The lesser kudu

My favorite animal at the Zoo is the lesser kudu. You have to admire an animal with a name like that, laboring as he must in the shadow of the greater kudu. It must be like having an older brother who excelled at sports and academics in school, to whom you have always been compared and found lacking. A few months ago, I was visiting the Zoo at lunch with a friend and discovered the area where the lesser kudu is ordinarily found was empty.

I hope he made a break for it. I hope he made his way out into the world, free of expectations, shedding labels, determined only to be the best damn kudu he could be.

(originally posted July 28, 2000)

I’m so sorry about this one…

I've been in the unfortunate situation of apologizing to my friends and family a lot recently. You see, I haven't been around much and have declined almost every invitation to dine, drink or dance. I think people were beginning to suspect I'd developed a drug addiction or some terrible disfiguring disease, so reclusive have I been.

Actually, I've been writing a musical.

It's the heart-wrenching and -warming story of an aged Broadway star who, facing diminishing prospects of being cast in new shows and realizing that her seemingly perennial star vehicle has run out of gas, begins singing Jerry Herman songs on New York street corners and busking for nickels and dimes from passing tourists.

I call it Carol Channing or Change.

Venereal disease

A few years ago, I was sitting at brunch with the usual gang when, as it sometimes does after several rounds of mimosas, the table fell quiet, each of us lost in thought or gazing out the window at the boys on the boulevard.

This went on an uncharacteristically long time, for us, when finally a thought popped into my head and I snickered. More of a snort, really. We'd been imbibing since 11 and it was now well past two.

"What?" inquired The Giant Queen, shifting in my direction, desperate for the conversation to resume.

"I was just thinking," I said, "about venereal words."

James whipped his head toward me. "I'd lower my voice if I were you."

"No, no," I said, lightly slapping his face. "Not that kind of venereal. I mean terms of venery. It's an olde" — I pronounced the 'e', old-ee — "English thing, a sort of parlor game. Venery words were taken from the sport of hunting, collective nouns for groups of things."

I had just be given a delightful book, An Exaltation of Larks, which explained this in far more detail than James' increasingly glassy stare told me he would sit for.

"Like a 'gaggle' of geese or a 'pride' of lions. They're words, collective nouns," I stressed again, "that represent a group."

"And that's funny?" The Giant Queen looked dubious.

"Well, there are others," I explained. "More modern ones, and funny ones too. Like a 'magnum' of gunmen, or a 'blur' of Impressionists."

"And that's funny?" The Actor chimed in, looking confused.

"No," I said. "What's funny is I was sitting here wondering what the group of us might be called."

Jeff didn't miss a beat. "That's easy," he exclaimed. "We're a 'dish' of brunch queens."

I had to concede that wasn't bad at all, sophisticated, even, for Jeff, taking in the double meaning of "dish" to mean both gossip and plates and bowls. I gave him a little round of applause. He beamed and gave me another round of cocktails.

For the next hour, we avoided the withering glance of the waiter who would really rather we'd just cleared off so he could cash out and go home ("Ignore her," Jeff averred. "She always wants to leave early." and I had the distinct impression he was talking about more than work) and made up terms of venery for things familiar to us.

I hadn't thought of them in years but, last weekend, as a brunchtime conversation — an almost entirely new gang, alas — wound down to silence, suddenly they were there again and I found myself scraping my memory to recall them all.

They're reproduced herewith, along with some recent additions:

• A clutch (as in pearls) of gay men.
• A U-Haul of lesbians. (James suggested "A lick of lesbians," but we made him leave the table and think about what he'd done.)
• A confusion of bisexuals.
• A rage of AIDS activists.
• A peck of shirtless boys.
• A fancy of drag queens.
• A swagger of tops.
• A brace of bottoms.
• A tease of twinks.
• A press of muscle Marys.
• A bulk of bears.
• A largesse of sugar daddies.
• A bump of circuit boys.
• A desperation of trolls.
• A mess of therapy junkies.
• A raven of club kids.
• A hide of leather men.
• A delusion of ex-gays.

Then again, who nose?

Frankly, I'm a little worried about my friends. It was a solid 48 hours after the man's considerable, famous proboscis collided with that wall before I heard the first Barry Manilow joke.

Clearly, I need cronies with a better developed sense of schadenfreude. If nothing else, I thought we had that covered.

Match.com: Your resource for organizing massive outdoor orgies

Corner of Belmont & Halsted
Chicago, Illinois

Symbiosis

Spend a week or so in Austin, walking along the streets, haunting the night, puzzling over the perplexing variety of laws and ordinances prohibiting alcohol drinking and cigarette smoking at precisely the times you most need to do them.

Spend that week, and you'll come away with the overwhelming impression that the city's entire economy is supported by web design firms, nightclubs and bars, and tattoo parlors.

Which is, when you think about it, one of nature's nearly perfect examples of symbiosis.

Har har…

A friend in Colorado was complaining recently that the weatherman on her favorite television station had become increasingly inaccurate over the years. "Yesterday he forecast 10 inches of snow, but we only got 4 inches," she said.

You know, I think I've chatted with that weatherman on America Online.

Spam spam eggs and spam…

If I had responded to all of the spam e-mail I received in the past two weeks, I would have 350,000 free business cards, 250 miniature radio-controlled toy cars, and would have netted approximately $7.4 billion from assisting various deposed heads of state in securing their rightful fortunes.

Also, my penis would be 56 inches long and I would have seen more than a lifetime's worth of vaginas and boobies.

Some Gross Generalizations Which I Have Found, Nonetheless, To Be True In My Experience

• Men who own cats or describe themselves as "cat people" tend to be bottoms or, at least, very "versatile".


• Men who have seen Cats more than once are definitely bottoms, whether they know it or not.


• Men who are in the cast of Cats flip over more quickly than a Suzuki Samurai on a wet, curvy road and are easier to get into than a community college.

I'm just sayin'.

Gifts from abroad

My friend Will asked me to bring him something "cheap and British"...
Roasted Monkey Nuts, Harrod's, London
December 31, 2001

Extermin--wha?!

Men, Women, Wheelchair Access...Daleks?! Aaaaiiieee!!
Public Loo at Victoria Station, London
December 30, 2001

Heeeeere’s Greg…

This portion of The BradLands is brought to you by So New Media, publishers of Greg Knauss' "Rainy Day Fun and Games for Toddler and Total Bastard." So New Media -- not just media, but new media. Only more so. Like extra, super new media. So New Media. It's got that new media smell.

Hello, I'm Abraham Lincoln and when I'm not spending time being dead and in the public domain, there's nothing I enjoy more than relaxing with a good So New Media book. They're terrific! Not only are So New Media books conveniently printed on paper -- like such classics as "Garfield Gets Tied Into a Canvas Bag and Dropped into the River" and "The Bible" -- but you'd be hard pressed to find other books that have that been as thoroughly handled by Ben Brown, unless you live in Austin and visit the pornography section of used bookstores.

Take, for instance, "Rainy Day Fun and Games for Toddler and Total Bastard" -- please! Ha ha! Oh, joyous mirth.

"RDFGTTB" -- pronounced like you're clearing your throat -- is the only book about parental love with a chainsaw and the word "bastard" on the cover. These heart-warning tales are sure to make you realize that you've read them before, as they're re-printed from An Entirely Other Day. But who could resist such bawdy folderol as this:

Tom saunters up to me -- he's sauntering now, Tom -- and says, "Do you work at a office or in a office?"

"I work in an office, at the office."

Tom looks confused, then laughs.

"Them prepositions," I say. "They're tricky."

Of course, you won't actually find that story in the book. But there are a number of other grammar jokes, for the connoisseur. You sad, lonely people.

So remember, citizen, for all your so new media needs, think So New Media! Because, y'know, that's what we sell. It's called branding. We used to sell these tasty little sponge cakes, but nobody ever came to buy them, because, pftt, "So New Media" just doesn't scream "sponge cake"! It was a silly thing to try. But still, sponge cake. Mmm. Everybody likes sponge cake.

I'm Abraham Lincoln, now irretrievably thinking about sponge cake. What the hell was I saying? Has anybody seen my hat?

A hope

I sincerely hope that if Disney ever opens a drag cabaret, they call it the Mulan Rouge.

Parody I Have No Time to Write

Lie-a-netics by N. Ron Hubbard. Or maybe John Travolta as Layl in some sort of Battlefield Earth ape.

Little Known Fact

In later years, Joseph Heller left the literary world and took a job with the Chicago City Street Repairs Division as a sign painter.

The Reason I Spit Mountain Dew All Over My Desk Today

Advertisement from Ladue News, January 4, 2002 edition

Observed

An observation about chain bookstores: The "humor" section is almost always immediately adjacent to the "religion" section. It's a good thing they put up signs.

Words Matter

I believe in the power of words to affect perception, so I make the following plea to the nation's weathercasters: Please reverse your use of the terms "wind chill" and "heat index". Somehow, "99 degrees with a wind chill of 115" just sounds cooler. Likewise, I imagine in February I'll appreciate "10 degrees with a heat index of 11 below" much more.

Oh, and while we're at it, could you please stop referring to the Midwest as "America's midsection"? Between that and "the Bible Belt", I'm getting rather tired of feeling as though I live in the crotch of the country.

Thank you.

In which I am suspicious of culinary vocabulary…

I'll admit that when it comes to cuisine, I am not the most culturally aware diner. It's the old "I may not know much about culinary arts, but I know what I like" routine. I'm certainly not squeamish about trying new things, but when it comes right down to it, I don't know a lot about food.

For example, I was certain the "chalupa" was an item wholly invented by the Taco Bell marketing department, just because it was a funny, vaguely Spanish-sounding word that could be spouted by a shifty chihuahua on TV.

A few months ago, though, I was scanning the menu at a family-owned Mexican restaurant and discovered that, in fact, chalupas were authentic components of cuisine south of the border. (I think it was the first I'd actually looked at the menu in a Mexican restaurant in some time; in my favorite haunt near my home, they hand me a plate of chicken burritos with rice, beans and fantastic guacamole on the side practically as soon as I walk in the door. I'm a regular customer, even more regular after a second helping of beans.)

The chalupa aside, I remain convinced that the "chimichanga," although it appears on the menus of Mexican restaurants across the land — including many not promoted by small, annoying dogs — is a made-up dish. The word is just too damn queer to say.

Try it: Chimichanga. Chimichanga. Chimichanga.

See? It's just an intrinsically funny word.

I believe the chimichanga is the Mexican equivalent of the "Rooty-Tooty, Fresh-and-Fruity Breakfast" at the International House of Pancakes. I'm certain it's a word the Mexican people made up to taunt the gringoes, and that every time I order one, the waiter scurries back to the kitchen barely suppressing his snickers.

"He said it!" he then exclaims to the other staff and together they burst into giggles. "He even put the stress on the third syllable. God, that's hilarious!"

I suspect the French and their fictional "pommes frites" as well.

Sit .com

I sometimes imagine that I am the star of a situation comedy. I picture myself in the opening title sequence, driving down the highway to a bouncy, optimistic theme song...kind of like Bonnie Franklin, escaping to the big city of Indianapolis in One Day at a Time with Mackenzine Phillips and Valerie Bertanelli in tow.

I am the star and in my sitcom, I have changed my name to Lucky.

I have changed my name because all of the great sitcom leads have two syllable names and Brad just doesn’t cut it. Think about it: Lucy, Mary, Rhoda, Phyllis, Alice. Then again, all of the great sitcom leads I worship are also women, but I am only willing to go so far to secure my fame.

Helpful tips

He mentioned it as off-handedly as if he were discussing his grocery list or the fact that tomorrow he would be having an English muffin for breakfast instead of toast. James and I were having dinner when he ended a litany that began when I asked, "So, what's new?" by saying, "...and, I've been considering having foreskin replacement surgery."

I had to excuse myself from the table to avoid asking the following questions: Foreskin replacement surgery? Who thought that up? Was there some Jewish mother at a bris turning to the mohel and saying, "Oy, save the wrapping. We can use it again."? Can you only have this surgery if you're already circumsized or is it possible to trade up? Is there some sort of showroom where you go to look at swatches? Is it like The Gap, where you can choose "relaxed fit" or "classic"?

Also on the bill: Rhoda Perdition

My friend Jeff and I can kill an hour or two over drinks or dinner making up stage names for female impersonators. Last night, we were recalling some of our favorite creations over the years including the Monial Sisters, Tess T. and Sarah. We also thought up the Mental Quartet: Manya Mental (who has hats in the shapes of various world monuments), Envira Mental (who prefers gowns in earthtones, thankyouverymuch), Senta Mental (prone to weepy ballads), and Tempera Mental (who can scarcely lip-synch through one whole song without pitching a fit).

My very favorite of our inspirations came in the early 90s, when we dreamed up a trio of Right-Wing Drag Divas. Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for the oppressive song stylings of E. Gail Forum, Christy Ann Coalition and -- live from Colorado! -- the one and only Flo Cassandra Family.

It’d be a hit, I tells ya!

I wish I was a nightclub impressario. I have an idea for a revue titled "Ain't Politics a Drag?!" It would feature Al Gore, George W. Bush and Ralph Nader (remember him?) performing in drag.

Ladies and gentlemen, we are pleased to present the imprecise song stylings of...Miss Butterfly Ballote, Marge N. O'Vera, and Willa D'Peeple. I'm picturing an evening of classic disco chart hits, such as "Enough is Enough (No More Tears)".

General Tomfoolery

There was a commercial on TV last night for "Flonase". There's a product with a name that actually sounds like what it does: flow nase. An onomatopoetic drug is kind of cool.

The funny thing about the commercial, though, was that it featured a lab-coated gentleman extolling the virtues of the medication. Instead of the usual small type at the bottom of the screen explaining that, although this gentleman was not a real doctor but was, in fact, an actor portraying the surveyed recommendations of dozens of doctors, there it was in large, bright white letters by his head: "DOCTOR DRAMATIZATION."

I assume he practices at Reenactment General.

A brief excerpt from an unwritten play

He: I don't understand why you're so upset.

She: Why shouldn't I be upset?! I relied on you! I trusted you! You were my role model, my mentor, my hero!!

He: I never wanted to be anyone's hero.

She: Then why are you wearing a pink leotard, go-go boots, a mask and a cape?

He: (pause) I'd rather not discuss it.