Lost in Translation
Jeebus Burbano, who I saw star in the musical Menopausia! last Saturday night. I thoroughly enjoyed the production, not only for the skill that the performers and designers brought to it (which was considerable), but primarily because it was performed in Spanish; a language that I don't speak a word of and therefore was able to fill in the holes in the plot with my imagination. The story (as I saw it), told the tale of Ms. Burbano and her three friends who were all sexually frustrated nymphomaniacs who each have carnal obsessions for Jonny M. The four bosom buddies sing production numbers describing various sexual perversions they would like to perform on me, separated by humorous vignettes in which they discuss their longing for me. At the end of the show, all of the women in the audience who shared similar erotic fantasies about me were invited to come on stage and perform a ceremonial dance articulating their desire for me. It was an unforgettable production but I was puzzled to be in the lobby afterwards and have those same women, who were pledging their eternal lust to me only a few moments before (albeit in a language I do not understand; requiring my ability to recognize subtle nuances in movement and inflection to successfully comprehend what they were driving at), snarling contemptuously at me as I seductively licked my lips and adjusted my package in response to the signals they had been sending me all night. And when the cast came out to meet the audience, they all pretended that the erotic mating ritual they had been presenting to me throughout the evening had even never happened as security guards were asked to escort me off the premises. I immediately went to Google Translate and discovered that a few lines of dialogue which I assumed dealt with carnal lust towards me were actually humorous references to dealing with the symptoms of menopause, so I can understand why they were confused at some of the responses I shouted from my seat during the show. But it's really their own fault for staging a musical in a language other than English to vex me, because I have enough problems with the English ones. I'm still convinced that Chicago is about a bunch of Prohibition-era hotties' longing to have sex with me.
Enemies List favorite Mara Marini, who wailed "Laundry day = Hide and Seek: Me Versus Quarters. How is it nearly 2014 and washers and driers haven't upgraded to other forms of payment???"I feel Ms. Marini's pain since I spent decades shoveling quarters down the hungry throats of pay-as-you-go washing machines, until I discovered a fantastic solution that I would urge her to try. I spend easily 95% of my time strutting around in the nude, thus eliminating the need for costly visits to the Laundromat. Imagine how much easier Ms. Marini's life would be by not having to hunt behind sofa cushions or underneath car seats for those elusive twenty-five cent pieces while she was enjoying the freedom of a life unencumbered by clothes. And if she was too self-conscious to go au natural in her own home in front of her innocent little dog and the very God she worships, she's welcome to come to Casa de Jonny to practice the economically savvy and spiritually cleansing lifestyle, free from judgmental eyes. She needn't worry about feeling out of place, because everyone here will be naked. And I'm not just talking about me and my beloved pug Winston (a committed nudist). I'll insist the hundred or so men who stop by throughout the day leave their clothes at the door as well. Ms. Marini will save a fortune in quarters by not having to wash clothes that she never wore, I'll make a few bucks by charging admission, and the dudes won't have to pay for expensive monthly memberships at Internet porn sites. It's a financial win-win all the way around.
Photoshop Makes Anything Possible, which is a video making the cyber rounds which shows an already-attractive model being dolled up with makeup and hair extensions and then having her photograph being digitally altered to depict a feminine ideal that has little to do with reality. A number of the teeming masses have used this video to decry the use of Photoshop in marketing so that our view of beauty (particularly feminine beauty) isn't unattainable. It's a point that has some validity, but the fact of the matter is that we have twisted our concept of the physical ideal long before the programmers at Adobe started pondering a digital imaging application. Back before personal computers were seen outside of a Star Trek episode, Playboy was frequently criticized for employing the obsolete practice of airbrushing their centerfolds. Before photography even existed, portrait painters would create far more flattering images of their patrons than the fat bastards looked like in life if the painters wanted to hang onto their patronages. In Ancient Greece, sculptors were so enamored of symmetry in the human form that they would carve faces in which the left side was a mirror image of the right; a physical state which does not exist in nature. And while people love to get on a soapbox and pontificate on the evils of Photoshop, I have acquaintances who won't allow me to post an image of them online until it's been retouched. So let's give Photoshop a break. Maybe it does allow us to present an idealized version of physical beauty, but that idealization is exactly what most of us aspire to. And without it, I couldn't even post a picture of myself without all of you retching your guts out. Let's look on the bright side for a change.
Ja'Son Fogelson, who is currently in Iceland to report on the rolling out of a new automobile for a car enthusiast website he corresponds for. I was unaware that Iceland had an automotive concern until Mr. Foegelson’s journey, which he is taking on behalf of the Fridleifsdöttir motor company. While U.S. car models are named after ferocious animals indigenous to North America like the Mustang and the Bronco, Fridleifsdottir Motors doesn’t have as many home-grown beasts to choose from so they were forced to name their new car the Viöur Mús, or wood mouse. There are no gas stations in Iceland, but the Fridleifsdottir Viöur Mús gets twenty kílómetris (the approximate distance that a typical wood mouse can run before it drops dead of a heart attack) per gallon of kerosene. Fridleifsdöttir expects great sales for the Viöur Mús since the price of kereosene has skyrocketed in Iceland in recent months, fetching as much as two polar bear pelts per gallon. The top brass of Fridleifsdöttir are said to be trying to sway Mr. Fogelson’s editorial opinion by wining and dining him with Icelandic delicacies like barbequed wood mice and grain alcohol, but he has declared that he will maintain his journalistic integrity and not pass judgment on the Viöur Mús until he gives it the ultimate test of seeing how quickly it can transport him the fuck out of Iceland.
The insufferable Amy Ball, who celebrated a birthday on Monday. To mark the occasion, I created one of my classic Facebook cover images devoted to Ms. Ball in some of her various irksome guises (including Peaseblossom from last year's holiday story Jonny's Same-Sex Marriage Christmas and The Obnoxious Little Sister, the arch-foe of the Jonny League of America). When the illustration was complete, I realized that there is no one who has more arrows in her quiver to irritate me than Ms. Ball does. When it comes to being annoying, she is truly the Woman of 1,000 Faces, all of which are capable of making the hair on the back of my neck not only stand up, but run away screaming while simultaneously throwing up. I hope Ms. Ball had a happy birthday and can only add that I'm thrilled that she spent it annoying someone other than myself.