Poison Pen

My friend Terrance sent me this:

http://www.thrilltheworld.com/

Made me laugh on this oh so exhausting Monday morning.  Have at it, you aspiring undead flesh-eating creatures!



 

 So - who are the programming (marketing?) geniuses (sarcasm!) behind the current “Christmas in July” trend and what is it they are aiming to achieve?  I’ve noticed this nausea-inducing trend in advertising for certain cable channels, holiday season movies being shown on rotation, exhibited in commercials and in various tv shows that are featuring reruns containing a Christmas theme.

 

WHY?

 

This is the most ridiculous idea ever.  These promotional/programming people should be fired and professionally disgraced.  It’s bad enough that the Christmas onslaught has been starting up the day after Halloween in recent years but now it is being inserted in the middle of SUMMER?  What is the goal of this?  I mean, really?  Do advertisers, cable channels, programming heads really believe they are getting some sort of jump ahead on - something?  Is this trend trying to create a sort of premature longing for the holidays?

 

Even more repellent is the thought that there might actually be people out there who embrace and enjoy this “Christmas in July” trend.

 

Naturally, Oscar has some words of snarky wisdom on the matter:

 

“Ninety-nine percent of the people in the world are fools and the rest of us are in great danger of contagion.”

 Wow.  It's the end of June and SO many things have been and are happening out there these days.  On the larger scale, I'm fairly obsessed with the Nasa/Phoenix/Mars Landing project but that's about it as far as the global stuff goes.  I'm totally over the whole U.S. election thing.  Wake me when it's over.

http://www.style.com/fashionshows/collections/F2008RTW/review/AMCQUEEN

By the way, fuck spring and summer fashions, especially the shoes (it's all sandals, all the time and so UGLY most of them and stupid gaudy sundresses and summery tops and shorts and all this hot weather clothing which I totally understand for some areas in the U.S. but hey -  retail people of San Fran - NEWSFLASH: it is typically in the 50's and 60's/low 70's  (with rare exceptions) here in SF so please STOP bending over and spreading it for the moronic "seasonal requirements" of fashion).

Yeah so that was the most useless rant ever, right?

In any case,  I totally cannot wait for the autumn and winter stuff to start hitting the stores.  For realz. 

Au revoir for now!

 

http://iamneurotic.com/

People can be much weirder than I usually give them credit for - bizarre but interesting!

I love social chess and it becomes infinitely more fascinating when powered by viciousness and revenge -  or even just the elements of impassioned touché.  Part of last week found me enraptured by a drama being played out via two online venues in New York City.  

A couple of my favorite archetypes from Dangerous Liaisons made dramatic moves on a particular chessboard and the result, for me, was highly entertaining - voyeuristically speaking.  The players were Emily Gould and Joshua David Stein, both formerly of Gawker.com although JDS still does certain articles every now and again for Gawker, more specifically Top Chef recaps, the most recent recap being the figurehead in this little chess play.

The archetypes in play here are Merteuil and Cecile (or maybe Tourvel - I cannot decide which ingenue fits Emily best but Josh is definitely exhibiting a Merteuil-like archery, arrows tipped with malice.)

My use of Dangerous Liaisons characters as archetypes is genderless.  It is the methodology and the characteristics of those characters that inform, not gender, so to say Josh is the Merteuil is not to slam his sexuality.

Emily (Cecile/Tourvel) was featured here:  

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/25/magazine/25internet-t.html?_r=2&pagewanted=1&hp&oref=slogin

 - an article about 7-8 pages too long and unfortunately really dull for me to slog through.   I enjoyed Emily’s posts when she was with Gawker but this piece to me was heavy, muddy and dull.  

In the resultant comment threads on the NYT site and Gawker (although many of the comment threads seem to have disappeared from Gawker) many decried Emily's piece as narcissistic  and filled with self-absorbed posturing but come on - welcome to 2008, people.  We all had, and probably still have, our myriad rites of passage. Narcissism and self-absorbed posturing are necessary nutrients for many of these rites of passage. And do I need to mention the vast multimedia tools available for said self-absorbed posturing?

Josh (Merteuil) is close in age to Emily yet his recent Top Chef recap piece on Gawker was so well-written, so creatively woven and cuttingly scalpel sharp.  His writing on Gawker was almost always hilarious and rapier-witted and this one was no different, except there was a somewhat hidden agenda in the writing.

So Emily’s article went up, the shitstorm started en masse, and Josh posted his Top Chef recap:

http://gawker.com/5010435/lisa-the-mean-self+serving-hack-lives-to-cook-another-day

If you are curiuos, then read the Top Chef recap after you read through Emily’s article. The agenda and focus to Josh’s recap makes for a scintillating read. Of course you kind of have to be familiar with the interpersonal elements of this drama but that is true in any social chess scenario anyway.     

The drama is familiar - jilted lovers - a bad end to a secretive relationship and the exposing of stuff about each other against their wishes in public forums like online diaries and other such publications specific to New York and the online world.  

The emotional potency and revenge enacted by jilted lovers throughout history, literature, celebrity culture (and in real life even)  is a heady opiate for many of us.  The convoluted social chess that ensues never ceases to fascinate.  

Call me shallow, petty, malicious - whatever.  I don’t care.  I’ve been the pawn in the games of others and I have been the queen, the knight, the rook, even the fucking bishop.  I don’t care for some of those roles and others I savor but none of that really matters.  The caveat is that it is not the role you are playing but how you play the game that matters.  Strategy is everything, dahlinks!  (This caveat should not be aligned with the slightly new-agey concept “It’s not the destination, it’s the journey” nor the “Don’t hate the playa, hate the game.” concept.  They may seem similar - but there are significant differences.)

Even though the Josh and Emily drama is taking place in a specific sector of the NYC media culture, the game is oh so familiar.  There are those who are fascinated and intrigued by this - I know I am.  

Then there are those who will consciously strive to elevate themselves above it all.  They remain lofty and comfortable as they cultivate their “drama free” status and lives. Whatever works for them is of no concern to me and in any case they may not be safe from being used as pawns in some form or another in some social, personal or professional realm. So whether you think you  are loftily elevated or safely removed, you’d best also cultivate  - oh what is that sports platitude:  Sometimes the best defense is a good offense?

Perhaps better than a sports platitude is this:  The movie Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf is another of my favorite resources in terms of social chess archetypes battling it out psychologically, emotionally, intricately and obliquely. One of my favorite scenes is where Nick is starting to figure out that George and Martha are playing a vicious game of psychological chess against each other using Honey and Nick as pawns.  He expresses stunned outrage and tries to infuse a bit of contempt in his attitude.  Martha (played with brilliance by Elizabeth Taylor) gives him a scathing wordless look and then intones:

“Relax into it.  You’re no better than anyone else.”

 

There's this:

"Does your mom still have an AOL account? Does she email you her random, yet charming, thoughts on life and love? Does she wish you called more often?*

http://postcardsfromyomomma.com/

*Yes, they're real!

Genius and hilar.  I'd send snippets of emails from my mom but she's always riding the batshit crazy train and trying to bring on the guilt.  

"You always have to beware of people who are thrown suddenly into the limelight through no talent of their own. They develop this ghastly drive to cuddle with stars and artists, and therefore reflect rather than generate light."    (David Bowie in a May 2008 W Magazine blurb.)

Oh David so true, so true especially when we consider the use of the word "light" as creativity and incorporate the concepts of unique and groundbreaking. 

Bowie’s quote is not just true in terms of popular culture or well-known celebrity types. Those reflecting light as opposed to generating light are everywhere these days because of the massive appeal and use of the internet’s multimedia elements. I don’t mind it so much unless the person reflecting is wandering under the assumption that they are generating. The difference between the two may be subtle (at times) - but it can also be impressively significant. And oh there are so many of you out there doing this wandering and assuming. I could list some pretty specific examples but that would be really bitchy and catty and I’m in too good of a mood today to put anyone in the cross-hairs. You all know some - make your own catty/bitchy list.

The up side (and there usually is one although in my case it is a bitchy and catty up side) (surprised?) is that those merely reflecting light who are also wandering and assuming themselves to be generating light are pretty entertaining because of their love affair with delusion.

Many psychoanalytical theories suggest that everyone around you can mirror back to you aspects of yourself, for better or for worse, recognized or unrecognized. (The subconscious doesn’t really miss much but also doesn’t always communicate clearly). You can play the House of Mirrors game: pick a day (or a night out) where you contemplate that those you interact with (not randomly everyone - people who provoke some sort of instinctual reaction or response, like longing, joy, jealousy, laughter, anger, contempt, and so on) are mirroring something back to you about yourself. If they set your teeth on edge, or if they are awe-inspiring in some way or hilarious, what could that tell you about yourself? What do you see about yourself as you look in the mirror they present?

Unfortunately, these days too many people are busy reflecting the light of others in cookie-cutter fashion instead of getting to know their own reflections.

Well, all right then. So long as they remain entertaining.

I just posted this again recently in February but at his special request, I am posting it again.  It harkens back to a time MOST fondly recalled by both of us - Chateau Bimbeaux, the Early Years in New Orleans.  Kiss Kiss bang bang, Marquis!

Is That Jonathan with a "J?"

This is a cross-over piece for this blog that was penned while I lived in New Orleans, during those highly debaucherous years after I had just moved there. My dear pal Todd (the Marquis) and I (Hespeth in the below) would catalogue a lot of our escapades in writing, some of which went up on our Live Journal blogs.  Darling Todd is still living in New Orelans and he recently reminded me about this piece. I found it, read over it and oh how it jolted my recollection and heart most pleasantly! 

Is That Jonathan With A J?

There are few things more entertaining than a Leo scorned --especially if the Leo is the Marquis. (And I mean that in the nicest way because I luhhhv him...!)

It was Glitter night at the Shim Sham Club. Chateau Bimbeaux's residents are out and about, drinking, dancing, carousing, flirting, and passing out flyers for the Marquis and my Venom and Vitriol Anti-Valentine party. The usual raucous club stuff. Well the Marquis' big club crush, the glammy fop boy Justin (we've anointed him the Chevalier J), had returned to his regular 20th Century Boy nights out on Saturdays at the Shim Sham after a month or so of being MIA. The Marquis was vexed by Justin's absence, as was I somewhat because he is very adorable to look at, and fun to watch on the dance floor. A damn good specimen of young, glam, reckless boyhood. A fop for the new millenium, if you will.

The Marquis' mission that night was to strike up idle banter with Justin and give him a flyer for our February soiree with the hidden agenda of discerning whether there were any lights on in the Chevalier J's brain. "I don't want to spoil the illusion of splendor by finding out he's a dim bulb," the Marquis would say. (I'm paraphrasing somewhat -- creative liberties with my online journal -- hah -- but that is the gist of the "spoil the illusion of splendor" conversation that took place numerous times betwixt the Marquis and I.)

That night. Wow. The Chevalier J was in fine and dandy fop form - shiny silver pants, punky choker, shiny devil-may-care 70s type shirt. And the dancing -- the boy has some severe moves. It's riveting to watch him act out every song. The Chevalier J is indeed quite the 20th Century Boy (toy).

So naturally, although I merely wished to coddle my lust from afar by just watching the Chevalier J, I was also coaxing the Marquis to "make contact." Last night the opportunity presented itself as the Chevalier J stood alone at the bar where Izzo and Patti Cake were working. The Marquis, his turquoise locks beaming in the club light and his leather pants adding more than enough feline grace to his form, moved in for the kill -- pink flyer ready and waiting in his back pocket.

The Marquis' stunned and outraged version of the exchange was presented to me as follows:

Marquis: I went up and introduced myself. I HAD to because Izzo was wadding up napkins and getting ready to throw them at Justin if I didn't make the move to chat. After I introduced myself -- he didn't say ANYTHING. I had to PROMPT him. 'And you ARE......?' After a moment, he said 'Jonathan.'

Hespeth: Oh my god. He gave you a fake name?! Oh my god. He used the fake name avoidance tactic.

Marquis: HE GAVE ME A FAKE NAME. ME. He gave ME a fake name. Fucker. Mother fucker.

Hespeth: But we already KNOW his name is Justin. Why didn't you just address him that way?

Marquis: That's beside the point. The point is, he gave me a fake name and he KNOWS I know everyone that works there and practically everyone that goes there. He probably KNOWS I already KNOW his name is Justin. Fucker. Mother fucker.

Hespeth: I can't believe he gave you a fake name. He's obviously on drugs. Probably E. Maybe you heard him wrong. Was he slurring?

Marquis: No. He wasn't slurring. He was clear as a bell. He did everything but "air quotes." Fucker. Who died and made him Marc Bolan anyway?

Hespeth: Wow. The nerve of that little twerp. How about if I go up to him and say, "Hi Jonathan. Too bad your name's not Justin or you'd be getting a blow job in the bathroom right now."

Something like that, Marquis, darling?

Marquis: I can't believe he gave me a a fake name. I told Izzo that he did that and she said something like, "What a cunt!"

Hespeth: I can't believe he gave you a fake name either.

And so on. The Marquis left shortly after that. He was really miffed. The Chevalier J's friend was also apparently flying out of his mind on E and kept bumping sloppily into me on the dance floor.

One time I grabbed him oh-so-gently by the inner thigh (checking on that inseam -- yeah -- that's it) and indicated I wanted to say something. As he leaned down I asked sweetly, "How's that E workin out for you, lover?" He stumbled away laughing and then fell down flat on his ass on the dance floor. I love it when that happens.

So the next day as the Marquis and I were having our afternoon coffee (morning for us) at CC's on Magazine, we went over it all again. Predictably, there's a few of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf references coming up (in parens) because --well-- the game with the Chevalier J has changed. I certainly hope the Chevalier J knows how to play chess. (A Marquis scorned....) Enter Valmont and Merteuil onto the board....

Marquis: I can't believe that fucker did the bit with the fake name.

Hespeth: (The BIT? The BIT...!) I'm going to find out who his dealer is and have him cut-off. Would that appease you, darling? I mean, if I'm to play Merteuil to your Valmont on this one it seems a good move to make. Oblique yet diagonal.

Marquis: (SNAP went the dragon). He gave ME a FAKE NAME.

Hespeth: I'm going to tell him he owes you a blow job.

Marquis: It was NEVER only about THAT ---

Hespeth: Well it is NOW. 'On your knees, little man...Then and only then do you get your drugs.' (And THAT is how you play Get The Guests.)

Marquis: Well. He can just houseboy his way up the ladder for a while.

Hespeth: Let the games begin!

"Relax into it. You're no better than anybody else." (Martha. Who's Afraid of V. Woolf)

is not Vegas. The Rockabilly Weekender trip was pretty fun but it would have been significantly less fun if it hadn’t been for all the Weekender-themed stuff going on.

For one thing, the blingy gambling aspects of Vegas bore me. I don’t get the allure that infects most of the people in the casinos. Those people are freakin’ zombies. I was interested in studying assorted people at the machines or sitting at tables for about 37 minutes and 24 seconds as I sat at the bar. I mean, I get the allure of the whole "professional high roller" thing, obvs. But otherwise - YEESH. The noise, the lights, the repetitive chaos. Thank god for alcohol (for me, that is). I needed to be numbed down to it all so as not to get irritable.

Walking on the strip was an exercise in not becoming a mass murderer. The distance from casino to casino was a winding, lengthy, time-wasting battle with architectural manipulation. I had to weave between hordes of zombies who were taking a break from the mindless throwing away of money to gallop drunkenly along the walkways or stumble to restaurants so they could shovel gross food into their mouths. Traffic choked streets added to the overall "get me out of here" mantra playing about in my head.

And that was after my first ½ day there!

The good stuff: I had a great relaxing visit with Rickilane and Allison who have an adorable well-mannered daughter. Getting "off strip" was a salve to my frayed tolerance. However, the off strip sections in Vegas that I saw, although un-embroidered by loud and gaudy casino-grandeur, merely reminded me of the unappealing strip malls, suburban spread and traffic choked sprawl of Houston, Los Angeles, and many other cities across the U.S. I have no affinity with.

As for the Rockabilly Weekender - well, the up side was that I had a great time hanging out with and going to stuff with Lily LeRouge and Alisha Amnesia - those bitches are FUN! But, for the most part, I hit my rockabilly/retro-swing/burlesque saturation point about 3 hours into my first day there. I kept thinking I saw the same guy over and over (albeit very attractive) and the same pin-up girl styled chicks over and over. After a while, everyone presented with cookie-cutter sameness. I guess there’s not a whole lot of breathing room when you are trying to authentically recreate a look or scene with such narrow parameters to follow. I would have loved to see more "updated" interpretations of the retro thing but there seemed to be an extreme fixation on being "authentic" - which comes off as a little prissy and dull.   Whatever - if that’s your thing, more power to you. As I said above, if it wasn’t for the Rockabilly Weekender attendees and events, I’d have run screaming to the airport and begged them to get me on a plane and home early.

The worst part of the trip: the drinks in Vegas are some of the stingiest poured, weakest-ass drinks I’ve ever had. Seriously. Vegas, baby, you need to step up your game b/c applauding yourself for being a 24/7 town doesn’t fly when you consistently serve the most feeble drinks I’ve ever had. Lame.

In other news, I got a fantastic job offer which I accepted and I start on April 30. There will be cocktails tonight after work to celebrate in the lovely Hayes Valley with a bunch of people, of course.

Hello springtime - Bring on zee weekend!

OMFG.  This is brilliant (both the declaration of Point Break Day and even MORE SO, the stage production):

http://www.prthatrocks.com/pressrel/pointbreakliveprocpr.htm

I almost cannot wait to get back from Vegas so I can start planning the Point Break Live Show Outing. 

Excerpted from the press release:

"The starring role of Johnny Utah, who is selected from the audience each night, reads their entire script off cue cards in order to capture the rawness of a Keanu Reeves performance.   “Point Break LIVE!” features armed robbery, big-wave surfing, car chases, explosions, no less than two extended skydiving sequences and an indoor monsoon.   The audience doesn't just watch Point Break LIVE!; they are in it.  “Survival Kits™", consisting of a plastic emergency poncho to protect the viewers from the action that literally spills forth from the stage, are issued before the start of the show, so it's suggested everyone leave their fineries at home.   The stage action, which literally spills into the street, is videoed and played through a real-time live feed on TV monitors set to the side of the stage via the "Keanu Kam™." 

GENIUS.

 Wooop!  Tomorrow morning at zee crack of 10:00 a.m. my plane will touch down in Las Vegas and I will be starting my fab weekend vacation at:

http://www.vivalasvegas.net

I am so excited I cannot stand it!   Miss Lynda (Lily LeRouge) and I are staying at the Orleans Hotel which has a free shuttle that goes back and forth between it and the Gold Coast where most of Viva Las Vegas is happening.

My suitcase - it is bursting with outfits.

In addition to all the Viva Las Vegas stuff, I’m taking many rolls of quarters to spend here:

http://www.pinballmuseum.org

OMG. I cannot wait. I LOVE pinball. I miss pinball. I need to tell Miss L and the others that if they don’t see or hear from me for more than 24 hours to send a search party directly to the museum’s location and pry me away so that I can go bathe and eat something.

If all that weren’t enough to be exciting - also on my list of THINGS to do is visit with Patticake. I haven’t seen her since Ye Olden New Orleans days, era of the Shim Sham. (Le sigh - Punk and Porno Mondays, how I miss thee.) I am also going to try and visit a bit with Rickylane and Allison as I hear from the Marquisdd that they are living well and doing fine in Vegas.   I have a cell phone and I'm not afraid to use it!

Now all I need is to get through this painfully intrusive Wednesday at work so I can finish all my pre-trip errands.

Also? Adrien Brody - you are HOT. I know I shouldn’t even think that in connection with the quick preview I saw this morning for some kind of movie that is probably playing on the Lifetime for Women Network where you were all creepy and abusive-like as you, with steely, danger-filled eyes and an almost psychotic tone of command in your Queens, New York accented voice ordered some woman to "GET IN THE CAR...NOW" - but I did, and I do. You East Coast lads, you make me weak in the knees. I wonder how many East Coast boys are going to be attending the Rockabilly Weekender this weekend...? Hmmmm.....

 

 

 because of massive organized demonstrations and protests against the War all around downtown San Francisco today.

I see it as an exercise in futility -unless you are deliberately trying to irritate people into not caring about the war issue anymore out of spite, then -  success!  You are preaching to the choir and trying to convert  the converted.  Probably 99% of SF already agrees with the anti-War mentality - I know I do.  I'm all for getting your voice heard, yadda yadda, all the way to Washington D.C. and on the news, yadda yadda - but really, show me the way to the next whiskey bar because this day is already so very annoying and I'm disinclined to support your anti-war protest efforts right now.

I do so love ya San Francisco, but fuck all - you get so high on politically correct overkill sometimes.    

Just stay out of my way, kthxbai.

P.S. - I wonder what the criminal element is doing in the criminal activity prone areas while the massive quantities of law enforcement monitor these downtown demonstrations.  And the sleazy opportunists shall inherit the earth...

  http://lolthulhu.com/

Drinking With Thine Enemies

Beginning somewhere in the early 1990's and continuing - well, to the present (although much more infrequent and random nowadays), a close knit group of us challenged our writing selves to recap social events and scene gossip by translating it into Dangerous Liaisons-style letters. I have pulled a few from one such series of letters that were sent back and forth a while ago. These letters first appeared in our online e-zine, "Suffering is Hip." I read over these and performed some editing and pruning - focusing on the scandal and bitchy, gossipy parts. And really, I'm being unabashedly self-indulgent in posting these - but oh well! The Comtesse M is me. The others are, well - mum's zee word. A little blurb below from the e-zine acts as a sort of introduction.

"Drinking With Thine Enemies" is an exercise in reliving the ancient art of letter writing. The style takes its inspiration from heady classics such as "les Liaisons Dangereuses", "Clarissa", and "Fanny Hill: Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure", though the content and events described therein are wholly modern. Any resemblance to persons living or undead is purely coincidental ... we think. As a matter of fact, the question was put to the enigmatic Comtesse M, and on this subject she remains pointedly silent.

I still cannot get the cut tag to work - WTF?  I give up on it now.

(Excerpts from Random Correspondence, circa 1990's)

Comtesse M to Dauphine K

Dearest beguiling Dauphine,

I had a conversation with the Comtesse Nyquolytt last evening. She informed me (quite breathlessly) that there were numerous letters awaiting perusal upon her return, including one from the re-emerged Mlle. R___! I wonder how the Mlle. arrived at the idea to pen a letter to the Comtesse, or had she already accomplished this feat before the impromptu tete a tete on Friday? The web weaves tighter, my fabulous K, and more intricate than ever! What next?

I implore you again to bedeck our presence with your attendance at La Club du T___. I seem to recollect that the Duke of W___ mentioned he may attend this particular night. And of course the Comtesse Nyquolytt and Mlle. R___ should both be in attendance as well. This could prove a scintillating or dreadful adventure! Ah the sheer uncertainty of things, sweetie! Mayhaps she and the Comtesse wish to further their prospects for intrigue as well? Well, shall work together to provide each other with social entertainment, such as polite society should do.

Comtesse M

Dauphine K to the Comtesse M

I will not shilly-shally. There is no other point to this note than to elaborate upon the occurrences of this past evening. The Club du T___ my dear, was everything you had promised, and a good deal more. What an exhilarating evening. It is not so much that I have learned the particulars of the intrigue, but rather the manifestations of such. The covert glances, the words spoken without explanation, and the sentences un-spoken all served to pique my interests to a most alarming degree. I tell you when all this began I had not a clue what to expect. This, as is my most oft spoken sentence of the week, is very interesting.

Later in the evening, as we basked in the light of the moon, I beckoned to the Mlle. R___. As you had noticed earlier too, she pranced right past me (you see how important it is to her not to make the first overture), so, when I managed to catch her eye later, I called her to me to sit by my side and be my companion for awhile. We conversed upon things of little import.

Her comments on the Salon were less than appreciative as it seems her sordid past haunts her there. Whereas I, who has no sordid past, experienced only the joys of reunion with those I have gone years without seeing. She is able to find only fault, as past acquaintances remind her of her own.

A short time passed as we were conversing animatedly, when suddenly that old fire I am so familiar with came to her eyes. Looking in the direction of Mlle. R___'s gaze, I glimpsed a figure leaving the scene hurriedly. Mlle. R. exclaimed quietly, "Mon Dieu!", and then rather loudly, "That Whore!" And off she went in a flurry of emotion, after the fast retreating anonymous figure.

She returned not more than a minute later with, I was soon to learn, Monsieur M., her most recent dalliance, pensively in tow. No doubt she chastised the "whore" for some impropriety unknown to myself. I was astounded by all this of course, and thinking of you my M, I made a timid inquiry as to the cause of this outburst. Alas, she would not say. I made the formal introduction of Mssr. M., and for a moment the situation became quite awkward as it seems there was something unpleasant between these two. In either case I dispelled the moment with more idle chat until the Comtesse Nyquolytt arrived at our little group. In retrospect it has occurred to me that the Comtesse was not altogether glad to make my acquaintance.

It proceeded thusly: Mlle. R___ and I are engaged in intimate conversation, when the Comtesse Nyquolytt arrived like a rustling, haughty spectre. Neither a word or glance does she give to Mlle. R__. or myself, who were seated, though she is but a mere twelve inches from either of us.

When, at last, she graced my person with a glance, I took her hand and introduced myself. (I will not be ignored you know. I really am losing patience with these people trying to ignore me, I will not let them get away with it, if only because I know how superfluous their motives are. Gads!) In any case she smiled stiffly as Mlle. R___. said something to the Comtesse Nyquolytt that I did not catch, assumedly something by way of introduction. Well, the Comtesse Nyquolytt turned towards Mlle. R___. and, not even looking her in the eye, but rather the kneecap, spat venomously, "We know each other, thank you." And in a moment she was gone.

The entire exchange must have taken less than a minute and was over with so quickly that I could only remain a little stunned and very much perplexed. I would probably have dismissed the situation if Mlle. R___ had not hurriedly made an excuse for the strange exchange post haste, saying that these society events put the Comtesse in an evil humor.

Now of course this told me that the Comtesse WAS in an evil humor, but I think not from the environments. My only deducements, and I am sure you will be able to enlighten me in this regard, was that the Comtesse Nyquolytt. had actually had indulged herself in an episode of jealous pique regarding matters of which I am as yet uninformed. Mlle. R___ quite stoically detoured any alluding inquiries by me instead along a topic of conversation that centered around her own fabulousness! Mon dieu!

I find it endlessly amusing that they seem to take themselves altogether seriously.

Dauphine K

Marquise duM to Comtesse M

I have been busy positively vying for my trollop badge. I was obliged to placate the two gentlemen I inconvenienced on the night of my birthday. I am beginning to see the wisdom of being inconsistent as behaving inconsistently seems to present an obstacle they so do enjoy overcoming. Although I would never act truly unethically nor manipulatively, I am beginning to get over that ideal of the naiveté of my youth of always being nice. Nice does not inflame the psyche.

I smile amusedly to myself as it has been a long time, a very long time, since I have been shameless enough (or is it blessed enough?) to initiate such delights with two different men within such a short time frame. I think hardly twenty hours had passed before I succumbed once again.

And, may I tell you, your Marquise is exhausted.

I do not wish to graze my way through these men, consume them, and throw them aside. I want to keep them, at least partially. I have to find a way to do this in a manner that can keep all happy. I am experimenting with a dangerous philosophy, a philosophy I have taken up and attempted many times in my life, and failed. Will I fail again? Success and failure in this endeavor is hard to measure.

If I am addicted to anything, it is poignancy.

Marquise duM

Comtesse M to Dauphine K

Such is the passing of time! The evening at Salon du N___ was quite amusing. The Mssr. S___ arrived around 5:30 to join the table consisting of the Marquise and myself. Apparently he was engaged to meet the Comtesse Nyquolytt around this same time. However, two hours ticked by and as others arrived, there was no sign of the Comtesse.

Mssr. S___ eventually declared that he was famished and was wont to place an order with the chef. Yet in consternation he decided against such a move since he was supposed to wait for the Comtesse before dining. I playfully suggested he might send out a valet to ascertain what the delay could be, mentioning that he was hungry. I then quickly realized that the Comtesse's temperament was such that if her young beau were to express urgency to see her merely because of his need for dinner, she would be extremely peeved. I thus instructed him to say that he was hungry...but for her presence. This was met with quite raucous amusement on Mssr. S___'s part who was charming in his chortling. I then wondered aloud if perhaps she were having carriage problems to which the Mssr. S___ impulsively muttered "It is probably a problem with clothing that detains her."

(Methinks the bloom is off the rose, do you not concur?)

Alas, just when I began to believe the Comtesse a no-show, who should come fluttering around the corner but the Mlle. R___, with a rather agitated and petulant looking Comtesse following close behind. With an alarming amount of haughty fanfare (the Comtesse) and coquettish greeting (the Mlle. R.) they joined our table.

After much pensive fussing about with clothing and hair, and ritualistic accessory adjustment, the Comtesse finally addressed the rest of us at the table (the Mssr. S___ having been on the immediate receiving end of her passionate attention).

Soon the Marquise Merlot took her leave and that left the Baron and I to entertain (or be entertained by) the other three. The Comtesse managed another of her mind-numbingly banal nostalgic excursions with the Baron whilst I drank my way through 4 Brandy Alexander's and conversed idly with the Mlle. R___. The Mssr. S___ read a book and alternately jumped at being groped by the Comtesse.

I do hope I have entertained you somewhat with my tale and I must say that I am positively delighted to be able to impart to you the incident via letter, although your presence at this uncanny event would have no doubt been quite an additional pleasure. As always I remain your devoted and sleep-charmed friend,

Comtesse M

Comtesse M to the Marquise duM

Ah my wanton Marquise,

I shall attempt to infuse this letter with at least a morsel of intrigue, extending a frivolous three hour event into a literary chronicle of alarming descriptiveness.

The Mlle. R___ had her birthday soiree at Salon du N___ this past Monday evening. It was commanded that each invitee appear in formal attire, and, the birthday gathering at du N___ looked quite lovely - velvet, satin and lace abounded. The Duke of W___ made his usual dapper appearance. The Dauphine K and I ordered a Brandy Alexander each, to stifle the yawns that hovered at the edges of our attention spans, and added nonchalant comments to the swirling fragments of conversation.

Comtesse Nyquolytt and her jaunty young escort, the Mssr. S___, arrived a good hour and a half post-reservation time. (The Mlle. R___ had explained earlier that the Comtesse was still feeling indisposed, and thus would need a longer amount of time with her toilette.) Predictably the Comtesse was decked quite elaborately -- this costume a theatrical 30s ensemble: fan, gloves, bracelets dangling and a large, ostentatious brooch clasped at the bosom of her wine velvet gown, ending with her hair cemented into some sort of bob. Of course we have seen this particular facade before at du N___ - Greta Garbo meets Camille meets Zelda Fitzgerald. Mon dieu.

The dashing Mssr. S___ sent a second Brandy Alexander to my end of the table. As I leaned down the table to thank him and perhaps engage in a bit of benign flirtation, the Comtesse embraced him and gazed torpidly at me remarking breathlessly "Is he not wonderful?" I felt this to be rather a competitive and possessive move, especially since the Mssr. was innocently acting the gentleman.

The second libation was welcome since unsightly yawns were escaping in spite of my valiant efforts to look pert and entertained.

Not surprising, the Comtesse's autocratic social nature soon prevailed over her fragile health and she became languidly animated (in that Greta/Camille/Zelda manner of hers).

She mentioned that she was hot and feverish. To which my current amour (and her former scandalous amour of distant past), the Baron V___, remarked in jest, "That is pretty unusual for someone so cold."

There was laughter. The Comtesse was a statue of contrived indifference. The Baron, realizing his delightful jest would be construed by the Comtesse as an insulting faux-pas, then complicated matters further by adding, "I meant unusual for one who is cold-blooded."

More laughter. A contemptuous stare from the Comtesse. The Baron finally finished by laughing,

"I meant unusual for a vampire."

The Comtesse rose in a wine-velvet huff and disappeared to the other end of the table, snapping her fan and giving the Baron the "you are so vulgar" glance of doom.

The yawns were triumphant. A bitter defeat for girl drinks. The Dauphine, the dapper Duke, the Baron and I bid our respective farewells and departed for home.

What next, my exceptional friend? We shall see. Alas, another pesky interruption. I must put my pen and ink away and concentrate on the mordant realities confronting me.

Until I see thee in the shadows of our Thursday refuge,

I remain your devoted friend and languorous spectre of momentary ennui,

Comtesse M

First of all: HAPPY MARDI GRAS to all my loved ones in New Orleans! I celebrate vicariously through you.

So - the Super Tuesday voting hoopla has begun. I'm glad to see so much of a voting push. So much bright eyed wonder and enthusiasm. Such impassioned and fervent urging. It is even a relief to see abrasive argumentativeness. I wish I felt any of those things about this election. It is, on paper and in reality, an important one for this country. Alas.

I'm voting. But I'm voting while existing in, politically speaking, a state of extreme and unrelenting apathy. I'm voting for the individual I think will be able to accomplish the least amount of additional or new damage to this country both domestically and abroad. That is not a statement of this individual's abilities or finesse either - it is a belief, sadly, in their ultimate ineffectiveness, especially that which could cause or bring about more overall harm - be it a Republican or Democrat who ends up in office.

My vote is, I regret to say, a vote for someone as against everyone else in the running.

I find nothing appealing in any of the candidates. I cannot relate to much of the Clinton platform - which to me is basically the Democrats saying "fuck we're exhausted here, let's just get someone from our party in office already" sort of a campaign.

I am also repelled by those hordes stumbling willy nilly aboard Obama's carnival campaign, all eyes glistening with feverish hope and childish giggly excitement. (Are people really that naive? Really? I'd expect much more cynicism at this point in time. But then I suppose that is the main appeal with Obama. A freshness that is lacking in the Clinton arena and a backlash against the Republican Greed and War Machine Party.)

One of my favorite lines from Dangerous Liaisons the movie applies well as a sort of warning regarding the whole Obama phenomenon:

"One does not applaud the tenor for clearing his throat."

I find the Republican candidates all to be laughably tepid. McCain's surge can be considered troublesome b/c the man does not look at all healthy. And the Republicans are sneaky fuckers so I believe this election for them is more about who becomes the Vice President if they win the election again.  Especially if McCain wins the nod (which he may) so the chosen VP can thus slither into the big chair through unforseen (or even expected - remember, sneaky fuckers) calamity.

All that said, my vote is cast. Unwillingly. Without any sort of optimism. With a sigh and a shrug. I don't apologize for this apathy. I don't feel a shred of guilt for not getting 100% behind any of the candidates. I will probably feel the same come the Big Election and will cast my vote again, in the same "least amount of damage" state of mind.

 To quote from memory from "Personal Darkness" by Tanith Lee:

"They had to borrow a new Knight from a different board. But it was still chess."

 

Social identities are fun but perpetuating social amnesia is very annoying. By social identity – I’m referring to where a person re-invents themselves and takes on a new persona, then customizes everything else in their life to reflect that new persona or identity – clothes, hair, music, etc. I have used the word “persona” but it is more complicated and runs deeper in the psyche of the individual – which is why I will refer to it for the rest of this post as social identity. This is also not referring to famous people like Madonna – that’s a different kind of re-invention. I’m referring to a specific phenomenon I’ve noticed, well, pretty much during all my years of going out and following and enjoying various Scenes.

I’m sure it happens elsewhere but I am most intimately familiar with it here in San Francisco. The more severe re-invention cases seem also to do a serious customization of their past. It’ll be quicker to illustrate what I’m talking about by proffering this simplistic and probably highly familiar re-invention formula:

A Goth reinvents his or herself and now has a Fetish social identity. Then, after a number of years being fetish-identified, they reinvent again and now present with a retro Swing/Rockabilly/Burlesque social identity. Or, in more creative parlance:

Mistress of the Ashes and Lord of the Shadows reinvented themselves for a while as Mistress of the Whips or Lord of the Ropes and then re-invented themselves into their current incarnations as Mistress of the Pasties and Lord of the Ring a Ding Ding.

(There are many other sub-category re-inventions contained in that Goth to Fetish to retro S/R/B but I am specifically focusing on what seems to be the most prevalent three. A triptych of re-invention!)

Many of these re-inventions, at least from what I’ve noticed in San Francisco’s scenes, are very creative, and, depending on the individual, complex. They are also quite severe but I have to admire the devotion to duty (as it were). It also makes going out to various venues and events fascinating, fun and entertaining – to a point. Lately I’ve noticed, as Tennessee Williams wrote in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,  “the odor of mendacity” strongly wafting about.

So – now that you are Mistress of the Pasties and Lord of the Ring a Ding Ding – well, how strict does this current social identity have to be? Must you jettison everything about your former social identity? If so, why? To protect your new identity? To better focus or to streamline? Is it also vital that this current social identity constrict and narrow your social sphere to include only those things that would apply to this new you?

I wonder the above because I’ve noticed that many of these recently minted Mistresses of the Pasties and Lords of the Ring a Ding Ding are ruthlessly unwilling to acknowledge they were ever involved in scenes appropriate for or that joyfully pandered to their former fetish or goth social identities. Their eyes glaze over if I mention anything that happened after the 1950’s.

Bitch, please. Don’t pretend you went to some kool-aid party 5-10 yrs ago and took some amnesia pills and suddenly arrived at the swing/rockabilly/burlesque here and now with a cd collection full of the best of the swing years and the rat pack. Don’t act like you never wore head to toe velvet and swooped around the Roderick’s Chamber dance floor to Cocteau Twins and Fields of the Nephilim.  Don’t play like you never had that fetish phase, the one where you incorporated both goth and fetish and their sub genres and took to wearing fluorescent yarn for hair and lots of PVC even in the daytime. I saw you there weekly at Bondage-A-Go-Go at Trocadero on that dance floor working it alllllllll on out dancing to that NIN’s “Closer” remix or oontz oontzing and stomping your big boots at Assimilate at Cat Club with the rest of us. Contrary to what you may try to believe – you did not leap out of the womb doing a fan dance or listening to Frank Sinatra while polishing your spats or whatever.

Some people actually scoff and pull the : “I’ve SO moved on from all that!” Well, at least they acknowledge it even though I’m calling bullshit and thanks for playing.

The upshot is that I find it all so very limiting. I’ve gone to some highly enjoyable and regular retro events here: Little Minsky’s at the Deluxe one Thursday a month is a great regular show. The Hubba Hubba Review at DNA can be fun. I recently attended the amazing Cabaret Verdalet at Great American Music Hall. There’s also lots of little weekly fun things that fall in the S/R/B realm.

But it’s not the only game in town, people.

For instance, there’s a very enjoyable and interesting event that the Dancing Ghosts group curates – it’s an evening of listening and dancing to music centered specifically around artists associated with record labels like Beggar’s Banquet, 4AD, Factory Records and others. What’s perplexing and ultimately pathetic is that I find that most of these newly minteds would sooner drop dead than go to anything like that because it rests too inappropriately outside the boundary of their current social identity’s world. WHY? No, really, why? Do you now hate the music? Does it have too much of a “goth’ undercurrent? Or is this reluctance (and reluctance is putting it mildly) the side-effect of that amnesia pill you took at that kool-aid party 5-10 yrs ago?

Damn, I’d go stark raving mad with boredom if I had to limit my scope of socializing to the degree that so many people seem to be doing.

We all grow up, mature, change, evolve, move on, whatever. What’s that quote? The time has come to put away childish things – something like that. Well, I have moved on from many things, including some that I was once obsessive about. But, I haven’t tried to negate them. I haven’t tried to eradicate them from my past by pretending they never existed or scoffing at them with my nose in the air.  I may be embarrassed about some aspects of my past (and I have the pics to prove it) but if the alternative is re-inventing myself with an almost hostile clarity and limited tunnel-visioned focus – well, I choose the life packed with options, social variety and even potential embarrassment.

By all means, be your dream, live your dream, but at least pretend to be aware of the fragile and transitory nature of your current social identity. Do you know who you really are underneath your current incarnation?

And how is that house of cards working out for you? 

I will not get any work done at ALL today.

http://www.hairmixer.com/

(Thx for the link, Gawker.)

EDIT: My current icon/avatar is a fusion of Paris Hilton and Tom Cruise!

FUN!!!!

blog to read and to pass onto others to get caught up in but - I COULD NOT RESIST.

http://projectrungay.blogspot.com/

I'm spending a lot more time reading these days (and socializing) than writing but those phases happen. And happily so!

alert: http://www.io9.com/

Le sigh. Love. it.

Hmmm...I was looking for something else when I happened upon the below and thought, “What?! I wrote that? I don’t even remember writing that!”

So I read through it and laughed so much. Damn - I’m so glad I amuse myself. My total lack of memory about having written it is a testament to my decades long (and still thriving!) love affair with vodka.

Anyhow - I’m posting it here. It’s from the Classics Digest, Re-Writing the Classics section on our ancient Sepulchritude site. We took classic books or pieces of literature - and rewrote them with much love or, in my case with the below, much snark. I suppose it helps if you’ve seen the movie or read the book but, oh well!

LOVE STORY
by Erich Segal

Introduction: Okay, so not many would consider this kind of romantic swill to be in the “classic” vein — but as trashy novels go — it is. Also, in reviewing the book Love Story, I picture in mind’s-eye that fabulously tear-jerk-off marathon of a movie (other people’s tears, apparently, because I laughed all the way through this sappy piece o’crap), starring Ali McGraw, Ryan O’Neil (in the two main roles, of course) and, bemusedly, Ray Milland AND Tommy Lee Jones. So anyway, here’s my Digested Version of “Love Story.”

Oliver Barrett IV: God I love Harvard. God I love hockey. I’m such an intellectual stud-boy. Hey, who’s that cute chick over there? She seems classy yet slutty in a girl-next-door sort of a way.

Jennifer Cavilerri: God I’m pretty. God I’m smart. Hey, I’m pretty smart. Who’s that intellectual stud over there? He must be from Harvard. I bet he’s a hockey player too.

(They meet. They go out. They fall in love. They want to get married, but like in the traditional Romeo and Juliet fashion, there are familial issues.)

Oliver’s Dad: You’re not going to marry that Radcliffe slut. I don’t care if she is into music and smart. Can’t you fall in love with someone in your own socio-economic bracket?

Oliver: But I love her. I love her a lot. I love her so much it makes my balls ache. I can’t live without her.

Oliver’s Dad: If you marry her, you’re out of the will. You’ll be poor. See how much you love her when you have to work for a living, young man.

Jennifer: I love you so much. I am so in love with you. I don’t care if we’re poor. We can make it if we try.

Oliver: God I love you too. I am so in love with you. I don’t care if we are poor. Our love will see us through.

(Time passes. They experience the typical maudlin/euphoric ups and downs of run-of-the-mill marriages that run-of-the-mill people indulge themselves in. Jennifer decides to try and reunite father and son, the giving, loving, fabulous girl that she is. It doesn’t work. The guys fucking hate each other and they like it that way.)

Jennifer: God you really hate your dad, don’t you? But you love me. And I love you. God I am so in love with you. Do you want to have kids now?

Oliver: May dad is a prick. He should not have disinherited me just because I fell in love with someone like you. I am so in love with you. Let’s have kids now, ‘kay?

(They really want kids. By-products of their intensely moving love for each other — that Breeding Urge that seems to inflict all those who should not have kids. They discover that they are unable to have children. Something is very wrong with Jennifer…)

Jennifer: FUCK. I have cancer. I’m going to die soon. I love you so much. But I’m going to have to die loving you. And with no kids too.

Oliver: FUCK. I can’t believe you have cancer and are going to die soon. I thought love was supposed to heal, not hurt. Fuck. And I won’t even have kids to remember you by. Fuck. I am so in love with you but what the fuck does it matter now, I-Have-Cancer-Girl?

Jennifer: FUCK. Here I go — (she dies).

Oliver: (crying, because he’s a sensitive and loving intellectual stud-boy) FUCK. She’s dead. I loved her so much. But at least she taught me the most important lesson of a lifetime: “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.” Fuck.

(She dies. Oliver is sad.)

THE END