Tarhearted.

FOUR THINGS

1. Meet my new tattoo. Il s'appelle Henri. Bonjour, Henri!

2. I am completely obsessed with Vajazzling. I'm constantly now questioning whether women are walking around with costume gems on their cha-chas. Please think about vajazzling all the time, like when you have a sweet waitress, deal with your female accountant, or call your mother on the phone.

3. Ever since I moved to New York in 2003 I've been obsessed with discarded hair extensions. For a while I was even scooping them up to use later in a macrame project until my friends chided me too many times. Still, I get so excited when an old hair extension on my stoop. Well, my friend Jeff tipped me off to the fact that these discarded hair extensions have a name: tumbleweave. That term is too amazing.

4. I'm finally, FINALLY, getting my soap opera off the ground. Sinking Hearts will have it's first episode as part of the HOT! Festival at Dixon Place on Monday, July 12th at 9:00 PM. Tickets are $10 each and can be purchased here.

In Sinking Hearts I play (yes, I'm acting!) a psychic Navy wife named Misty Nagel who moves to a secluded submarine base in Washington State with her sailor husband and bitch daughter. There are lots of questions to be answered, and with the help of her alcoholic neighbor and new BFF, Crystal Firby, Misty intends on solving them. Questions like: Is Misty's husband, Chuck, a total fag? Will Misty's 12 year-old daughter Madison beat her to death with a brick? Where are all the neighbors disappearing to and what's with all these giant insects, anyway? Find out the answers to these questions and more on Sinking Hearts!

POPE GETS OLDER.

Wonkette is awesome for coining the terms "Pope Nazi Pedobear" and "Emperor of Rape" and for creating this gif.

 

CAKE FARTS.

I have encountered any number of strange and hilarious fetishes in my day. Plushies, sploshers, pony play... you name it. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING is quite as hilarious as cake farts.

I haven't laughed this hard in a long while. Whoo! I really needed that.

Don't watch this if you're easily offended or the least bit squeamish or uptight. It's called Cake Farts. Use your imagination (the real thing is so much funnier.) And now, the sentence I always knew I'd type one day... click below for cake farts!

NOT SAFE FOR LIFE, LET ALONE WORK.

AN ADDENDUM.

I'm also grateful for the amazing Married to the Sea.

JULIE BROWN RETROSPECTIVE.

I'm not talking about that annoying English "downtown" Julie Brown with a face like a foot. I'm talking about red headed Julie Brown of Just Say Julie, the greatest MTV show ever, and of hit films such as Earth Girls Are Easy. This one:

I don't know why, but I've been missing Julie a lot lately. I was obsessed with her as a little boy, and even had her record, Trapped in the Body of a White Girl, which contained instant hits like "I Like 'Em Big and Stupid" and "The Homecoming Queen's Got a Gun."

Apparently, the real Miss Julie got her start in gay clubs. No surprise there. The ego maniacal valley girl character she created for herself was practically a drag queen. And everybody knows the gays are early arbiters of cool (except for approximately half of Americans, who are retarded and don't matter anyway.)

Julie is now on a Canadian soap opera, but it's my new dream to write a play for her. She would be PERFECT for my writing. The above picture feels like a production shot from a Conkel play already. Maybe she could star in the Broadway production of my new play, The Sluts of Sutton Drive.

Let's revisit the magic of Just Say Julie. Shall we?

I SMELL SHITTY PANTIES.

Oh, happy day! They've finally made a sequel to Jiz and the Mammograms, a youtube favorite amongst my friends. Its predecessor is comedy genius, so make sure to watch it first.

This is super NSFW or for life.

FAKE IT 'TIL YOU MAKE IT.

This is an entry about theater, elitism, and the great class divide, so if you came here to read about fake nails or forgotten New Wave bands, come back in a bit or read the archives. I know, I know... writing about theater is boring. My photo essay on Witchboard should be coming later today, or first thing tomorrow, so come back then.

That said...

The Boyfriend and I were walking to a friend's house in Williamsburg last night when we started talking about a certain theater "opportunity" I've applied to, but haven't heard back from. I apply to it every year, and although it's supposedly for emerging artists, it's really for already biggish names and anybody willing to suck a few dicks (figuratively speaking).

But I'm not bitter. I prefer the dick suckers to the rich kids. At least I can compete against them.

I've also been thinking a lot about this stuff in regards to the O' Neill and fake submission opportunities in general. Further, I've been toying with the idea of applying to graduate school. I'm not even sure I actually want to go to graduate school. It's just that sometimes it seems to me that one has to have an Ivy league MFA to be a working playwright.

I'm not against education, but I think it's a problem that theaters use the MFA programs like NBC uses the up fronts: as a preview of what's to come. The training programs are supposed to be training programs, aren't they? I'm okay with fancy pants Ivy Leaguers doing well too, but it would be nice if those Lit Managers and Artistic Directors were also going to see Off Off shows and researching scripts from out of town as well, wouldn't it? That way, some of us lower class writers would have a shot. At least then we'd have some different voices.

It seems to me that plays are always about rich white people, written by rich white people, to be performed exclusively for rich white people. I wonder how much of that is because of the MFA programs? Contrary to popular belief, these programs aren't exclusively merit based. Most of them are cost prohibitory for working class or middle class students. The free programs only take a couple of students a year, and what are the chances that a nobody from Kentucky is going to get in over somebody who went the best private schools, an Ivy undergrad, and whose parents' financial support enabled them to not work so they could complete impressive internships?

I guess it's probably just under dog-ism, and I'm not sure how much of it is real or imagined, but it's a miracle I've even gotten as far as I have. I sometimes feel as if I started crawling to New York as a baby. It's been a long and painful journey. Until I moved here with $150 in 2003, I'd never even met somebody who went to an Ivy league school or had a trust fund. My mother is a secretary and my father is in the Navy, for God's sake. I was the first person in my family to ever go to college, and it was by way of heavy loans, scholarships, and sheer ingenuity. In order to get through college, move to New York, and make self produce my first few plays I had to do things that would make your average Harvard freshman cry. Seriously, like, whoa. 

I don't mean to sound all "poor me". I've come a long way and done a lot of awesome stuff. I'm also deceptively scrappy and tough (seriously, there were days when I would have pushed you in front of a train in exchange for a Big Mac), so I hate to seem whiny or weak. It' s just frustrating because I feel caught between two classes, and I struggle with anger when I see people who aren't necessarily any more talented than me getting opportunities I wanted because they have more pedigree. 

So I was discussing this with The Boyfriend when I joked that i should just put "MFA, Yale" on resume. Without thinking, he said, "Why don't you?"

It's so obvious! I don't know why I hadn't thought of it before, especially since I have an obsession with the old fashioned Dandies: working class or middle class men who broke into high society by impersonating it and then, like Oscar Wilde, doing it better than them.

This is a lesson I've already learned a number of times. The last time I learned it I was 21 and had just moved to New York. I learned that if you could manage to look stylish and rich then the stylish and rich will let you in anywhere. You can easily accomplish this by shoplifting, maxing out credit cards, borrowing clothes from rich kids, and convincing horny old men to take you shopping. Why, to this day I still call restaurants as my imaginary assistant, Marco, when I want a hard-to-get reservation. You'd be surprised how much it helps.

In that spirit, I am adding the following to my resume. Let me know of any other cool things you think I should add. Also, it should be said that some of these aren't crazy elitist, but just things I would have liked to have accomplished, but haven't, so I'm just going to skip ahead and pretend I did:

MFA, Yale

The O' Neill

Humana Festival

SoHo Writer/Director Lab

Ars Nova Playgroup

P73

TARHEARTED READERS HAVE ADDED:

SPF

McCarthy Genius Award

I know there must be others.

Hearts,

Joshua Conkel of the Hansville, Washington Conkels

P.S. After I posted this I came up with an idea: why doesn't somebody in an MFA program post all of their assignements and readings on an anonymous blog so that everybody can get an MFA vicariously? VicariousMasters.blogspot.com. Come on.... make it happen!

DIE QUICKLY.

Rep. Alan Grayson, of Florida, used an after hours speech last night to mockingly describe the Republicans health care position:

"If you get sick, America, the Republican health care plan is this: die quickly. That's right -- the Republicans want you to die quickly if you get sick."

"Remember, the Republican plan: Don't get sick. And if you do get sick, die quickly."

You can read more here. The Republicans are angry and already comparing it to Joe Wilson's "you lie" outburst. I'd like to point out a couple of crucial difference though.

1. Joe Wilson's outburst was during a Presidential speech. Alan Grayson's was during an after hours format designed for speakers to discuss the topic of their choice.

2. Grayson's speech was funny and not racist.

Doesn't it feel good to tell the truth? For all of their nay saying, Republicans have no alternative to Democratic health care proposals becuase- wait for it- they don't want health care to be reformed at all. I'll lump those so-called "blue dog" Democrats in there as well.

Yesterdays failure to pas seither bill with a public option is a clear indicator that the people's will doesn't matter anymore and that we live in a country run by corporations. Those not in favor of a public option state that it would unfairly run private insurance companies out of business.

Excuse me?

Not fair to insurance companies?

A recent stufy showed that 45,000 were going to die this year from a lack of health insurance. that's more than one 9/11 a month. What about what's fair to them? I'm almost afraid to ask, but do profits matter more than people to Republicans and fake Democrats?

SOAP OPERAS.

I've recently fallen in love with soap operas, thanks to the greatest show of all time, Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman. I mean, I kind of already loved them because of Twin Peaks and Passions and Dark Shadows. I'm also loving True Blood, which has become much more of a soap opera this season as well as having improved a hell of a lot since season one.

I started writing my own gothic soap opera for the stage, entitled Sinking Hearts, which i dream of some day producing for an audience full of adoring alcoholic fags who will actually want to come back for each installment.

Major spoiler alerts, but who knows if this will ever see the light of day so feel free to read on or skip:

The first episode of "Sinking Hearts" takes place on July 3rd. Sailor Chuck Nagel is relocating his family to the Thomas Hartman Submarine Base from San Diego, which is apparently top security and hidden deep in the pine forests of Washington State. His wife, Misty, who is a little bit psychic and has an interest in the occult, has a nightmare on the drive up in which a strange woman with hair like Kate Gosselin tells her to turn around and a naked man covered in water tries to communicate with her. Misty wakes up from her nightmare screaming, which causes Chuck to swerve off the road, nearly killing both of them and their tar hearted and slutty daughter, twelve-year-old Madysin.

As luck would have it, they have crashed right at the isolated Navy base, where the guard informs them that their new house is on Tullabee Street, a secluded section of the base way back in the woods by itself.

As Chuck and Madysin unpack inside the house, Misty burns sage in the backyard to clear the house of its evil spirits. Her alcoholic neighbor, Crystal Firbee, comes over to introduce herself. Crystal is the woman from Misty's dream. Before shel passes out in her own vomit, we learn that:

1. Most people don't stay on Tullabee Street for very long. It seems they mostly asked to be transferred because the quiet and isolation gets to them.

2. Crystal's husband Gus has been missing for days, which has also been happening on Tullabee Street lately.

The next day, July 4th, Madysin is sunbathing in the yard when she meets Crystal's fifteen-year-old son, Alisdair, and they take an interest in each other. Alisdair is an aspiring rock star and offers to show Madysin his black light posters. Madysin agrees to go up to his room, but not before revealing a plan to murder her mother and letting Alisdair know that she is saving herself for marriage, but that he can "put it in her butt" if he wants to.

Meanwhile, Chuck has to leave for his first day of duty aboard the submarine. He grills his new coworker, a swarthy sailor named Claude who is perpetually shirtless and doing crunches. Claude insists there is nothing unusual about Tullabee Street or the Thomas Hartman Submarine Base. Chuck admires Claude's abs.

Meanwhile, Misty is left alone to watch the fireworks until Crystal shows up with a magnum bottle of "apology wine". Crystal, it seems, has a drinking problem due to the stresses of having an asshole husband who has up and disappeared. Misty confesses to Crystal that she had a dream about her before she ever met her and that she feels that something is strange about Tullabee Street.

Just as Crystal goes into her own house to get another bottle of wine, a strange naked man crawls onto Misty's lawn, dazed. He is the man from Misty's dream and he is drenched. He opens his mouth to say something, but seaweed comes out. Crystal approaches with the wine and her best jelly jars (for drinking out of) and stops dead in her tracks. The man is Gus, her missing husband. They all stare at each other, stunned. Fireworks.

It's a lot funnier than it sounds. I really want to play Mist myself and I feel like she's the kind of housewife that always wears sweat pants with oversized t-shirts that have Looney Tunes characters on them. She also probably has hair that looks wet when its actually crunchy to the test. In a perfect world, my friend Michael Cyril Creighton (from MilkMilkLemonade) would play Crystal.

I don't know what's coming next but I do know that I want to incorpate the following:

1. Nuclear power

2. Crystal going to rehab.

3. A coma.

4. A gay love affair between sailors.

5. An unwanted and dangerous prgnancy.

6. Body invasions.

7. Killer insects.

P.S. I just found out that Tim Burton is planning on a film version of Dark Shadows with Johnny Depp as Barnabas. Why is Tim Burton always ruining my life?

QUEER HUMOUR

The Boyfriend sent me this video, which is pretty much the most hilarious thing I've seen this week. (WARNING: super not safe for work.)

Sometimes I feel like it's wrong to laugh at things like this. My writing too, contains dialogue and themes that some would find unbelievably offensive. I suppose I'm too inside of it, because I'm always sincerely shocked- SHOCKED- that anybody would find my sense of humor offensive.

I was catching a train with a heterosexual and super liberal friend once and we were discussing different neighborhoods in the city when i said I wouldn't go to a certain neighborhood for fear of being "Matthew Shepherd-ed." Okay, it's not guffaw funny, but I don't think it's hideously offensive either. I was making light of a very real and legitimate fear I felt. My immediate thought was "oops, I've offended my friend," but then that gave way to something else. "Wait a minute, " I thought, "I'm the one who's fearful. I'm the one without my civil rights here." And then I thought, "Fuck it. I can say whatever I feel like saying."

As another example, I was with a group of friends discussing what their nicknames were in high school. When it got to me, without missing a beat, I responded "faggot". Nobody laughed. I thought it was funny.

I guess my question is this: is offensive humour a part of queer culture? Do queer people become funny as a defense mechanism or a survival tactic? Is the collective queer threshold for dark comedy wider because of a lifetime full of abuses? If you consider the popularity of John Waters, Margaret Cho, Absolutely Fabulous, Charles Busch, and Sarah Silverman, I would say that it is. Because if it isn't, well... then I'm just an asshole.

Hopefully though I'm just carrying on a tradition.