Oh, I Forgot We Took These Photos...

In a fit of drunken inspiration at four in the morning today, B took a dildo that was on my dresser, licked its base, and stuck it to my wall. It looked so beautiful. We posed with it...

An Evening with Carol Channing!

Last night Brian and I sat raptly as Carol Channing, the last living dinosaur of the stage (Brian would say a velociraptor), delighted an adoring crowd with some senile ramblings, a little Ethel Merman dish, and gravelly renditions of her old standards. It was an evening that went from resembling a pentecostal revival to exercise hour in the nursing home rec room.

The following post was written by Brian...

Her entrance alone was worth the (considerable) price of admission. Carol Channing, the 83-year-old stage legend, walked out onto the stage of the Pantages Theatre in bright read stirrup pants, oversized red blazer, and a red sequin shirt, her hair done up in silver Pippi Longstocking pigtails, flashing a smile that is copyrighted as hers forever. It is an almost unnatural grimace, too big for her head, like a cross between the Cheshire Cat and a Pez dispenser.

But she can talk, too. We’ve been informed before Ms. Channing’s entrance by her pianist/prompter that the evening will take a sort of Inside the Actor’s Studio format, with him playing James Lipton and her playing, well, Carol Channing. Really, the show, entitled appropriately enough, “An Evening with Carol Channing,” is more like your great uncle prompting your goofy, slightly senile great aunt to tell stories and sing songs over family Christmas egg nogs. “Tell’em the one about Ethel Merman!” “Should we do that song you sang in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes?”

Now, if you’ve never heard Carol Channing speak before, you should know that she’s famous for her raspy articulations. Even if you have heard her before, you probably haven’t heard her lately. A woman who already sounded like she’d been gargling with gravel every morning 40 years ago, today sounds positively stegosaurian. “Oh! What lovely people!” she kept squawking after she walked onstage, like no one had ever given her a standing ovation before. Actually, I didn’t care if she was sincere or not. We had left the realm of sincerity, and I was enraptured by the spectacle. Carol Channing, you see, is my camp icon.

She first came to my attention as a young child watching Sesame Street. Yes, the leftist PBS force-fed thousands of innocent young children a dose of campy, queer-loving Carol, all funded by taxpayer’s dollars. In this particular Sesame Street skit she sings to a Muppet snake named Sammy. The tune is her trademark, “Hello, Dolly!” although Jim Henson and his homosexual operatives changed the lyrics to “Hello, Sammy!” to take full advantage of Carol’s legendary lisp. The moment my four-year-old-ears heard her serenade that serpent, I could feel my wrists go limp.

And here we were, almost 20 years after our first introduction, and she was 50 feet in front of me, looking a little weathered, yes, I’ll admit it. But let me tell you something: bright, brilliant, Ziegfeld Follies showbuisness razz-ma-tazz was shining through every pore on that women’s wrinkled, makeup-caked face. One of the first musical numbers she did was a song that she learned from a traveling show while she was growing up in (where else) San Francisco. It was a three-part number in Russian, and of course Carol sang all the parts herself. I think the gist of the whole thing is that a little girl named Katzinka is very spoiled and is trying to get her way with her parents, Papinka and Maminka. Like I said she sang all the parts in flawless Russian, changing her posture and pitch for each part. Papinka’s parts were so low that Carol sounded like Boris Yeltsin on the borscht-belt circuit.

Remember, the woman is 83-years-old. The effect on the viewer is similar to what would occur if you stuck a big key in the back of your grandmother, wound her up, and watched her proceed to high-kick and thrust her pelvis while belting out “Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend.” About that number. Carol introduced it by saying it was her “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” which is a wonderful way of putting it, don’t you think? What would your “Battle Hymn of the Republic” be? I’m still thinking, but mine might be the theme from Golden Girls. And did I mention the high-kicks and pelvic thrusts? The raunchy move she did while shouting “Diamonds! Diamonds! Diamonds!” looked like an audition tape for Showgirls.

In between the songs, though, she started to really show her age. Her James Lipton-wannabe pianist had to repeatedly reign in her ramblings and jog her memory. All of this lent a slightly horrific edge to the proceedings. Most of her stories were actually quite funny, like Ethel Merman’s encounter with a man’s bleeding rectum aboard an airplane, for instance. But she would get lost and start spinning her yarn in circles. At one point she had a coughing fit that lasted for several minutes until someone fetched a glass of water. “Is she gonna make it through this?” is a thought that I’m sure passed through half the audience’s mind. I didn’t even mention the audience yet. It was roughly half senior citizens off a tour bus wearing laminated nametags around their neck, clutching walkers and strongly of Heaven Scent. The other half was middle-aged gay men in black leather jackets with botox cheeks and hair implants. Oh, and Jason and me. A couple of homos laughed loudly and inappropriately when Carol mentioned the giant cyst on Ethel Merman’s head when she was visiting “La Merm” on her deathbed. I’ll admit I was suppressing a snigger myself.

But that was about the only time I suppressed it, because for the rest of the show I was howling, my mouth agape a la Channing herself. Which is what she is, really: an imitation. Of herself. There is no real Carol Channing. She is a funny voice you do when everyone’s had a bit too much to drink, a costume that gives you permission to be absolutely fucking ridiculous. After the show, Jason and I waited outside the stage door with about a dozen other losers for a chance to meet the woman in person. I had a funny idea of getting a picture with her and sending it out as a Christmas card. After about a half an hour the door opened, a security guard cleared the way, and Carol Channing walked past me, a flash of red getting into the back of a town car. No autographs, no pictures, no real acknowledgement that we were waiting there at all. I’m sure she was tired, and it was cold out. But I’m really not that disappointed. I like her better from a distance, on the stage or on my TV screen late at night. I have no idea what I would have said to her anyway. How does one address a punch line? You don’t say, “Hello, I think you’re really funny and I’m a big fan.” You just yuck it up and clap and wait for the next joke.

Towards the end of the show, she got to the one song everyone expects her to sing, her greatest hit. During “Hello, Dolly!” she pantomimed the actions and costumes and I was there, back on 14th street with her. “Stairs” she said softly at the beginning indicating her famous grand entrance in her famous feathered red hat and dress. Ladies and gentlemen, Carol Channing can still belt one out. When she sang “Ra Ra Ra, Fellas! Look at the old girl now, Fellas!” I knew we had arrived at the gates of homo heaven and St. Peter was wearing sequins.

When You're Smiling...

During my London days, after a particularly good night out--be it at Bloomsbury Square or at one of Peter's dinner parties, or perhaps at the writer's group or after a good after-work drink session with my publishing peeps, I'd often wander around London until the wee hours with headphones on. Be it Earls Court or East London, Bloomsbury or Brick Lane, be it midnight or two a.m. or five a.m., I never felt more the flaneur than when I was skipping down the empty cobbles. Sure it was dangerous, but when you're drunk or high or both or sexually satisfied you just don't care.

I'd often have Judy Garland in my cd player--Live at Carnegie Hall. I'd walk through the University of London complex from Peter's flat on Regents Park to Bloomsbury Square. And I'd sing! At the top of my lungs! "You Go to My Head", "Puttin' on the Ritz", "The Man that Got Away"...I didn't care if anyone heard me or saw me or zeroed in on me as a likely mugging victim. I was happy and I was singing.

It's telling then that after a good happy hour with B last night (that stretched long past happy hour), I found myself walking toward Nicolett Mall with a strong desire to sing. I turned on Judy, and I sang the entire walk. Runners passed me, so did blokes on bikes. The final stragglers from the Ing building hurried past me nervously. I sang the entire way, slightly drunk and happy.

Jacques Derrida, 1930-2024

Needless to say, Jacques Derrida, if there ever was such a person, will be missed, if the act of missing is not, in and of itself, an impossibility.

The final fine fall day of the season

According to the Kathy Wurzer on MPR, today is the final fine fall day of the season. By tomorrow, a cold front will have swept in. Snow flurries by Thursday? I wouldn't put it past this state.

The weekend was gorgeous but I didn't manage to step outside my apartment until Sunday afternoon. I could see it all happening outside my well-positioned windows--maple leaves, hipsters wandering up and down the detritus to brunch and record stores--and I could smell it as well--that lovely dried leaf mulch smell. But I didn't leave, couldn't leave.

I'll be honest with you folks. There's a black hole in my life. It hides just outside the stellar sphere. At my nadir, it ropes me in and I'll be gone for a few days as I wander through a particularly messy patch. After this weekend I've emerged with congested sinuses and chemical burns on the tip of my nose. Outside the window, a consommé: The Secret's stealthy stalking from the backseat, directing his chauffeur as I climb up the brick stairs of a tricky poem, stubbing my fucking toe on a line and tossing the whole mess into the fire, the unread novel of my life, just sitting there on the night stand, gathering a fine layer of dust--all the places I should be right now, all the people I should be knowing at this very moment. The constant oblivion of the black hole is so much easier. I wonder if I'm just not strong enough? How could I be if my psyche, at the slightest threat to it's supremacy, capitulates so quickly to this kind of coma? No one has the answers. Perhaps I'm just not up to the task.

Ah, I feel better today. I blow out the sputum and move on. The poems finish themselves; I move on. The Secret stops calling; I move on. Let's hope the only casualty is the final fine fall day of the season.

Drunk, 2 am post-birthday post, to be (most likely) regretted in the morning

On Friday, the day before my birthday, I lamented to my mother my lack of a proper birthday cake. "Well, I sent you a check," she said, "go buy your own damn cake." True, dat. So I went down to the Wedge to get a piece of cake, and as I munched some of Matt Zust's chocolate buttercream-orange cake, I watched the second season of Sex in the City.

In the second episode, Carrie Bradshaw "accidentally" invites her ex, Mr. Big, to her birthday celebration at a hip Moroccan restaurant. Mr. Big mentions that he'll be bringing "someone else." As soon as she hangs up the phone, Carrie slaps her forehead. Dumb move! I stopped, a forkful of buttercream hovering before my hungry gob. Yes, a good lesson to remain cognizant of, I thought, given that my own bash, set for the next day at local gay dive the 19 Bar, would undoubtedly be attended by B and his...charming B, l'acrobat. Quelle Cocteau. What, pray tell, would the night bring? Drinks in faces? Bitch-slaps? Blowjobs in the toilet? Had I been a Carrie, I would have cowered in fear.

But I am no Carrie Bradshaw! I am Samantha, through and through! I thought to myself, I wouldn't sit there downing vodka tonics helplessly as my ex received lap dances from some twink belly dancer! I'd feed that thong a two dollar bill! And, true to form, the night went off flawlessly. It's difficult being someone's ex. You take deep breaths and remind yourself why you are single now, but at the same time you must steel yourself for the inevitable feelings of jealousy. It is proof of love, in its own, twisted way. I have come to the conclusion that jealousy is a by-product of possessiveness, which itself is a form of objectification and ownership, and eradicating that chain of emotions is paramount to living a happy life and not end up a stalker (the noun is on my mind these days...). Though whenever I tried to talk to him a trapeze seemed to appear out of nowhere, offering him a quick double-somersault escape from my vicinity, I found B's B to be nice and charming and good-looking. Good for them. The world is my oyster, too. When the condom guy came by, B took some for him and I took some for me. My twenty-sixth year will be a good one. I feel the waves building up, ready to crest. Thanks everyone for stopping by, for offering your libations to my upcoming year. I was flattered and humbled and lovely-fied to drink with you all tonight.

P.S.... Oh, and happy birthday to me--two publications arrived today in which I have pieces. Do pick up a copy of smoke: a london peculiar #4 and Gertrude. Both are great.

Listening to Pardon My Freedom from the album Louden Up Now by !!!

Phone call with mom on the occasion of my birthday...

mom: Wow, so, you're getting old!
me: I know! 26 years old!
mom: Wait, what? You aren't 26, are you? No!
me: Yes, mom, I am...I know, don't remind me!
mom: No, that can't be right...[counting to herself]...twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty... Oh my god, you're right. You are 26. That's so sad!
me: Mom.
mom: Oh, no, I mean, it's sad for me! Think about me!

Isolation. To Brandon

The bus was full when he got on; I had one of the few empty seats. I recognized him immediately though it's been--what?--six years since I've seen him last?

He sat down next to me, and I didn't see him again for the rest of the bus ride. I had my iPod on and he stared straight ahead. It's possible he never recognized me. When he slipped his right arm into his pocket to fish out his cellphone, I felt the muscles of his arms moving like pistons beneath his jacket sleeve.

He was the first guy I dated. I was 19 and had moved down from small town Minnesota to medium sized city Minnesota, and I suddenly found myself surrounded by gay people. Oh, it's a common narrative, isn't it? How did I meet Brandon? On the internet, I'm sure. IRC, back in those days. He had just gotten out of treatment at Hazleton. He smoked menthols. We had a couple of dates--was he the one who took me to the Olive Garden?. Then, I dunno, I guess I just stopped calling him. I was embarrassed at my desire, so far-ranging, without sense to it, fickle. Maybe he was hurt, but as he would admit, being out of treatment was a confusing time. He felt transitory. Laying on his bed together after sex, staring at the ceiling and smoking, I told him he should decorate his room. He said he didn't know how long he was going to be there, so why bother? It could only be a week. I told him he should anyway--he'd feel more comfortable in the space; it was worth it. A few days later he told me he had covered every wall and the ceiling with tin foil. He said it looked really cool. It is, as far as I know, the only mark I left on his life.

So isn't it funny that the other day on the bus we sat side by side and didn't look at each other, didn't acknowledge each other's presence? I didn't ask him if he had carried the tin foil theme through subsequent habitats, and he didn't chide me for vanishing from his life without a goodbye or explanation.