Ragtag grab-bag
Going into Cowgirl Hall of Fame, I could see that there was a lot of rubbernecking happening a block down, at the corner of Christopher and Hudson. It was hard to tell, though, whether there was a fire, an accident, or what. I was curious, but I was hungrier. By the time dinner was over, though, the sun had set and the floodlights and an even larger crowd had arrived at the scene, making it very clear that something was still going on, and it was kinda major.
The Coney Island Mermaid Parade was, once again, a blast. I would expect no less, but the looming redevelopment of the boardwalk area makes me fear that this may be the last time the Mermaid Parade is still a wonderful, messy burst of local character quite like this.
I love the parade more than anything else that happens in New York all year. It’s the time when worlds collide, but in this case they always do it beautifully. The boardwalk is packed with every slice of life that the city has to offer, and everyone’s just having fun soaking it all in. Dreamy.
Well, there’s something else you can get excited about: being a glamorous model for next month’s all-star, ass-kicking, body-moving, belly-laughing, cringe-inducing, first-anniversary WYSIWYG Talent Show: Spawn. Of. Worst. Sex. Ever!!
For the show’s promo images, we wanna have a few different versions of a close-up of someone’s face making a horrible reaction in response to something that’s happening “down there” (ahem). And we want you, shameless bloggers of the world, to be included in our gallery of horrors. Here are a couple of examples of what we’re going for:
There are two ways you can include yourself in the fun:
I’ll add images to the WYSIWYG web site as they come in, and then we’ll include a gallery of all the images on the site and in the show program. C’mon, play along!
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OMG, we had so much fun! Everyone pulled off a dazzling performance, and the audience ate it up. I should apologize to Bob and Kythryne up front, because the pictures I got of them turned out so badly there was no way to even tell what they were. As for everyone else, well…I did what I could: it was a tough shoot from the back row.
And for those of you who are iTunes-enabled, I published an iMix of some of the music I threw together to play before the show. Of course, the Music Store only had about half of what I played, but you can get a bit of the same feeling of being right there in the theater, waiting in gleeful anticipation of heaping helpings of homo!
As I finish up the piece I’ll be reading at the next WYSIWYG Talent SHOW (it’s this Tuesday at 7:00 don’t miss it!) I’ve been trying to figure out of I have any stage fright waiting to burst forth and ruin the whole thing for me. I’m not feeling particularly nervous about anything except finishing my essay in time to read it, but since I’m a worrier by nature I’m trying to plan ahead. It’s been about fifteen years or so since the last gasp of my amateur stage career (I quit a voice class in college because of a scheduling problem and have never performed or even tried to carry a tune in public ever since), but I’ve never been prone to much anxiety about giving presentations or wedding toasts or anything, so I’m assuming I’ll be alright.
As I tried to think back to how I dealt with any stage fright in the past, though, I had a shocking realization: I can’t remember a damn thing about ever being on stage before.
I never entertained any notions about being an actor or singer, but as a burgeoning young homosexual with an affinity for musicals, I was naturally drawn to opportunities of the school play. I can’t imagine that I was any more than adequate, but nevertheless I took the the plunge into a handful of talent shows, a couple of musicals, a couple of musical reviews, and even a dance recital. Every one of them is a blank for me. I can’t dredge up any firsthand memories of being on stage or even waiting in the wings. I can look at pictures or video footage of those moments, but they don’t inspire any kind of recollection at all. I can recall surrounding circumstances easily enough the time I sang my bit while battling a raging case of strep throat, sneaking up to the lighting booth with Mark to watch a dance number choreographed to a Kraftwerk song, realizing that my body mic was still on as I changed costumes backstage but nothing about the performances themselves is there.
I suppose this is a side effect of the rush of adreneline required for a pretty shy person to put himself on the line and possibly look like a fool in public. I imagine I was so attuned to the moment and getting through it each time that I was totally focused on what I was doing, leaving no part of my mind free to process and preserve what was going on. It’s a shame, because I can remember that I enjoyed the overall process of putting on a show a lot. Was I any good? Probably not great, but I don’t think I ever messed up or embarrassed myself. Damned if I know, though. Hopefully, I won’t be so narrowly focused on Tuesday, and I’ll be able to hang on to the experience this time. Take some pictures for me, just in case.
You know you want it. More importantly, you know how crappy it is when you don’t get it. Wallow in the schadenfreude over at P.S. 122 before Valentine’s Day comes crashing down on you. Hear some of your favorite blog-types recount their stories (and possibly songs) of their Worst. Sex. Ever.
If you check out the January/February issue of (the not great but not completely terrible) Step Inside Design magazine, you’ll find a short article about typographic tattoos featuring such luminaries as me (with the most ink, in journalism terms) and Dan’l (who inspired the author when she spotted his “happy” tattoo on the bus one day). It’s a nice little article, but now I find myself reflexively cringing at the thought of being part of a burgeoning trend.
I wish there more photos included with the article, because some of the other tattoos described sound truly exquisite. The last time I talked to the writer she was contemplating a book on the subject, so maybe I’ll get to see some of them eventually. If that happens, though, I’m going to have to make damn sure that I can offer something better than a low-res JPG for them to use. Not only does my picture in the article show all the signs of being blown up from a smaller version, but it still manages to show all the freckles and acne scars on my back. I’d hang my head in shame, but that would only draw attention to my back.
Here’s a brief excerpt:
“What’s new here is the graphic sophistication and awareness of tattoo design: Both the tattooed and those tattooing them are responding to trends in a visually driven culture. Patrons of tattoo parlors, especially in urban areas, often come in with predesigned messages, printed out from the fonts on their computers. And the younger, hipper tattoo artists are often design school grads, with a broad knowledge of typographic choices.”
I’ve been getting the itch to add another tattooed letter to my set, too. Although I have a loose waiting list of candidates, I keep waiting for serendipity to drop something truly outstanding in my lap. So here’s what I’m thinking: why don’t some of you send in suggestions? Maybe a little collaboration is order this time around/
Send me a picture of a letter you like. Here are some guidelines to keep in mind:
I made a last-minute decision to fly out to San Francisco this past weekend to visit some very good friends and check out the Dore Alley Fair. Fun time, nice things to see, nothing earth-shattering to report. On the whole, everyone was a lot friendlier than any of the Folsom Street East fairs I’ve been to. Somehow I also managed to run into more analog and online friends on the other side of the country than I ever do at the street fair here. Go figure.
Anyway, some snapshots:
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I’ve neglected to mention one of the other charming changes of the last couple of months — my new pal Bear. Ain’t she a pretty girl? She’s Glenn’s dog and the other full-time resident of the Rumpus Room. She’s remarkably quiet and mellow, spending most of her time curled up on the floor a couple of feet from one of us, sweetly savoring the proximity. She’s all soft and cuddly and she hasn’t peed indoors once.