Archive for October, 2004

Halloween as a way of life

New Orleans in November

Given today’s date and the impending arrival of thousands upon thousands of my queer brethren and, uh, sisteren for the annual Halloween in New Orleans party, it’d seem an appropriate time to chat about GLBT events and what a boon they are for the city, despite some of their more irritating side-effects. But then, I’ve already voiced my opinions on that.

No, the real story today is not the plucked and preened, drug-addled queer masses bumping and grinding to phat bass beats all weekend long: it’s the plucked and preened predominantly straight masses who’ll be here in two weeks, bumping and grinding and showing off their (often fat) asses. I’m talking, of course, about the impending New Orleans in November lifestyle convention.

Honestly, I’d never heard of a “lifestyle convention” before this item crossed my desk yesterday, but apparently, they’re quite popular affairs (pun intended). Based on my fairly limited experience with erotic festivals and sex clubs, I imagine it’ll be a predominantly hetero event (except for some girl-on-girl stuff), with lots of crayon-colored “fun” wigs and ill-fitting PVC outfits and the occasional flogging demonstration.

But I’m not so concerned about all that. Synthetic hairpieces and dubious sartorial statements aside, what I’m really wondering is,”Why the hell isn’t the Right Reverend Grant freaking Storms protesting this event, too?” Is it because it’s “straight”? Or perhaps because the participants generally come from his socio-economic strata? (Let’s face it: Bill Gates and the Sultan of Brunei don’t come to conventions like this.) Sure, the event’s a couple of weeks off, and Storms may yet come through, but I’m kinda dubious. If any of you are planning to go, by all means keep an eye (and a nipple or two) out for him.

Metroblog’s Political Picks

let's get political...political...I wanna get political...

Being raised in a fairly traditional Southern family full of former debs and closet alcoholics, my mother always tried to instill me with traditional social graces. Unfortunately, I never paid much attention to her, with the result that I was spotted walking and smoking (a major taboo) before I’d even hit the junior prom.

Ergo, she’d probably evince very little surprise in my choice of subject matter today. One of her biggest peeves, you see, was discussing politics in polite conversation, so I figured I ought to broach the topic.

Every other media outlet (if we of the Metroblog set can aspire to such lofty terms) seems to be publishing a list of their choices for the upcoming election. Being the responsible, politically conscious lot that we are, I think it only right and fair that we get to post our own slate of picks. I’ll start us off.

For 1st district state representative, most folks are betting on Bobby Jindal. I’m sure he’s a nice guy and all–once you get past the horrific right-wing, born-again blather–but I’d prefer to see someone in that seat who can really make a difference. Someone who can provide support for all the citizens of the district, not just the nouveau-riche jerks in Old Metairie and Mandeville. Someone whose penis is so small, he’ll be inclined to exert himself twice as hard on Capitol Hill just to prove his manliness. There’s only one man who can accomplish all that, folks: Al Copeland. Write him in, would you?

As for the senate seat left open by John Breaux, I’m kinda at a loss. Sure, David Vitter has some experience, and gosh darnit, he’s squeaky clean and very cute, but I don’t think he represents Louisiana as a whole. I’d prefer someone a little…different. Someone who stands out. Someone who isn’t afraid to say–or even sing–exactly what he means. Someone of color would be nice, too. You know who I’m talking about, folks: my vote goes to…that crazy black man on the corner of Canal and Decatur who wears the umbrella hat and a Walkman chock-full of Mahalia Jackson’s gospel favorites that he sings all day long. Now that’s a recipe for some national attention.

And last, we come to the presidential race. Frankly, I’m not happy with either of the current front-runners. GW is obviously a hideous monkeybeast who’s got his own “endowment” issues to work through. Kerry’s got the right idea, and his wife could balance the deficit with the change at the bottom of her Birkin bag, but I’m wary of his alliance with the manufacturers of Botox–in no time, I’m sure he’d be a mouthpiece for the plastic surgery lobby. No, ladies and gentlemen, my vote would have to go to the team of Bert and Ernie. They could serve as co-Leaders-of-the-Free-World and oil-wrestle every morning to determine who gets to play president that day. They’re certainly likeable–just imagine Sharon and Arafat sitting down with the two of them, discussing world peace and the Gaza Strip and the all-important “silent g.” We’d have this whole Mid-East problem wrapped up in a tidy hour and a half. Besides, if we’re going to have puppets in office, we might as well be honest about it.

Your turn.

Dirty laundry

Maybe I’ve consumed too much caffeine. Maybe I’ve got a case of pre-winter schadenfreude. Maybe my multiple personality disorder has suddenly kicked into high gear. Whatever the reason, the fact remains: I’m in the mood for idle gossip.

So who’s got dirt on our city celebs–elected or otherwise? Who knows Jackie Clarkson’s dress size? Whatever happened to her brother, Berenger, after the allegations of sexual harrassment faded? Does Marc Morial really play both sides of the fence? Surely a couple of y’all must’ve gotten drunk at a party and witnessed something shockingly newsworthy.

Spill the beans, kids. As far as I can tell, we’re being entirely too nice around here.

The Bank – Restaurant in the Marigny

Ok, I haven’t actually eaten there yet… I was walking around the neighborhood this past Sunday night after eating at Wasabi and I was surprised to see the most refreshing atmosphere for a restaurant in a long time. Apparently it used to be an old bank building with high vaulted ceilings, painted white with lighting that made it seem like you were in the middle of a museum. My words don’t do it justice. The menu looks fantastic, the waitresses were friendly, and it didn’t look too pricey. Now would be the time to say you were there first…Sunday was their first night. It’s down the street from Wasabi off of Frenchman at Touro and Burgundy. Check it out. I’d love to hear about anyones experience who ate there.

Burlesque is back!

The Southern Jezebelles in AROUND THE WORLD...OR BUST

I get strange looks all the time. My boyfriend looks at me like I’ve got three heads when I roll out of bed of my own free will at 5:00 every morning. My co-workers look at me like I’m speaking Tagalog when I try to explain the basic principles of HTML. And tourists look at me like I’m the seventh Spice Girl of the Apocalypse when I’m staggering down the dimly lit sidewalks of the French Quarter, drunk and screaming like a big ol’ sissy.

By far, though, the funniest looks I get come from my homo friends when I tell them how much I love burlesque shows. To them, watching girls take off their clothes seems about as much fun as watching a flogging demonstration at a fetish party: maybe interesting for the first five minutes, but after that, the magic’s gone.

What can I say, though? I enjoy ’em. Not the low-rent, b-level, pole-dancing kind that you find at most of the skeezy places on Bourbon, but the real burlesque shows–the ones with girls who can actually dance, with a live jazz band and a few novelty acts thrown in for good measure. They walk a fine line between naughty and lewd–and unfortunately, they’re also hard to find.

Luckily, my favorite burlesque show recently re-launched. The Southern Jezebelles just opened their new show, AROUND THE WORLD…OR BUST, at One Eyed Jacks (formerly the Shim Sham). Look for me on Sunday nights–I’ll be the sloppy queen in the back row, screaming for more.

And yeah, I know Metblogs isn’t really intended as a what’s-happening-around-town kinda blog, but since everyone else seems a little busy right now, I figure I can sneak this one in and nobody’ll mind. Mea culpa.

Just trying to make ’em feel at home…

perhaps they're your sentiments, too

It’s that time of year, kids. You know what I mean: the temperature’s dropping, the leaves in other parts of the country are changing colors, and untold numbers of the oh-so-Aryan, socks-and-Birkenstocks set are heading our way, intent on clogging our picturesque strassen and forcing our waiters to ask day after day, “Could you repeat that, mein herr?” On their heels will come an onslaught of distinctly American–though just as impossible to understand–Billy Bobs and Jolenes throwing what they call “tailgate parties,” but which have always looked a little too Tobacco Road to qualify as celebrations in my book. And let’s not forget the hordes of teens and immediately-post-teens slouching toward the Cat’s Meow and Pat O’s and all drinks fruity.

Having endured these folks and their foolish ways–Hello? It’s called a street, people! Do you have those in Ohio yet? If you wanna stroll, try that thing we call the banquette. And that over there is a trash can. I’m almost positive you use ’em back home, or in other places you vacation, so why not give ours a whirl?–for many a year, I’ve begun to feel the need to express my exasperation. So I made a bumper sticker.

I freely admit it’s not terribly original. I’ve seen similar ones quite often, but the stores always seem to be out of stock when I go shopping for ’em, so I made my own.

And in the interest of being ethical (take a picture of that, kid–it’ll last longer), I should point out that I didn’t mark up the price on these or anything. They’re yours at cost. You can thank me later.

Get your improv, while it’s hot!

Just giving a heads up to all you improv fans out there: the Southern Improv Festival is right on top of you. The madness begins tomorrow at 7:00 in the PM, at the Jewel Theater & Gallery (2134 Magazine, 3rd floor). It runs to the 17th, and there’ll be 16 groups from around the country putting their lives and reputations on the line.

Of particular interest to all of us, though, is Bare, performing this Friday at 7:00, a member of which is Fuzzy Gerdes from the Chicago Metblog! Be sure to give our blogging brother some love.

All the news that’s not.

the gothmagnet herself

Ms. Rice, the best-selling author of 25 books, including the lush and original Interview With the Vampire, has a passionate following and an unusually intimate relationship with her audience. She reacted to the criticism [of Blood Canticle] with shock and horror….

The New York Times

Maybe it came as a shock to Ms. Rice, but I think the rest of us already knew that Anne’s writing has devolved into derivative, formulaic, lowest-common-denominator crap. Running a lead item on it in The New York Times is as redundant as outing Nathan freaking Lane or saying that Mary Tyler Moore has had “a little work done.”

Now, don’t get me wrong: I think Anne’s a great lady. She’s a right-on sister, a supporter of the First Amendment, a friend of the homos, a generous philanthropist, a relentless preservationist and an outspoken critic of the Man With Barbie-Doll Hair Plugs Otherwise Known as Al Copeland. But c’mon, Anne, you’re a hack: accept it and revel in it! Rejoice in the fact that you can make more moolah in two months of sitting at your computer than many people amass in decades of manual labor! Thrill to the long lines that await you at every single book-signing and the GloomBetty stalkers lurking outside each of your beautiful homes! Hold your head high and take comfort in the fact that you know exactly what sells and can reproduce it ad infinitum! These are rare gifts that few others possess–I mean, just look at poor Norman Mailer.

Yo, bottom line: your science is tight, baby! Your writing itself may not be art, but when it comes to technique, you got mad skillz.

Frankenstein: No clich

Last night, USA Network premiered Frankenstein. It’s Mary Shelley’s story, adapted to and set in 21st century New Orleans. The movie tells a story of gothic decadence, and depicts New Orleans as gothic and decadent, without any of the usual New Orleans clich

City Park

Da Paper had a great front page feature on the lack of public financing of City Park. If you happened to skip over it, read it, because I thought the Times Picayune rather forcefully layed out the case for desperately needed public financing.

A few weeks back, my wife and infant daughter went to the New Orleans Museum of Art and strolled around the adjacent Sculpture Garden. It’s magnificent. I know there is no shortage of things to do in this town during the next eight months (or ever, really) but if you’ve yet to enjoy the sculptures, make a point of doing so. It truly is a “world class”, first rate collection. You don’t even have to be an art freak to enjoy it, either. It’s good for both an intoxicating 20 minute walk or an entire afternoon. New Orleans owes a huge debt of gratitude to Sydney and Walda Besthoff for this priceless gift. After seeing it, I believe it is one of the top experiences this culture-rich city can offer.

It’s free. Go!

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