberation in the sixties turned the motion picture screen into an orgiastic playground, and most of Hollywood’s latest product turned Goldwyn off. His private screening of Blow-Up in 1966 was going just fine until the scene in which David Hemmings cavorts with a couple of young girls. “Oh God,” Goldwyn cried out, calling a stop to the screening; “this is a goddamned dirty picture!” Not long after that, Goldwyn complained to Billy Wilder that he had seen an even more disgusting disply [sic]–Hello, Dolly! Wilder was puzzled–not only because he could not imagine anything scurrilous in that harmless musical but also because Darryl Zanuck had not released it yet. Goldwyn insisted he knew what he saw, and it was one of the filthiest pictures he had ever seen. Wilder asked him to recite the plot. “Sam,” he interrupted upon hearing about the drug-taking and sex lives of three aspiring actresses, “I think you’re referring to Valley of the Dolls.” “That’s just what I said,” Goldwyn insisted. “Valley of the Hello Dollies.”

[Goldwyn: A Biography via Self-Styled Siren via the incomparable Jon Newlin]

Etherpeople: are you reading The Awl, and if so, could you read it aloud to me, since my computer is now covered in Diet Coke* and not working so well? Thanks.

* The Diet Coke disaster of aught-nine was brought on by reading this summary of Angels and Demons while swilling same. Not recommended.

There are two things on Planet Earth that make me cringe:

1. Anyone strumming an acoustic guitar beside a campfire.

2. Adults exploiting teen trends in an effort to look cool.

I’m lucky on that first one. Since I lost interest in the Boy Scouts, campfires have been mostly absent from my life. Not that I mind open fires, mind you; I just don’t appreciate the insects and people that are drawn to their flames.

I see the second almost every day: McDonald’s using Twitter. Cocoa Puffs on Facebook. Hip-hoperas. My feelings are pretty much summed up in that episode of The Simpsons, when the Itchy and Scratchy producers decide to add Poochie, the rapping dog, to the cast. Poor Poochie.

Given that, it might seem like you’d know where I’d stand on a videogame that’s based on Dante’s Inferno. However, I’m not sure you’d be right:

Yeah, I’d totally hit that.