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Remember Sparty, who lip-synched the house down with his full-bore non-drag performance of “And I Am Telling You I’m Not Going”? He’s back with a new video featuring the same song, a new look, masterful […]
John Q Sanchez lives in Brooklyn, New York. He went to art school with
Fausto Fernós in the mid-90s in Chicago where he wrote for local
publications including Babble, edited by Jim Pickett. He’s worked at
several high-profile magazines in New York and was an editor for the
web-zine Blair. He’s fascinated by oddball divas, bombastic child
stars, and the everyday person capturing their unique performances for
an online audience.
Comments
Guamtastic!
Guamazing!!
And I Guam Telling You, he’s a Guamerican Idol!
Thought Fausto would enjoy this poem I found:
“Faustina, or Rock Roses” by Elizabeth Bishop
Tended by Faustina
yes in a crazy house
upon a crazy bed,
frail, of chipped enamel,
blooming above her head
into four vaguely roselike
flower-formations
the white woman whispers to
herself. The floorboards sag
this way and that. The crooked
towel-covered table
bears a can of talcum
and five pasteboard boxes
of little pills
most half-crystallized.
The visitor sits and watches
the dew glint on the screen
and in it two glow-worms
burning in a drowned green
Meanwhile the eighty-watt bulb
betrays us all,
discovering the concern
within our stupefaction;
lighting as well on heads
of tacks in the wallpaper,
on a paper wall-pocket,
violet-embossed, glistening
with mica flakes
It exposes the fine white hair,
the gown with the undershirt
showing at the neck,
the pallid palm-leaf fan
she holds but cannot wield,
her white disordered sheets
like wilted roses.
Clutter of trophies,
chamber of bleached flags!
— Rags or ragged garments
hung on the chairs and hooks
each contributing its
shade of white, confusing
as undazzling.
The visitor is embarrassed
not by pain nor age
nor even nakedness,
though perhaps by its reverse.
By and by the whisper
says, “Faustina, Faustina…”
“¡Vengo ,señora!”
On bare scraping feet
Faustina nears the bed.
She exhibits the talcum powder,
the pills, the cans of “cream,”
the white bowl of farina
requesting for herself
a little coñac;
complaing of, explaining,
the terms of her employment.
She bends above the other.
Her sinister kind face
presents a cruel black
coincident conundrum
Oh, is it
freedom at last, a lifelong
dream of time and silence,
dream of protection and rest?
Or is it the very worst,
the unimaginable nightmare
that never before dared last
more than a second?
The acuteness of the question
forks instantly and starts
a snake-tongue flickering;
blurs further, blunts, softens,
separates, falls, our problems
becoming helplessly
proliferative.
There is no way of telling.
The eyes say only either.
At last the visitor rises,
awkwardly proffers her bunch
of rust-perforated roses
and wonders oh, whence come
all the petals.
Post this in the forums silly!
This movie is fabulous! It’s GUAM-derful!