You shoulda seen the rack on this chick!

From VirginMega.com:

The Snoop Deville Arrives

November 26, 2001

Seems Snoop Dogg is signing deals all over the place. He recently signed his Doggy Style imprint to major label MCA, and now he apparently has a deal in the works with General Motors. The West Coast rapper will be designing his very own special edition luxury car – the Snoop Deville. “I collect a lot of old school cars,” says Snoop, “‘cos when I was growing up I used to see Cadillacs with nice looking interiors and I always wanted to have one.” The Caddie, which should be in production next year, will be limited edition with hydraulics. Says Snoop, “It’s gonna be sharp.”

So my sources tell me they’ve heard tell of a new joint venture between Cadillac and Snoop Doggy Dog slated for release in the 2003 auto year. It’s called – brace yourself – the Snoop de Ville. I have not been able to google any conclusive confirmation or rebuttal of this rumor. I am desperate for information. Anyone?

… that our country loves deception over reality and fluff over truth, that we have so little faith in our ability to respond in an ‘appropriate’ fashion, even to events as big and exciting as the Winter Olympics, that we would rather structure and regulate that response than just let people cheer for whoever the fuck they want to – just in case any of you thought We the People were beyond that, I give you this.

[many thanks to Karen for the link]

And once again, ladies and gentlemen, I would like to introduce my dear friend, Mary Jo, Sexpot.

I would like, please, for someone to explain to me what grail lore has got to do with Tibet.

Saw Parsifal at the Lyric Opera last night. The music was, as always, gorgeous. The performances were, by and large, very impressive. But when it comes to Wagner, scene design is a major component of the production’s success, not least because of the frequent and lengthy musical interludes – the visual manifestation of the production can keep the story moving, keep it all together. Which brings me back to my question.

Set designer Raimond Bauer, presumably with the permission of Stage Director Nikolaus Lehnoff, and in conjunction with Andrea Schmidt-Futterer (Costumes) and Duane Schuler (Lighting), has set this production in Tibet. Now, I could be wrong about this, but I’m inclined to think that a mythology so deeply rooted in the Christian faith as the story of the Grail and Sacred Spear might not translate so well into an Oriental setting. But even that might be OK in the end. The real problem was trying to reconcile what was going on onstage, visually, with itself.

Act 1 came across as an odd but interesting cross between Star Wars and Dune. With maybe a bit of Indiana Jones thrown in. That was the first part. When a huge rock dislodged from the back wall of the set and rotated away to reveal what seemed to be a birdseye perspective of chairs in a stark gray room, I was impressed with the effect. Confused, but impressed. When the back wall flat flew out to reveal what can only be described as a giant skateboard ramp with chairs affixed to it at right angles, all the way up the vertical incline, I tried to understand. Instead, I got a headache. Again, it might just be me, but what do steel chairs on walls have to do with Tibetan monestaries? I could even cope with the very Dune/Indy sliding stone panel revealing the grail, but chairs on walls? I’m lost. The costumes, in contrast, provide a nice and comprehensible touch to the act, with Parsifal (Gösta Winbergh) and Kundry (Catherine Malfitano) in deep, earthy reds/golds/oranges and the knights in stony gray to match the scenery. We won’t talk about the dreadlocks.

Act 2, the Garden. After a spectacular prologue involving a painted scrim and a flying throne that I could swear is borrowed from the concurrent production of Die Zauberflöte, the (rather disappointing) Garden consisted of the giant skateboard ramp from Act 1, with stuffed mannequins to represent dead bodies and some other random rubble. Again, the costumes were a saving grace, bringing the only remotely botanical touch to the scene. The dresses of the flower/spirits were graceful and evocative, and worked quite nicely with Denni Sayers’ choreography. Kundry’s bud/caterpillar transformation was also quite interesting, although I couldn’t help but feel bad for her walking around on a 30° rake in those platform shoes. Poor Klingsor (Egils Silins), though, was stuck in a huge Kabuki-style getup – while the most colorful thing on stage by a long shot, he couldn’t have helped but feel slightly out of place in his own garden kingdom. Parsifal still had the Act 1 costume, and the dreadlocks, which we still won’t discuss.

Finally, Act 3. What can I say about this? The set was totally incomprehensible. Suddenly, from timeless (if grim) tibetan-fairy-tale-land, we are transported to the early 20th century Orient. The knights reappeared wearing what looked to me suspiciously like WW1 surplus gear, and Parsifal makes his grand reentrance on train tracks. Yes, train tracks. I’ll refrain from commenting on the mass grave/bathtub sunken into the stage left floor, but I can’t resist another dig at the steel furniture. We’re outdoors, apparently, on this set. There are rocks. There are train tracks, for crying out loud. So why is there a steel stool for Gurnemanz (Matti Salminen) to sit on? Did he crush his sitting rock in an earlier performance, or what? Anyway. Back to Parsifal. Reentering on the aforementioned iron road, carrying the giant Sacred Spear, he is wearing what appears to be an ancient Japanese (or fairy-tale, perhaps) mask with his otherwise traditional armor. Traditional in shape, that is. Dreadlocks have transformed to waist-length straight locks. He wears the headband and the traditional smock (under his armor) of a Ronin. I throw up my hands.

So did I hate the opera? Believe it or not, I did not. As previously mentioned, the performance, music and choreography were excellent. And at times, the scene design did work. I enjoyed all of these things immensely, and my seat offered me the leg room to do so without pain. But the design was internally inconsistent, and based on an iffy set of choices from the start. I do understand the need for a scene designer to distinguish himself from those who have gone before, but even with Wagner (perhaps especially with Wagner) it is possible to stray too far. Wagner loved spectacle, and even provides long musical interludes for it, but Wagner also loved the stories and legends that form the basis of our – western – culture. To displace such a story into a locale that has no relationship to it is, it seems to me, to do it a great disservice.

Food can be entertaining. Also dangerous.

New Orleans was a magnificent escape. My only regret is that I didn’t make it into St. Louis #1, but you’ve got to leave something for next time, right? Right. Said the woman at the visitor’s office: “You don’t go there without a group. It’s not safe.” Whether this is due to some structural infirmity or to the voodoo rituals that go on at Marie Leveau’s grave was never specified.

So, the trip: check in, wander the Quarter. Missed Acme, made Felix’s. A dozen oysters, some gumbo and a Dixie. Wander some more, stop to watch the crowd, Sandy appears. Sandy works security on Bourbon Street. We met at some point. He remembered. One of the things this little jaunt did for me was to remind me of why I like being me. People wander into my world and then reappear, years later, and it’s never a chore. Drinks, then more wandering. The Blacksmith’s Shop. The W. Sex. Sleep.

Morning, Café du Monde, beignets and coffee, the beauty of the sun on my skin and an arm around my shoulder. Lunch (more oysters). Hurricanes from Pat O’Brien’s. Window shopping. Back to the hotel. Sex. Change for dinner at G.W. Fins. For those of you planning a trip: go there. Afterwards, d.b.a.. Hotel. Sleep.

Morning. Well, afternoon. Acme for lunch. Coffee and the Garden District. A beer in the sun outside the Bulldog followed by a walk. Back to the Quarter. NOLA was disappointing, so back to Fin’s for dessert. James is a very good bartender, by the way. Sang at the Blacksmith’s. Had to swing by the Hideout for a nightcap and a few racks of pool (tied 1-1, last I recall). Sex. Sleep.

Morning (ok, ok, just barely made checkout at noon). Taxi to the airport. Todd is an excellent doorman. It was 75°.

Home now. Sated. Rested. Happy.

The end.

I’m off to New Orleans for a long weekend. Back on Tuesday. Mardi Gras is over, the Garden District and the Quarter are quiet (well, relatively speaking at least) and lovely, and it’s almost seventy degrees. Said Steve: “I don’t know… you might not have waited long enough [after Mardi Gras] for the stench of beer and vomit to dissipate…”

Let’s hope he’s wrong.

À bientôt, mes freres!

This is perfect. Not too big, not too expensive, not too personal, and what could be more appropriate for the world’s first white female pimp-daddy? You guessed it, Bungie’s Pimps at Sea.