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by Topher Payne
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September 30, 2011 00:00 |
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 I was a prissy little fat kid in a small Mississippi town, whose only defense against the hostility of my peers was a premature flair with cutting remarks. Consequently, I spent a good portion of my childhood learning to embrace the pleasure of my own company.
This is how I ended up spending entire summers at the county library, curled up in the stacks, reading books not intended for children. The children’s section was of no interest to me. Even at age nine, the precocious adventures of Ramona Quimby felt cloying and contrived, and the Narnia series seemed ripped off from stories I’d already heard in Sunday School.
When I wasn’t clear on what exactly was happening in a book, I would cross-reference in the World Book Encyclopedia, which led to an inconsistent but shockingly detailed knowledge base on subjects like menstruation, spousal abuse, and thanks to “Flowers in the Attic,” arsenic and incest.
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by Topher Payne
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September 16, 2011 00:00 |
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The in-laws came to town for the opening of my play – we’ve all discovered that getting together for theatrical events is way more fun than weddings and funerals — and the next night, we took in a very different kind of production: The Stone Mountain Lasershow Spectacular… in Mountainvision!
Okay, y’all. Seriously. Do you have any idea how many people go to this thing? There were more people there than at the last Scissor Sisters concert I attended. I tried to focus on the laser-rendered narratives of “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” and “Sweet Home Alabama,” but my attention kept drifting to the people around me. Particularly when laser Martin Luther King appeared on the side of the mountain, and the man behind us booed.
He actually booed Laser MLK. Preppy shot me Look #32: “I am begging you not to use this as an opportunity to cause a scene.” Out of respect for him, the family, and the dignity Laser MLK would likely have supported, I maintained my composure.
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by Topher Payne
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September 02, 2011 00:00 |
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“There are just so many questions I have about this show,” I tell Preppy as we sit on the sofa, absorbing the latest episode of “The A-List: New York.” I can’t really say any of us are watching it, as Preppy and I are both catching up on work, and Daisy has her red ball, which really demands her full attention.
“The A-List: New York” is simply the thing that happens after “Rupaul’s Drag U,” in much the same way as poots happen after eating beans. It’s mildly offensive, but you accept it as part of the process.
“You’re not going to ruin this for me, Topher,” says Preppy. “The A-List is not supposed to inspire questions. Just let it go.”
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by Topher Payne
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August 19, 2011 00:00 |
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Eventually the process of electing the next president will begin 20 minutes after swearing in the latest one. A quick Oath of Office, Aretha Franklin sings a little something, and we hit the campaign trail again for the next four years.
America has become the most tragic slut at the bar: Once we give in and spend a night with the trick who’s been wooing us, we immediately begin looking for the next one. I truly thought 2008 was as bad as it would get: John McCain tossing aside all the ideals and beliefs that had once made him the most popular Republican among Democrats, the vitriolic attacks on Hillary Clinton, the implosion of John Edwards, and the herpes infection that was the Palin family. Barack Obama managed to jostle my waning enthusiasm, with a message of hope, change, and reconciliation.
But look at us now. I chose to help elect a president who does not support federal recognition of my marriage, but would let me fight in one of our ongoing wars, if I wanted to. I suppose that is progress, but it’s still pretty twisted if you think about it for too long.
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by Daisy the dog
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August 05, 2011 00:35 |
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 The house in Mississippi where I spent the first four weeks of my life was run by dogs. There may have been a person’s name on the mortgage, but there was only one of her and over 80 of us, so who do you think was really calling the shots? I found out later that our person was what is known as an “animal hoarder.” I was not aware of this at the time. I just thought it was a party that had gotten a little out of hand.
Pandemonium broke out when the men with cages arrived. At least a dozen dogs all thought they were pack leader, so there were a lot of conflicting instructions.
Meanwhile, my mother trotted happily toward the men—she was friendly in the extreme, and not terribly bright, which explains why she had borne six litters of puppies.
My father lifted me by the neck and pulled me through the chaos to the kitchen pantry.
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