[via the seriously entertaining Richard Metzger]
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[via twitter] |
10:52 AM
Oh, summer. Full of strawberries and handkerchiefs and ceiling fans and these:  I hate to say it, but there's something comforting about that image. Not the storm, obviously, but the graphic. For folks along the Gulf Coast, those particular shades of blue and green--garish and jarring--they're the look of summer. From now through October, they're what we see first thing in the morning and what we look at all day long. They're like the curtains at your grandmother's house: dated and kind of ugly, but pleasantly familiar. Dude. Am I getting nostalgic about hurricanes? Holy crap.
8:41 AM
Oh, green goddess in a bottle: Among the many objections I have to the entire harmonicaporn genre, please tell me: WHAT HAVE THEY DONE TO JENNIFER COOLIDGE? AND WHY? [via TheAwl, again]
2:30 PM
Okay, I find this kind of offensive: Not for any predictable reason, like, you know, talking about sex on TV or the ridiculousness of the scenario or even the fact that the attractive folks in bed are too covered up. (Though they are too covered up.) No, I'm hating on it because the ad purports to be all ludicrous and naughty, but it ends with the number for a hotline that addresses the very problem discussed in the spot. So, as bizarre as it seems, the set-up leads to a logical conclusion. It is painfully literal. If this were an ad for pizza or hot wings or the latest in an unnecessarily long line of Swiffer products, I'd be much, much happier. [via TheAwl]
1:29 PM
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: Marlon Brando You are not alone in this. I, too, have sinned. But together, we can make it through. Amen, sisters.
7:15 AM
In other news: he's not especially my type, but Zachary Quinto is kind of adorable.
7:29 AM
 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: 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.
6:17 AM
 "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
8:13 AM
1:36 PM
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.
11:40 AM
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):
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.
9:50 AM
GOLDWYN WAS GOLDEN, EVEN WHEN HE WASN'T
5:51 AM
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.
5:45 PM
There are two things on Planet Earth that make me cringe:
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.
3:13 PM
If you're in New Orleans, I can only assume that I'll be seeing you tonight:  Yep: TRANNYSHACK is back at One Eyed Jacks. Doors open at 9, the show's at 11, and the cover is a measly $8. Wave to me in the booth--I'll be down as soon as the dancing starts. And you know I will.
6:12 AM
OMG. OMG. OMG. OMG. OMG. Deborah Gibson is back. AND HER OCTOPUS IS HUGE. Holy crap, do I want to see this. Sorry, that should've been: Holy crap, do I want to see this? [via JonCarnero]
4:55 PM
THE VIEW FROM MY CAR ON 5-13-09  Driving down Elysian Fields yesterday afternoon, I saw dozens of these signs staked into the neutral ground. As far as I could tell, each was different. If you enlarge that photo, you'll see it's a poem that reads: HOOVES CLANK ON GRATING Aesthetically speaking, it's abysmal, but the would-be poet gets props for enthusiasm. Me, I kinda like living in a neighborhood where artful litter pops up on the street.
11:27 AM
Enough sadness: now, anger. State representative Jonathan Perry (R-Abbeville), is sponsoring a bill that insists children's birth certificates can only include the names of married parents or single individuals. It is targeted directly at GLBT couples, who obviously can't marry in the great state of Louisiana. Not only is the legislation mean-spirited and homophobic, but it's also an endangerment to kids. For example: if a kid and one of his GLBT moms were in an accident, the other GLBT mom would have to go through a fair chunk of legal maneuvering to ensure visitation and other rights to care for the child. And that's just one of many unpleasant scenarios. Asked about this, Perry said he really doesn't care: If you're in Louisiana, do us all a favor: visit the Forum for Equality website now, and contact your legislator before the bill (HB 60) comes up for debate tomorrow morning. I love being a New Orleanian, and I love Louisiana--mostly--but crap like this make me want to break out the flannel and head to Vermont. I just don't understand where it comes from. I can only assume that Perry needs a distraction to take his mind off the fact that his party is dead. UPDATE: For more on the perils of gay parenting (in Louisiana and elsewhere), check out "The Gay Parent Trap" in this week's Gambit Weekly, penned by the always-charming David Winkler-Schmit, who happens to be an adoptive parent himself. Good stuff. Not necessarily encouraging or uplifting or even optimistic, but good stuff.
2:41 PM
Quiet weekend ahead, I hope. Maybe a dinner with friends, a bit of rehearsal, and hopefully, the first tennis match I've played in two years. Jonno's out of town, so I'll be able to clean and make noise around the house and such. Sounds thrilling. Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks for all the kindness you've shown via email and comments and everything else. I'm not an emotional person, I try to be stoic and even-keeled because I dislike being around moody people, and I don't want to inflict that on others. (And yet, I dabble in theatre. You know, with actors and all. Go figure.) However, Gaston's death affected me more than I thought it would. The love has been much appreciated. To anyone who's written an email, I'm sorry I haven't responded. Soon, I promise. Well, I think I promise. Don't hold me to it. Thanks.
4:03 PM
At first, it was just his eyes I avoided. While I screened the back door on Saturday afternoon, Gaston lay inside by his water bowl, watching me. I talked to him the whole time, hoping he'd wag his tail, hoping to make him feel normal and comfortable and not so obviously old and done. I'm sure he was just looking at me because he didn't have the strength to turn his head, or maybe because he'd spent the last 14 years looking at me and didn't know what else to do, but being the kind of guy I am, I read something into it. I convinced myself that Gaston was trying to say goodbye. In hindsight, it's stupid, but at the time, it was devastating. I couldn't make eye contact after that. By Monday morning, I couldn't look at Gaston at all. His bony frame, his thick coat, in full shed thanks to the warm weather--just catching a glimpse of his frail body was enough to rip me apart. When we went to the vet that afternoon to have him put down, I couldn't carry him. I wouldn't have been able to walk. So Jonno held him right to the end, when they took him away. I managed to keep my hand on Gaston's head during the procedure, though I didn't actually watch. It was the best I could do. Sometimes, Jonno's willingness to be emotional has made me uncomfortable and angry. He's a demonstrative kind of guy, and when you're a demonstrative kind of guy (or girl), things don't always come out in the right way, or at the right time or place--say, in a crowded restaurant, or an elevator. But on Monday, he was the champ. * * * * * It's funny how the death of others can become a selfish thing. Yes, you're glad they're no longer suffering, and yes, you're sad to lose a loved one. But you're also relieved--relieved by the closure, relieved that you can finally stop worrying and get on with your life. You also start thinking, "How many more times do I have to go through this?" and "Is it even worth it?" and possibly, "Enough of this, I'm going it alone." * * * * * For those who knew Gaston, you probably have an image of him in your head. Chances are good that he's smiling and romping in it; he was one of the best-natured, friendliest dogs I've ever known. For those who never had the pleasure, here are a few pics.
I think that's all I'll say about it for now. Or at least for a while. I'm very thankful for the kind emails and comments, but that's not really what I'm after. I just needed to get this down while I'm feeling it so strongly. I miss him.
4:49 AM
Gaston stopped eating on Friday. That in itself isn't unusual. For the past few months--maybe a year--he's chosen to skip meals now and then. His teeth are bad, and even with soft food, eating isn't easy, so I guess sometimes he'd rather go hungry than deal with the discomfort of dinner. But this is different. He's never gone this long before. Jonno and I puts plates of food up to his mouth, and he just turns his head. He's listless and skeletal. Even if he wanted to eat, I'm not sure he'd have the strength. Gaston has lived a full life. I mean, he's 15. He's survived three moves, a cantankerous cat, three other dogs, countless escapes from our backyard, road trips, and hurricane evacuations, including a six-week stay in Lafayette after Katrina. And that's to say nothing of the long, hot New Orleans summers he's endured--no small feat in that thick, Corgi-like coat. But of course, that's not much comfort to me or to Jonno. Making it harder is the fact that he's just barely hanging on. Seeing Gaston there on the floor, unable to move but still conscious, still able to look up at me with those big, brown eyes.... Well, I've always been a sucker for big brown eyes. I've known this was coming for a while, but I'd hoped it might be quicker. I walk into the kitchen to check on him every ten minutes or so, and if it looks like he's not breathing, my heart sinks, stops. Gaston doesn't seem to be in pain, but I know he's not comfortable. I've called the vet and asked him to come by tomorrow. Maybe he'll be able to help.
7:56 PM
There's a movie in the works called Drag Me to Hell. This begs three questions:
8:27 AM
I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHO THIS CRAZY BITCH IS  Somewhere, Gravity is huddled in a corner, rocking back and forth and sobbing, "This was NOT in my job description, Newton, you bastard! And I don't even get full dental! I QUIT." [GFY]
7:25 AM
6:32 AM
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