Wednesday, May 12, 2004


Having read more and more about Pandamania in DC, it has been decided by grand jury that I like oh my god totally have to go. That’s all there is to it. Yep. 150 pandas randomly placed around the city, 75 standing, 75 sitting. It will be essential to make a mad dash around the city, taking photos of every panda. They’re in Georgetown, (Hi menzes!), they’re in the capitol, they’re in the ghetto. I’ll wear black and white, my rhinestone PANDA belt, and lovely shoes.

I’m trying to remember how I ever got the nickname Panda. I think it has something to do with a nesting ritual I used to do, my affinity for black, white, and red, my bamboo-like qualities, and how well I relate to being universally adored. It is reinforced by the fact that my “keepers” cheer me every time I get it on. I think an ex of mine, G, coined it. At any rate, there’s a panda dance, a panda face, a panda attitude, a panda scent—all things can be Panda. It’s also a verb. I might be losing my panda semblance after substantial weight loss, but hey, my weight loss merely symbolizes a metaphysical transcendence of my symapthies for the Giant Panda’s loss of habitat and food sources. I am PandaGhandi; I am on hunger strike.

Not really. But the most repulsive thing I’ve seen in my life was a panda fur for sale at a market in Beijing. Don't worry, it was "discretely" hidden under a pile of rather nice and very long fox. Keep this in perspective; I’m the first in line to wear broadtail, the first to take a pie for Anna Wintour (though, she could probably benefit from a good egg white mask), the first to compare S’s eye colour to that of a sheared muskrat in ultimate adoration—-don’t get me wrong—-but people, please; an endangered species? That’s just tacky. Even the Visigoths had limits. I’m guessing. Well, Hagar the Horrible certainly did, according to the cartoon. Give me a break. Sheesh.


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