Spam!

7/19 of my gmail spam box: "Dear Mr. celloshots, buy on 75% off" (5 from "Customer Service," 2 from "me")

3/19: "Special offer for celloshots, 80% better price" (2 from "me," 1 from "ED Pills from Pfizer")

2/19: "Exclusively for celloshots, -80%" (1 from "me," 1 from "ED Meds Shop")

1/19: "(no subject)" (from "(unknown sender)")

1/19: "We know these pills work" (from "Free Viagra and Cialis")

1/19: "Hi" (from my favorite one of all, "enigma")

1/19: "Even CEOs consult us." (from "Adebowale Audley")

The remaining 3/19 are in Japanese (I think) and I don't understand what they are offering, though one includes the website http://laserforu.com/national and another the mystic string of numbers 0958-272-060.


So my questions are:

1) Which is the best deal, on 75% off, 80% better price, or -80%?
2) Should I, instead of making my own decision, act like a CEO and consult Mr. Audley? Ms. Audley? Dr. Audley? Comrade Audley?
3) Can I extrapolate that they are all offering erectile dysfunction pills/meds, or are the ones from "me" selling some sort of musicology?
4) Is there a little-known laser form of treatment for erectile dysfunction that is popular in East Asia?

Key phrase

The next time I write about Cole Porter, I must include this lyric quotation:

You always bring your own gin;
That's why I love you

I don't really care what the topic of the paper is, but I love this sentiment.

I get distracted

This article is interesting on its own merits, but here's the part that I got stuck on:

Goldberg, co-foundeder of Jews Offering New Alternatives to Homosexuality (JONAH) and president of Positive Alternatives to Homosexuality (PATH)...dropped his conspicuous middle name, Abba...

How hilarious is it that a leader of ex-gay organizations had to get rid of the middle name ABBA?

Also, I woke up this morning from a dream with ABBA's "Mamma Mia" as the soundtrack.

In my parents' kitchen

As some of you may know, my last visit to my parents' place resulted in the discovery of teabags that had expired over ten years earlier. I'm not talking about one or two teabags; this was several full(-ish) boxes. And tea is good for at least two years before it even nominally expires. In addition, I discovered that an entire cabinet of dry goods had been transformed into a breeding ground for various moths, with sub-communities in the crackers, sun-dried tomatoes, rice, and several varieties of pasta.

My current visit was only three days long, and I am now departing with a Tupperware full of homemade trail mix that contains:

Hazelnuts (frozen, sell by 11/2005)
Pecans (frozen, use by 9/2008)
White chocolate chips (one of nine identical bags, nearly frozen in the garage)
Dried cranberries (see above, re: white chocolate chips)

plus the remains of the trail mix I brought with me: fresh peanuts, almonds, dried cranberries and dark chocolate chips.

I decided against including:

Almonds (frozen, best by 12/2009)
Walnuts (frozen, not yet expired!)
Pine nuts (frozen, best by 3/2008)
More almonds (frozen, boiled, skinned, then re-frozen; no date visible)
Yet more almonds (slivered, frozen, best by 9/2008)
More pecans (use by 9/25/2009)
Still more pecans (use by 10/2009)
Crystallized ginger (best by 08/15/09)
More crystallized ginger (bearing the cryptic inscription 29731)
More dark chocolate chips (still good!)
Golden raisins (01/29/10; so close!)
Dried white peaches (best by 7/16/08)
Pitted prunes (not yet expired!)
Dried bing cherries (use by 1/2009)
Dried montgomery cherries (three identical bags, nearly frozen in the garage)
Dried apricots (inexplicably dated both 5/2009 and 4/2010)

Under the most generous interpretations of these numbers, our fruits and nuts (and ginger) expired a grand total of 158 months ago. Granted, 51 months of that was the hazelnuts, but that's still a serious amount of expireditude.

I can't wait to get back to my kitchen, where nothing can be much more than 3 years old. Except the appliances. And the cooks.

In an insomniac state of mind

I have arrived in icy New York after a lovely, half-empty flight (a seat for me and one for my stuff! Joy!) from La Ciudad de Nuestra Señora la Reina de Los Angeles. The local paper, some rag I think I've heard of before called the New York Times, has taken it upon itself to try to destroy my happiness at arrival with headlines focusing on nothing but death.

1. Biology professor denied tenure shoots and kills most of the department that denied her.
2. Luge competitor dies in a practice run at the Olympics.
3. Doctors remember the patients they couldn't save in Haiti.
4. It's fashion week, in the shadow of Alexander McQueen's suicide.
5. Surge in Afghanistan. Let's kill 'em all, say the US, Britain, and some local Afghanis.


I have paraphrased.


I don't have the energy, at 3AM local time, to process this wave of depressing news. The first and last in particular are really shaking me up. Perhaps thought will come later.

Viva La Diva!

You may or may not know this, but it is a fairly standard practice for white gay men of the United States to attach them- (our-) selves as fans to black women divas. This phenomenon is one that I will be exploring further in my academic work, but it is a recognized state of affairs in many white gay communities in this country, particularly those with an awareness of music and of history. Popular choices include Tina, Beyoncé, Mariah, Lena, Kathleen, Tyra, Whitney, Jessye, Jennifer, and Jennifer. This list is not exhaustive, of course. The politics of the whole phenomenon, as well as the politics of calling these women by their first names only, can be complicated. It's a subject I like to discuss with people when they're interested, but I don't feel like doing so right now. Instead, I want to share with you my own diva choices, one a standard and two rather un-.


FIrst, and most likely, is the immortal Ella. One of my first musical collections, obtained under somewhat shady circumstances, was the complete set of her Songbook recordings, and they remain a source of endless joy for me. Joy is the key word when describing Ella's music; she takes more pleasure in the act of singing than any other vocalist I know. Just listen to her sing anything on her Harold Arlen Songbook recording and you'll hear the sheer, unbridled joy that singing brings her, even when the song's subject is a sad one. As a singer, I aspire eternally, vainly, to approach her attitude and her peerless ability to convey real emotion.


Next, and less likely, is a woman known to most people my age (if she is known at all) simply as The Chief. Outside of ACME Crimenet, she was known as Lynne Thigpen, but my affectionate-first-name-basis name for her will remain, always, The Chief. Not Lynne. The Chief starred in some amazing musical failures on Broadway, from the now-a-regional-theater-standard Working (24 performances) to the thankfully-still-unknown But Never Jam Today (8 performances) before winning a featured actress Tony for a "straight" play at the age of 49. Five years later, she would be dead of a cerebral hemorrhage. The Chief's tragic demise, coupled with her struggles on stage and eventual triumphs on the small screen, make her a prime candidate for diva canonization. I could wax poetic about her for many, many paragraphs, but I will spare you the rhapsodies. For now. Just bear in mind that you don't know from divas until you've heard her valiantly, brilliantly try to rescue the all-gospel Alice in Wonderland that was But Never Jam Today from its well-deserved obscurity.


Third, final, and most bizarre, is Patricia J. Williams. She's not a singer. She's not a performer at all, in the most common sense of the word. Williams—she is too formidable for a first-name address—is a professor of law at Columbia University and a columnist for The Nation. Yes, the period at the end of that sentence is part of the magazine's name, and thus belongs in the link. I have read many Nation columnists over the last 10 years or so, and never have I found one who is so consistently (a) right about everything, (b) dizzyingly intelligent, (c) eloquent about getting her point across, and (d) interested in topics that I find fascinating. "Diary of a Mad Law Professor" is the best single page I read every month, and I read books for a living. Is this description hyperbolic? Yes. Is that part of the point of being a diva fan? Obviously. The whole reason I am writing this post is because I just found out this afternoon that she's coming to speak here next month, and I am so excited! I will blow off pretty much anything to find out if she's as compelling in person as she is on paper.

That just about does it for tonight's diva round up. The title of this post, for those who are sadly unaware, refers to this song by Israeli transgender pop singer Dana International. Now you are aware.

Hiati

No, that doesn't say Haiti. It says hiati, my plural of hiatus. Is it the real plural? I don't particularly care. The point is that I've taken several from this blog, and that several folks have expressed their desire that I cease and desist.

I am nothing if not accommodating.

The last month and a half has seen a lot of ups and downs for me, personally and politically. I am currently in a bit of an up, thanks to a much-needed Day of Alonement today. Yes, this will be the entry that keeps you guessing about typos. That wasn't one either; it really does say Alonement. After a morning spent with people doing things, I took the afternoon and evening off from interactions, spending them instead with Jon Stewart, Maxwell Smart, Buffy Summers, and Hannah Arendt. One of these people is not like the others; I'll leave it to y'all to decide who fits that bill.


Over the course of my blogging hiatus I have planned many posts that never came to fruition. Manifestos of various sorts, vicious indictments of behavior I consider inhuman and unacceptable, musings on the people one meets around this crazy city—all of these have been candidates for internet publication, but have been rejected as too much trouble or too specific to share in public. Instead of these, I have settled upon a somewhat rambling and extended act of navel-gazing, airing my dirty lintry in public, as it were.

The neologisms are coming thick and fast here, folks; watch out!

So, we begin. Last night I dreamt that an elderly white woman who was pushing a black baby in a stroller slapped my mother across the face for saying racist things about her baby. My primary emotion? Pleasure at how clearly my dream mom enunciated her (utterly unlikely) bigotry. I listened to "Superboy and the Invisible Girl" from Next to Normal tonight, and wept uncontrollably at the mother's line "I love you as much as I can."

Each passing day brings me closer to my next cross-country transplantation. Every day I'm happier that I'm going to end up in New York and sadder that I won't be in LA. At this particular point in my life, I can't imagine being 3,000 miles from either of those metropoleis (yes, that's the Greek plural. What of it?), but I know that's how geography works. I have expanded enormously here (not literally), and I am afraid of contracting to fit into a previously constructed idea of self when I go back east, but I miss desperately my east coast family.

My family is enormous. I was thinking today about weddings, and about the people who get invited to them. I have family from summercamp, high school, college, grad school, and various other places/times/milieux, and that's not counting my "real" family. Many of whom (everyone on my father's side?) are far less a part of my life than those who are "just friends." I could have a much bigger wedding than I would ever want to have, even if nobody else got to invite any guests. Assuming, of course, that I (A) want to get married and (B) am legally allowed to do so. I think it's worth it just to sample the possible cakes, so I'll probably keep working on accomplishing (B) for now.

I intended to keep going for quite some time, exposing various corners of my psyche to the harsh light of the internet, but I find that I would prefer to get a few hours of sleep. I will try to keep this up more regularly, for my own sake as well as for my beloved readers' various sakes, but if I fall off the wagon, just caulk it and float it across.