sundry

-what I've recently finished reading:
P, by Andrew Lewis Conn
The Pornographer's Poem, by Michael Turner (really loved this one)
Niagara Falls All Over Again, by Elizabeth McCracken (author of the excellent The Giant's House)

-also, if you're local:
Mojito flavored sorbet at Ciao Bella! it's the best cure for what ails you this summer.

-this past weekend I was proud, at least for Friday and Saturday's tranny and dyke marches, respectively.
then I went out and destroyed myself polka-ing like crazy at the Polkacide show at the Bottom of the Hill, and spent Sunday having to recuperate.

-Kiki and Herb are in town, and I have a hot date for the show. I hate to gloat, but he's a- how do ze kids say? total hottie? yeah.

my adorable father

My father recently wrote a letter to the editor of his local paper:

In going through my quotation file I came upon one written in 1918 by President Theodore Roosevelt.
I find it very appropriate for the time in which we're living: "To announce that there must be no criticism of the president, or that we are to stand by the president, right or wrong, is not only unpatriotic and servile, but is morally treasonable to the American people."

you say tomato

-just now I noticed that down the block at my brand-new neighborhood Irish pub they're advertising:

CREAM of TAMATOE SOUP

(a most logical spelling if you happen to be from that neck of the woods, I s'pose.)

-and down the street at a produce store on Mission, my favorite sign ever:

NAVEL EATING ORANGES

yikes!

If I can make it there, I'll make it anywhere

New York, New York.
(A question, Frankie- if you can make it there, where the hell else would you want to make it?)

Leute, I've been trying to come up with a brief summary of my short vacation for days now, but work and life have gotten mightily in the way, and suddenly I need another vacation.
Highlights include:

-a party in Brooklyn, given by a beloved, attended by folks from all over, past and present; I drank a tiny bit too much and ended up flirting with my own darling date for hours and hours.
(Did I get lucky? oh, but I already am lucky, and isn't that an old joke by now...)

- The Russian Turkish Baths! Let me tell you, darlings, in a word- heaven. It's not what I expected of heaven, really, but by the time I left with my four companions, I felt truly marvelous. I had the Platza treatment, which was terrifying and wonderful- terrifying because I'd just arrived, and the Russian Sauna was hotter than hell (yeah, you think I'm kidding), and just in the nick of time I got buckets of cold water thrown over me, which is when the wonderful started- and a massage by a hulking Russian man with hands the size of baseball gloves. What's not to love? I even got a nice compliment on my Russian accent, which was sweet, considering that my actual vocabulary is now nearly evaporated.

- much later, a delightful dinner at marvelous Moto, which looks like it was transplanted directly from Prague or Berlin- or maybe I've just been in SF too long; places like that don't seem possible here.

- Sunday night was to be a surprise, and I was patient for at least six weeks over this one- surely a record. I ran through the gamut of possibilities in my head over and over, with no luck. After a lenghty and confusing tour of Times Square- just to throw me off- we at last reached Danny's Skylight Room, where, my dears, J had tickets for us to see Blossom Dearie herself, playing piano and singing just a few feet away from our beaming faces and cocktails. Aferwards we met her; she signed our cd cases (mine had been cleverly stolen out of my bedroom), listened to a moment of love-struck babble, and graciously had her picture taken. If I was extremely fond of her music before, I'm now a total fan of the lady as well.

- Dinner followed, and a more romantic meal has never been enjoyed by me in my 32 years. The lamb chops melted in my mouth, but the apple tart was even meltier, and the house-made chocolates that were served with coffee were the absolute meltiest. Plus, we were there late, and had lots of privacy in the back of the restaurant, which was lover-ly indeed.

That'll have to tide you over for now, gentle readers. I haven't even told you about the Met or Central Park or the pizza and bagels, or staying out until 4, just because we could. That'll have to wait for another time.

in the Met

tipsy sunrise in NY, 4:54 am, June 13th

I guess this means I'll have fun in NY

my horoscope from the Onion:

The little black dress is an instant sophisticator—slimming, elegant, and timeless—but you'd be better off going with something flame-resistant this weekend.

Death of a Salesman - Tom Carson in the Village Voice

"Nixon is comprehensible; Reagan is not. He was affable but remote, folksy but not human, so completely the actor that his fraudulence was his integrity; unlike poor Nixon, who couldn't ask for the time without raising the suspicion that he meant to steal your watch, Reagan was at his most convincing and disarmingly sincere when he was spouting transparent balderdash. Up to a point, anyhow—in The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, Oliver Sacks tells a remarkable story about watching a presidential speech in a roomful of people with severe aphasia, a condition that impairs or destroys understanding of verbal content but leaves its victims preternaturally alert to the authenticity of facial expressions, mannerisms, and tone. Every solemn, ringingly earnest sentence out of Reagan's mouth had the patients rolling on the floor laughing."

how doth the little busy bee

Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her, and to wonder what was going to happen next.

I've been down some sort of rabbit-hole time warp, and suddenly it's weeks and weeks later. I have more gray hair, but that's nothing new, and has only to do with passing time, and not with any Bad Things happening in my life.
I've seen and done some things which I meant to tell you about, and while I may yet manage to do so, first I'm off to NYC, that shiny candied apple, for a short spell. I'll be back, and then I promise to tell a nice story or two, if you've been good.
oh, yeah, and I turned 32.