the devil wore prada

Am I the only person flabbergasted by this?

From The Wall Street Journal

Does the Pope Wear Prada?
Pope Benedict XVI is appealing to a new group of admirers: marketers seeking not blessings but pontifical product placements. Since his election last year, the pope has been spotted wearing Serengeti-branded sunglasses and brown walking shoes donated by Geox. He owns a specially engraved white Apple iPod, and he recently stirred much publicity with a pair of stylish red loafers that may or may not be from Prada. The raft of designer labels floating around the new pontiff is one of the odder consequences of last year's long-awaited papal transition. For the marketing world, the change at the helm of the Holy See is presenting an unprecedented opportunity, but also an ethical dilemma over how far to exploit religion for hyping a product.


Seriously. What are these times we live in? The Worst President Ever, and now a Pope who's both condemning gay people and skipping around town in designer loafers?

let me see you put your hands up

A little-known fact: Probably 75% of my personal doodles involve characters with their hands in the air.
Why is this? I have no f-ing clue. It's been like that for years, some sort of scratch on the vinyl of my brain, I suppose. Because of this wrinkle, I usually avoid drawing that particular pose, though this week I couldn't resist.

The Blotter: A 20-year-old granddaughter wasn't taking her medications ...

green party (part two)

As I mentioned earlier, it's springtime—which, in New York, equates to a master class of false starts and frustrations. One day, sunny and 72. The next, 42 and blowing rain.

Growing up in the South, I'm not used to such a vernal cocktease. Come March (sometimes February, even), the clouds part, the trees bloom and—boom!—it's hot until September. Not so in NYC. Last April we were still getting hit by sleet and wearing scarves. This year it's been warmer, but unpredictable.

Such fluctuations annoy the living hell out of the BF, who tends to have more mood swings than even Manhattan meteorology. Throw an unexpected temperature dip or sudden thunderstorm at him and he's ready to pack it back to Atlanta.

This weekend it rained until Sunday afternoon. The city spontaneously burst into life once the showers stopped, like the Munchkins popping out of the bushes after Glinda gives the green light. The BF and I took the chance to tool around the neighborhood some, and ended up in Washington Square Park—teeming with life, as always. There's a plan afoot to renovate the park, lose the lovely mounds and apparently even move the fountain to line up with the Arch. I'm a little sad by the prospect, though I realize that's one truth of life in the city (and everywhere, I suppose): change is constantly coming. Springtime or not, life means regeneration, breaking with the past, embracing the now.

After a long talk in the park, we headed to the Joyce to catch the Stephen Petronio Company. I'm usually no huge fan of dance—the BF loves it, with its raw emotion and abstract movement—but I prefer narrative, thanks very much. I wanted to see this particular show, "Bloom" not so much for the dance but to hear the original songs Rufus Wainwright had created for Petronio's piece.

The opening, "Bud Suite," provided movement for four older Rufus tracks, the best being "Oh What a World," with two male dancers wearing bisected business suits and clashing in a complicated ritual that I took to be an indictment of modern masculinity.

It was all warm up for "Bloom," a grandiose, sometimes stilted but overall elegant work meant to symbolize springtime and the passage from youth to adulthood. With three dozen adolescent singers from the Young People's Chorus humming in the balcony, the dancers on stage writhed out a ritual of a seed coming to life, among other passages.

I was more intrigued, of course, by Rufus's choices, and a bit disappointed to find that the "original" songs actually didn't call for new verse; instead, he crafted new music and used words from two Walt Whitman poems and one Emily Dickinson.

The Whitman pieces ("Unseen Buds," "One's Self I Sing") sounded distinctinly Italian and spiritual, like a sacred mass sung partly in Latin, perhaps, though it had a few very "Bohemian Rhapsody" flourishes. I was also reminded, oddly enough, of "School House Rock": Rufus sings Whitman! I can almost picture A.P. English students humming the song quietly to themsevles in exam rooms.

The Dickinson piece, "Hope is the Thing With Feathers," felt less polished but also somehow more exciting, sort of like a B-Side on an E.L.O. album, but with less orchestration. Between this and my earlier Queen reference, I can't help but wonder if Rufus is revisiting his '70s power vinyl; perhaps we'll hear more of this sound on the next CD?

Leaving the theater, it had started to sprinkle rain again. On the walk home, I was thinking that maybe this city doesn't need a springtime. The spirit of creativity here, of collaboration and constant exploration, seemingly knows no season.

Still, I do wish we could enjoy these blossoming works in shorts instead of scarves.

don't drink the floor cleaner

Last week's Blotter illustration made me giggle, even though the actual text is rather terrifying.

A homeless man said he went to a bar on Spring Street while he was high on meth and GHB ...

star witness

I never want to be accused of shameless name-dropping.
For one thing, I have to do enough gossipmongering for my day job. And it's kind of like what my friend Arman used to say about giving shout-outs: It just ain't cute.

That's one reason I held off on writing about seeing Sandra Bernhard's new show, which was probably one of the most amazing nights I've had since moving to Metropolis. I took EMC along for the ride, because I knew he still had long passages memorized from Without You I'm Nothing—the cassette tape I loaned him in the late '90s. And Miss Sandra did not disappoint, riffing on everyone from Laura Bush to Julia Roberts.
The stars turned out for opening night: E and I were seated two rows in front of Liza (with a Z—and a carton of smokes, apparently) and Donna Karan. Further down the aisle from us sat Runway's Daniel Vosovic, who is adorable. I chatted him up at a recent NLGJA event (along with Kara Janx), and got an earful about why my magazine sucks. Ouch.

Anyway, at the after-party for Sandra (held at Splash—yikes), I sipped my cocktail in the corner and watched as Marc Jacobs flitted around with his Rent Boy BF, while Charles Busch hid out downstairs. Sandy was there looking stunning, and also a bit distracted. There must have been dust on those mints.

But such name-dropping just ain't cute, and I don't want to be that person. Take my recent visit to the GLAAD Media Awards. I was happy to catch the NYC leg of the ceremonies (held also in S.F., L.A., and oddly enough, Miami) even if we got some of the lackluster categories (Best Spanish Language Newspaper Column? Thrilled.).
I was seated at the same table as Kim Stolz of America's Next Top Model, which made my co-worker nearly wet himself. He, meanwhile, sat next to Tyler from this season of the The Real World, who bragged about his penis size and revealed that he's dating someone in D.C. Bruce Vilanch hosted the event, which went by in a flash for me — maybe that was due to all the white wine I'd guzzled. I expected to be beside myself when Erasure performed: Senior year of high school, I absolutely adored those guys. I was oddly ambivalent. Still, the first song on their new CD, "Boy," is worth downloading.

Speaking of live music, regular readers here (the both of you) will know how deeply happy the double bill of Neko Case and Martha Wainwright at Webster Hall must've made me. I caught the show with JP, who'd also given me the opportunity to wax poetic on Neko's mysterious new disc in the pages of The NY Press. I get chills even now thinking about the show: Neko's voice, a bit more nasal than I expected, still sounds cut from velvet ribbons. Martha, meanwhile, was a wreck: Her performance and vocals were fine, but her stage presence needs a lot of work. I loved the moment when Neko invited her on stage to sing background on "Star Witness," and Martha acted like she didn't know the words and kept leaning over to consult with Kelly Hogan.

But there I go again, dropping names, which we've established just ain't cute, and it's one reason I never blogged about seeing Swamp Thing's Adrienne Barbeau in the dreadful The Property Known as Garland, and held off on mentioning how much I admired Mark Ruffalo in Awake and Sing! (even if the lovely Lauren Ambrose let me down).

True, mentioning a celebrity in a stage role isn't the same as gushing about rubbing elbows with someone at a luncheon. though I do think there can be a certain self-serving insouciance in both. That's why I only told a few friends about my recent starfucking lunch in Midtown, an awards ceremony for an acting studio honoring Cynthia Nixon. I resisted acting like a breathless tourist and didn't introduce myself to Cynthia (there with her daughter and butcher-than-butch partner), though I should have checked my pride and said hello to Sarah Jessica Parker, who looked stunning. She's tiny! Like, Barbie sized. I swear to God, she was wearing Barbie clothes the entire run of Sex and the City and we never knew it. I seriously could have put her in my jacket pocket and slipped out. Also seen: Fran Drescher, Julie Halston (whoever that is).

But there I go again, pretending I'm all cool and stuff, just because I saw some famous people. So what? The joy of New York is, we aren't impressed by celebrity. In truth, celebs annoy us. James Gandolfini seated himself at the table next to the BF and me the other morning, and no one in the diner batted an eye. They actually sort of grimaced. Great, Tony Fucking Soprano's here, and I haven't even gotten my eggs yet.

green party (part one)

Welcome springtime!
More on this later, but first: a new illustration for Seed.

narrow is the path, hard is the drive

If Apple really is a religion, then my faith has been tested.

It's true, brothers and sisters, I've walked through the valley of the shadow of death, and somehow escaped with my data intact.

The trouble starts Wednesday, when I'm importing a CD on my Powerbook. But iTunes is lagging, the twirling color ball thingy keeps popping up. Then everything just stops. I try to restart—nothing. Just the Apple logo and the turning gear. Which can't be good.

The next morning, I'm walking to work and try to fire up my iPod. And there's that blasted Apple again, which sticks on the screen longer than normal.

Wasn't it an Apple that the serpent tempted Eve with? I'm now sure of it.

Frustrated, I restart. And then tragedy: The sad-faced iPod frowns back at me. No music, no laptop, no shit. Why, God, why?

Friday night, I plan ahead and book myself an appointment at the Apple Store's "Genius Bar" for 7 p.m., thinking it would be slow. I show up late, and can see on the displays behind the counter that I'm still eighth in line.

I take a seat on one of the blonde wood benches, which are packed with terrified-looking customers. These people are wide-eyed and pale, like family members in the waiting room outside an emergency room. I can almost hear them thinking, "I wonder if he'll make it. Things will never be the same, you know. And I'm already so damn tired ..."

Sheryl Crow is singing over the speaker system, "All I wanna do, is have some fun," but all these people want to do it get the fuck on with their lives. I get the impression that some of them have been here for hours. Every so often an afro kid in a black T-shirt yells out a name, and they shuffle up for consultation with one of the "geniuses."

Funny name, "Genius Bar." Such a target for condescension. It's too easy, really.

By now I'm bored and can't concentrate on the book I brought, so I start cruising the store. I decide of the dozen or so "geniuses" behind the bar, there's exactly one I'd sleep with: a compassionate-looking collegiate type, with golden curls, Luke Perry sideburns and piercing grey eyes.

I daydream momentarily about the life we could have together, him working his way through his engineering degree and keeping our expensive computer equipment in tip-top shape while I wash his black T-shirts that say "Genius" on the front. It could be a good life, a match made in Apple.

The rest of the "geniuses" defy easy classification: there are the usual D&D/tech geek rejects, along with a few vaguely Euro-trash guys and one dumpy dude wearing a cowboy hat. My greatest fear is that I'll end up getting called by the cowboy, or with the guy with the pre-adolescent facial hair and M.A.S.H. hat.

"LaToya S.!" screams afro guy, and I look on the screen to see that I'm now third in line, with only "Derren W." and "Ping Yen" ahead of me. On the bench beside me, an indie rock chick in a green hoodie is reading a multi-page love letter written on Days Inn stationary.
Classy.
I strain to peer over her shoulder without her noticing, and make out something about "this weekend with you has been truly joyous" before another name is called.

"Shannon B.!"

WTF? That bitch was behind me in line, how come she gets to go next? I'm just about to rasie some holy hell when I see that Shannon's been summoned by the dumpy cowboy. Thank god it wasn't me!

Collegiate Guy is still helping a chubby black chick with her iBook, and I can see from the bench that her desktop wallpaper is tragic: Some air-brushed ghetto slut sprawled over a motorcycle. Note to self: Before arriving at the "Genius Bar," be sure to take down the Ebony Sizzle centerfold.

By now 45 minutes have passed, and David Bowie's on the stereo screaming his way through "Suffragette City":

Hey man, my school day's insane
Hey man, my work's down the drain

and that's when my cold sweat starts. If the laptop really is dead, I've lost everything. Every drawing I've done for the past two years, all my writing, all my photos, all the porn, all my music!

I'm reminded suddenly of a Wired magazine story from a few years back, which asked if the Mac platform could be saved. The cover showed an Apple wrapped in a crown of thorns. The headline said, simply, "Pray."

Different circumstances, but yes, I'm now praying. Dear god: I'm really sorry I haven't backed anything up for the past two years. If you'll let my data survive—hell, just the drawings—I'll never let this kind of thing happen again ...

"TRAY B!"

I'm summoned to the "Genius Bar," but sadly not by Collegiate Guy. I'm at the station right next to his— so close!—but the "genius" here is tall and thick and kinda scary. His name, says the smartly designed plastic card hanging around his neck, is Igor. I opt not to make a joke. My fate rests in this man's fat fingers.

I explain my situation and his first question is, of course, "Have you backed up your data?"

"No," I whimper.

I'm not Catholic, but I can guess that going to Confession is something like this, though more private and without the Bowie soundtrack.

He tells me I have to first buy a $300 external drive, back up all my data, then he'll attempt to reinstall the OS. It probably won't work, he says. And only I can make the decision to erase all the data off my machine.

"Do it," I say. "Whatever it takes."

And so begins my process of salvation, another hour of waiting and sweating. When it comes time to wipe clean the laptop, Igor hands the mouse to me. "You have to push the button yourself," he says.

Do you accept? I click yes. And my former life is swept away.

Then the good news comes: About 45 of my 70 GBs of data can be saved—which includes all my drawings and photos, thank heavens.

Igor says we're now in the home stretch. We're friends now, laughing. He tells me horrible cautionary tales: A famous fashion photographer who came to him in tears, having lost a $15,000 job by not back up her data. The heathens! When will they learn?

So what about my iPod? Igor scowls when I tell him the symptoms. Apparently the Sad Face means certain death. But, he tells me, you'll get 10% off a new one if you turn the old one in.

Which kinda sucks. Then again, nothing lasts forever. And I've been longing for a reason to buy a new one anyway. The Lord works in mysterious ways.

And at least my laptop has been saved. Igor says we're nearly through with the OS reinstall, and he just has one more thing to do. He clicks the mouse and then a message comes up. "Your Powerbook has now been blessed," he says.

Apparently "blessed" has something to do with the boot-up process, but I don't ask too many questions. I quickly gather my Powerbook, my new hard drive, and tumble out into Soho's twilight with a new lease on life. I'm now among the converted, and I shall never backslide.

Verily, I say unto thee: Back your shit up, because the day of judgment is coming.

But surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
and I shall dwell in the house of Apple
forever.

Amen.