when focus groups attack

No one sees my drawings before I submit them to the client. Once in a very blue moon I'll ask the BF for advice if I'm having some issue, but this almost never happens.
Except for last week. I wasn't liking my latest Blotter creation, so I showed him what I had so far.
He hated it. As in, absolute disgust. Hated the colors, didn't get the conceit, despised the background.

Thanks, Sugar.

I went back to the PowerBook and recast the image with his suggestions in mind. Here are the two drawings, one pre-critique, one after. Which one do you think I sent to the paper?





Blotter: The owner of a Church's Chicken on Auburn Avenue ...

oh, sherry

It's official, I guess. The BF and I are now that couple—the ones who, already known for our mutual disdain of humanity, have actually got up and left a restaurant because it was "too loud."

We joke that we're doing all the Senior Citizen things early, but this latest incident really makes me take pause and ask myself, "When did I get so fucking old?"

It happened Friday night, when we returned to a Mexican restaurant near our apartment. We'd been there once before and had enjoyed a relatively quiet dinner, even if the waitress did try and push a super-sized laminated margarita menu on us.
Judging by the crowd on Friday, those sticky menus had been put to ample use. It was a T.G.I.Fridays-Good-Times-and-Great-Oldies style jamboree in this place, with the bar positively swimming with middle-aged white folks who didn't have time to change after another hellish day at Merrill Lynch. The BF and I were instantly taken aback by the noise of the place, even as were led to a corner table near the bathroom. What's worse, we seemed to be seated right under a speaker, which was playing Steve Perry at levels that must be illegal, even in Blue State NY.

We sat for maybe four minutes before trading glances and getting up to leave.

On the street, we couldn't believe we'd come to such. I mean, this was Memorial Day Weekend — isn't a Mexican joint supposed to be full of drunk Caucasians? What was wrong with us?

Here's the embarrassing part.

It happened again last night. Same restaurant, only this was a Tuesday. Surely the cantina would be quiet again, no? Hardly. This time we asked to be seated in the front window, thinking somehow all the glass would, I don't know, deflect the Lite Classix busting from the speakers. We cautiously sat and started munching on chips, even as we noticed that some other tables seemed annoyed at the slow service.

And that's when the salsa hit the fan. The lights went down, a multi-colored spinning party light came on and the soundtrack abruptly switched to a medly of "Happy Birthday" (not the copywritten version but a generic Chuck E. Cheese chorus variation) mixed in with "La Bamba." All the servers come parading through the restaurant carrying a cake to a corner table, where a group of fortysomethings were having The Best Night of Their Lives. And the lead waitress was frantically working a tambourine along to the music.

Now, when there's a tambourine involved, you know it's some serious shit.

At this point, the volume level in the restaurant had surpassed "amusement park" and was nearing the "airport runway" zone. The BF and I traded glances (again), dropped a few bucks on the table and left.

A few minutes later, we were first in line at McDonald's. Four teenage girls crowded the area behind us, one of them loudly singing, "I found you, Ms. New Booty ..."
At least it wasn't Steve Perry.

storm vs. storm

I'm not sure what it says about my current mind set, but I have no interest in catching the new X-Men flick this weekend. That's surprising for at least two reasons:
1. I love super hero movies.
2. I adore the X-Men, having read most of the mutant comics for the greater part of my teens and early twenties.

But the first X-Men movie proved so unflinchingly awful, it sort of spoiled the franchise for me. I blame Halle Berry, who seems to suck in just about everything she touches, but was particularly awful playing weather goddess Storm. Bitch had like two lines in the whole stinker, yet still managed to ruin it. The photos of her from the new movie simply scare me. I'd hoped the producers would see fit to finally give us the punked-out '80s Ororo who I loved. But no, it's like Anita Baker Storm. "Watch out, Calisto, I'm Giving You the Best That I Got." Bitch, please.

I'm therefore urging everyone to hold off on seeing the new X-Men travesty and instead invest their weekend dollars in a truly mind-blowing movie-going experience. Wednesday night the BF and I stood in line for An Inconvenient Truth, the new documentary on climate change.

OK, I can sense some eyes glazing over already. The movie has become known as "Al Gore's slideshow," which sounds about as thrilling as, well ... nothing sounds less exciting than that. But the Truth is one of the most startling and compelling docs I've caught in ages.

The summary: Naysayers be damned, global warming is not just a theory. The polar ice caps are melting, world temperatures are on the rise and glaciers are drying up faster than Britney Spears' career. If the trend continues, we're fucked. If a large enough chunk of Greenland's glaciers melts into the Atlantic (a real possibility, given how the ice shelves in Antarctica are decaying), we're fucked.
In one of the movie's most shocking moments, we see how the world map would be redrawn if just half of Greenland and half of Antarctica melted: No more Miami, San Francisco, and half of Manhattan.
But then there's Al Gore, who may be this revolutionary film's greatest weakness. Don't get me wrong: He's great. He's matured in a good way over the past six years, and comes across less stiff and surprisingly likeable. Sure, he's still a goofball, pulling a couple of laugh-out-loud nerd moments in the lecture, but there's something distinctly presidential about his presence here. Too bad he had to include a segment on the 2000 election, which just doesn't mesh in the overall argument about changing climate.

I know I'm being stupid thinking folks will actually flock to see this movie. Hell, most of my friends will be cruising boys in P-Town, Pensacola or Fire Island this weekend anyway. But for those of you who aren't going someplace fab for Memorial Day, make a date with Al Gore.
Halle Berry can go to hell for all I care.

idol hands

It's been a while since I posted any of my drawings, not because I've hated recent work (though I didn't love the last two Blotter doodles) but because I've been so freakin' busy lately. Who knew that adult life would be like this: Getting home at 9 p.m. from work, rising early to hammer out a couple of quick sketches, always traveling, always feeling behind.
It's a good problem to have, I guess, the alternative being sitting at home with a phone that never rings, but lately I've been wishing I could just hole up in my apartment for a week and catch up on my DVR backlog.
Speaking of, I haven't watched "Idol" in a month, but today I have a drawing on Seed about the show's finale. Sort of.

On Pitch and "American Idol"



And although it's a few weeks old now, here's another recent drawing that made me giggle.

A female impersonator walked into the Ralph Lauren store ...

excuses, excuses

Five reasons why I haven't blogged much in the month of May:

1. I was busy learning to ski.
OK, so that's kind of a lie. The BF and I went to Colorado's Arapahoe Basin at the start of the month, and yes, we did hit the slopes. It was my first time on skis, so the slopes hit back. Picture me flat on my back on the bunny course, while five-year-old girls sailed past — with no poles. Haughty little bitches.
I finally got the hang of it and actually braved the second-tier slope before the day was done. It was oddly easier than the bunny trail, and I left those five-year-old bitches in the dust. Or something like that.

2. I was busy cramming for the Tony Awards.
OK, that's also a lie. But I have been fortunate to see an insane number of Broadway shows lately, some of which actually got Tony nods today. Short summary:
Lestat. Yes, it sort of sucked. But I didn't find it nearly as bad as the reviews.
The Drowsy Chaperone. Love, love, love. Not as much love as the Tony noms suggest, but it's one of the most endearing shows I've seen in years.
The Wedding Singer. Please, Jesus, let the trend of '80s nostalgia end before I hurl myself into oncoming traffic.
[title of show]. This musical got no love from the Tonys because it didn't play in a Broadway house. Oh well. It's still a freakin' brilliant little piece of theater, a self-conscious and nerdy homage to the creative process. The show reopens in July: Buy your tickets now!

3. I've been trapped in the 1980s.
OK, you got me. Another lie. But I've ended up thinking a lot about the '80s lately, partly because of the above-mentioned Wedding Singer fiasco, and also because of a writing assignment for the NY Press. (Link to come, I promise.) Oh, and another story I was working on, a preview of Night of a Thousand Stevies, didn't help. Just like a white-winged dove, the month has just flown by.

4. Lady Bunny was holding me hostage.
Well, that's not entirely true, though I did have a fab time hanging out with Bunny the other night at a Sirius Satellite Radio party, where I also met Rufus Wainwright (cuter in person than the photos would suggest) and made a fool of myself in front of Derek (of the Derek and Romaine Show). Don't ask. (On a strange side note, I also met India.Arie earlier that afternoon, making Thursday, May 11, my official Biggest Starfucking Day to Date. Thanks.)

5. I've been spending too much time watching YouTube.
Guilty.

whiskey, sour

Soon after I landed in NYC, Kiki & Herb started haunting me.

Not the performers, but their names kept popping up in conversation. A co-worker killing time in the hallway: "Yeah, the show was so Kiki & Herb." Overheard in a crowded fag bar: "I caught Justin Bond the other night, you know, Kiki & Herb." Belligerent school children on Bronx-bound trains: "Dude, who da fuck do you think you are, Kiki & Herb?"
I learned fairly quickly not to profess my ignorance, because any admission that I didn't know who the hell they were talking about would lead to shocked stares and outright verbal condescension. YOU'VE NEVER SEEN KIKI & HERB?!

Now, ladies and gents, I'm happy to say the tongue lashing can cease: I've seen the show, and I get it.
It was a "secret" set at Joe's Pub, billed as "The Erie Institutional Children's Choir," and totally sold out.
Kiki started the night with a frantic bit of audience interaction, bouncing from table to table, throwing herself into hapless laps, demanding that folks lick her leg. They obeyed, loving it.
I couldn't decide if her bitter, booze-a-licious schtick was a genius imitation of a crazed and drunken cabaret castaway — or if the drunken part was completely authentic. Either way, what a performer!
Although the joke felt a little one-note after the start of the second hour, I'll have to say the obscure musical references (Melanie? No, really), inspired comic banter and sideshow spectacle of it all gave me chills a couple of times.

Even better, next time the name comes up, now I can be the one throwing shade.
"You've never seen Kiki & Herb? Well. Pity." (Rolls eyes, sips cocktail.)

this is what democracy looks like

If 300,000 people take to the streets of Manhattan to protest the war in Iraq, will anyone notice? Will anything change? Will the protest itself make headlines for exactly one news cycle (if that) then just conveniently fade from memory as the national consciousness reverts back to Suri TomKat or BranJelina?

I asked myself these questions Saturday afternoon when the BF and I took part in the April 29 March for Peace, which flooded Broadway from Union Square to City Hall. I'd heard nothing about the march beforehand, but the BF had turned up a link on Craigslist last week (his latest obsession, god save us all) and insisted we check it out.

This being my first peace protest, I was fascinated by the character of the participants. We were near the front of the parade, which tended to be middle-aged and married white folks, with more than a few kids in tow. Further back the group appeared to get younger and more radical, with many NYU students and alternatypes.

Though the tone of the march was decidedly political — with the ire of the crowd aimed squarely at our Decider in Chief — I felt like the marchers around us were mostly reluctant protesters at best. It was hard to get them engaged in the chants of the crowd, some of which were more successful than others. People seemed to embrace

Show me what Democracy looks like
This is what Democracy looks like

But were less enthusiastic about
Bush, you liar, your cowboy ass is fired.

Almost any mention of profanity had the parents around us blushing a bit, though they were all too politiely liberal to ask the chick with the bullhorn to tone it down.

I was astounded by the creativity of some of the marchers, who'd built complicated effigies of the Bush administration. The most powerful display involved these huge paper masks of grief-striken Iraqi mothers, each of them carrying cardboard bodies of their fallen. No words, just symbols, but so powerful.


The march culminated downtown, appropriately enough, at Thomas Paine Park, where we saw Jesse Jackson speak alongside Cindy Sheehan. We also had to duck out the way of a flank of belly dancers, gyrating through a public performance. (The BF remarked, "Imagine if we sent the belly dancers into battle. The enemy would run screaming.")

But words fail to describe the magnitude of this afternoon, even if it did get lost in the black hole of cable news. Some photos: