Eight Ways to Delicious

I ate octopus last night, and it wasn’t the first time. Some people might grimace at the idea of eating a boneless creature sporting suckered tentacles (which are actually classified as arms), but I’ve generally been pretty gustatorially adventurous. Whereas I’ve drawn lines at brains and eyeballs, snacking on your generic pulpo-in-a-sardine-can or tapas didn’t much phase me. It didn’t much thrill me, either, but as I tucked into the savory grilled octopus appetizer at Greek Kitchen, my thoughts meandered from exquisite memory to lingering guilt.

Flashback to the rainforest of Manuel Antonio, Costa Rica. It was the last location of three in our first trip to that varied and gorgeous country, chosen for it’s national park, beaches and gay resorts (no kidding). The Mrs. and I had just spent most of the day trekking through the rainforest and dipping in the ocean. True to the rainy season, it had been hot and humid, and the spoiled whinging of two adolescents on our guided tour had temporarily irked us into a funk. Spirits lifted by witnessing some much-maligned white-faced monkeys freely urinating on the annoying children, and genuinely grateful towards our eagle-eyed expert guide, who could spot a bat, sloth or iguana perched in a tree at a football field’s distance, we broke off for a hike on our own, and ended up walking long enough to edge into low-blood-sugar exhaustion. Reaching the edge of the park, we were delighted to find 1.) a local man with a pile of green coconuts, who would chop one open with a machete and hand it to you with a staw for one dollar, and 2.) the official park entrance with a small restaurant and parking area. Here, after sucking down some refreshing coconut juice, we could sit, snack, shelter from the storm that was just blowing in and grab a bus or taxi to take us back to our homo hacienda.

We couldn’t find a phone, but we sat in the open-porch-style restaurant and perused the menu. My Spanish was rudimentary, and the waitstaff at this particular café didn’t seem to understand much English, which was unusual for the area. Still, I was able to get by, albeit with some questionable conjugation and friendly pantomime. It was here that, finding myself craving both barbecue and fish, I found grilled pulpo on the menu and, despite Mrs. Nator’s skepticism, decided to try it.

It was nothing short of ambrosial. Slightly sweet and tender, with a smoky char on the outside, it was imbued with the flavours of its lemon, garlic, oil and chili sauce. Accompanied by a cold refresco, salad and beans with rice, it both soothed my savage appetite and piqued my taste buds. As a terrific thunderstorm opened up the skies on the beach before us, we sat snugly under the awning, pleasantly tired from our trek, filled with scrumptious food and delighted by the entire adventure. Despite being accosted by a clueless, young American couple who couldn’t find the bus stop or induce anyone to help them call a taxi (note to travelers: it helps if you are polite and learn at least please and thank you in the native tongue; screaming at the locals in English as though they are your personal servants will not get you anywhere, especially when you have not even bought so much as a stick of gum), we finished our leisurely meal and were helped with kind solicitude by the hostess, who called a cab to our hotel herself (rather than directing us to a payphone, as she had done with the other tourists, despite them protesting that they had no Costa Rican change, another dumb move).

So, it was with this fond memory that I savoured the Greek version of this delicacy. Of course, it couldn’t quite match that particular dining experience, but it was more than adequate. More’s the pity that I found myself feeling twinges of remorse. I felt this, you see, because I am rather fond of the octopus, as a creature. Sure, I am an animal freak, in general, and there are some dishes, like veal, I just can't conscience, but I am generally able to get through a hamburger or chicken wing with little more than a brief genuflection.

The thing is, octopi are just so darned cool. They are mobile masses of muscles and neurons, with parrot beaks, who live at the bottom of the sea. They pine for mates, escape from tanks, squish into improbable crevices, find their way through mazes and are thought to be at least as intelligent and personable as the average housecat. What’s more they can change their colours, mimic other creatures, and shoot away on jets of water leaving only clouds of ink behind them. Heck, some of them even walk on two legs, while disguised as inanimate objects! I mean, take a look at this video from the PBS program Nova and tell me it isn’t amazing.

My point being, they are much maligned and misunderstood, fascinating creatures of the unknowable sea, and it seems a shame to eat them. Too bad they’re so darn yummy!

Chilli Lemon Octopus

2 kg baby octopus

1 tablespoon fresh lemon rind, grated

3/4 cup lemon juice

2 tablespoons olive oil

2 tablespoons hot chili sauce

4 cloves garlic, crushed

Remove and discard heads and beaks from octopus, cut octopus in half.

1. Combine octopus, rind, juice, oil, sauce and garlic in large bowl, cover, refrigerate 3 hours or overnight.

2. Drain octopus from marinade and discard marinade.

3. Add octopus to heated skillet or grill, cook over high heat until just tender.

4. Plate with salad and enjoy!

That's Just Not Natural

Except, of course, that it is. Homosexual sex is what I'm referring to, the subject of a new article in SEED Magazine. It turns out that Joan Roughgarden, a professor of biology at Stanford University, has published an article contending that Darwin was somewhat biased in formulating his theory of sexual selection.

Darwin hypothesized, you see, that normal sexual practice involves males competing for female partners in order to spread their genetics through breeding as much as possible. This theory would mean that all non-reproductive sex was aberrant and wasteful, much as the Bible would have it.

However, Roughgarden postulates that Darwin was incorrect in basing his theory on some very narrow observations and that, in truth, sexual behaviour among higher vertebrates is as much for social bonding - which leads to more successful survival rates of the species - as it is for straight-up fertilization (pun fully intended). Her evidence? Over 450 different vertebrate species engage in homosexual sex. That's right: 450+ species that we know of (so far) are actively homo or bisexual, sometimes on a regular basis. Kind of makes you think, huhn?

Hey, baby.

Some might dismiss Roughgarden's proposition merely because she, herself, is a transexual. But accusing her of bias begs the obvious question of just how biased Darwin, as a straight white male in the Victoria era, might be regarding sexual matters, himself. Either way, it's a fascinating article, and I suggest you go read it right now.

Alternately, you could read this article on the same topic, which is much funnier.

[Tip of the hat to Joe.My.God.]

Rufus, Rufus, Rufus

Before I give my thoughts on the concert, allow me to recommend Bombay Eats on W 52nd Street. I found it via Citysearch.com, and we tried it for our pre-show dinner. We were a little skeptical when it turned out we were the only in-house customers, but they seem to have a thriving delivery business, and once we got past the Bollywood-meets-Bayonne diner atmosphere and the mysterious way that everything cost a dollar more than listed on the menu, we were delighted to sample some of the best Indian food we’ve ever had. I generally have no cause to be in that neighbourhood, but I might make excuses sometimes to get back to their coconut naan and barbecued eggplant.

Now, on with the show…

First things first: Rufus Wainwright is no Judy Garland. We all know that. Even if you are a big fan of his, like Mrs. Nator is, you would have to agree that comparing his voice and performance style to hers is an apple-oranges exercise. He doesn’t have her power, precision or projection (acoustically or emotionally speaking), but neither is he as overwhelming as she could be. He does have a sweet tenor that evokes weary longing and, it must be said, big balls for taking on this project. Despite his frequent forays into egotistical hyperbole in interviews, however, he has the grace to know he’s stepping into some big shoes. He even acknowledged this at one point in performance, noting “I can’t believe this is happening… okay, get it together, own it,” to the laughter and applause of the audience.

The audience did a lot of laughing and applauding. In fact, it would be fair to say that the mostly gay crowd, with a fair number of older straight folks and younger women who seized the opportunity to dress up (including Mrs. Nator) were exceptionally giddy even before Wainwright took the stage. After all, just the chance to hear amazing standards performed by a 36-piece orchestra in Carnegie Hall is a recipe for fun, almost regardless of who the singer is. Add to that Wainwright’s worshipful following and the gay, camp, homage-to-Judy factor and, despite high expectations, it would be hard for him to go wrong. But Rufus went beyond that: he proved himself an excellent entertainer, sometimes powerful, sometimes funny, but able to pull off an old-school performance with impressive aplomb.

Mind you, there were some rough spots. Moments when he forgot the words were a bit unexpected, considering the preparation it was rumoured had gone into the show, but his amusing ad-libbed covers could be considered evocations of Judy, herself, provided you imagined him slopping a cocktail around in one hand as he delivered them. Not so forgivable were the bungled attempt to sing one song in the original key, as his overtaxed falsetto meandered off-tune, or his forgetting most of the names of the band mid-introduction, which came off as plain tacky, and made one wonder if he was having a Tina moment of memory loss. But, despite having a thinner voice than Garland’s, he clearly had been working on it, and was able to bring to many songs a sustained power and evocative delivery that made even the skeptics whoop.

In Judy’s tradition, Rufus included family in the program, welcoming his folk-star mother, Kate McGarrigle, to the stage to accompany him twice (leading to perhaps one of the best exchanges of the evening, when he, sitting coyly at the edge of the stage, asked his lamé-covered progenitor what she had to say for herself, and she replied “I feel line Céline Dion,” provoking him to moan “oh, mother”). He also brought on Judy’s daughter Lorna Luft for a duet (Liza was not in the building), which was great fun (although her voice made one muse on how Judy’s might have sounded had she lived longer, and showed how much hers, at twice his age, overpowered his), and his sister, Martha Wainwright, to do a solo rendition of Stormy Weather. Martha was an excellent surprise for me, as, although I’d not been impressed with clips I’d heard of her album and the sometimes too-histrionic poses she struck while singing, she growled out an affecting, woman-on-the-verge version of the song, pretty much blowing the roof off the joint. Mrs. Nator was not as beguiled as I, although upon further conversation it seemed that this was due to her belief that, as a woman, Martha couldn’t do camp so much as go through it to poor impression – not to mention Mrs. N really wanted to hear Rufus do the tune. I however, thought this argument specious, and, while acknowledging that the timbre of her voice was not prime jazz singer material, had to give kudos to Martha for knowing her instrument and controlling it superbly.

All this aside, most of Rufus’ renditions were well-done and well-received, with the excellent band whizzing through the knockout, original 1961 arrangements. Show-stopping numbers included the favourites most associated with Judy, such as The Trolley Song and the breast-beating The Man That Got Away. His quieter moments with mere piano accompaniment, however, were sometimes even more moving.

So, my final verdict? The show was definitely a success, although I think I might be happier to see a more traditional singer doing the standards with the band, and to go to a concert where Rufus sings his own songs. It was well worth the trip (especially to see the delight in Mrs. Nator’s eyes), and I had an excellent time, despite frequent mini-panic attacks inspired by the vertiginous rake of the stairs in Ye Gods section of the Hall (note to self: do not watch ladies in high heels tottering down those too-steep stairs again, unless you want a sudden white streak in your hair). Wainwright may not have been the best choice to commemorate Judy vocally, but he had the guts to do it, the talent to do it fairly well, and the gayitude to make it fun. You can’t go wrong with that.

P.S.: Norah Jones is so over that she was in Ye Gods, too, and Sarah Jessica Parker wears around 6 inches of pancake makeup. Pass it on! </bitter queen voice>

Atlanta Visit Breakdown

Dogs petted: 2
Cats petted: 2
Baby bird rescues conducted: 3
Duck attacks thwarted: 1
Herons harassed: 1
Dips in pool during excessive heat: 1
Extremely unhealthy meals eaten: I lost count.
Hair dye jobs observed and rated: 1
Teenagers induced into actually communicating: 2
Girlfriends comforted: 1
Smiles or giggles brought to the face of ailing 93-year-old grandmother-in-law: at least a dozen.

Hello, New York! Welcome me home. I am due for a rest.

Delayed Outrage

Alright, when the whole brou-ha-ha happened over Brokeback Mountain being "robbed" of an Oscar, I thought it was just the queer community getting all defensive and paranoid. I mean, I enjoyed the movie, I even thought it was a great film, in some ways, but it wasn't one of my favourites, ever. I just figured that the winner, Crash, which I hadn't seen, must have been an excellent film. Of course I heard it got mixed reviews, but what movie doesn't?

Well, I'm here now to say: the queers had it right. The Academy is full of self-congratulatory, homophobic idiots. In other words, I finally saw Crash last night.

Who on Earth would think this was a good movie? It had a some good cinematography, to be sure, and a lot of excellent actors showing flashes of brilliance, despite the horrible script, but what the hell? It was heavy-handed, clunky, derivative, deus-ex-machina, self-referential bullshit. And then it hit me: Hollywood would think it was a good movie. Because those in the movie industry would think that somehow they were looking at the world - which to them is wealthy Los Angeles, to be exact - and somehow confronting some harsh, hidden truths - which anyone who was not a rich, privileged resident of LA-LA-land would - hello? - already know.

I can't even begin to go into all the things about this movie that made me roll my eyes and/or get angry. I don't think I can even give a semi-coherent, detailed analysis because it makes me so incredulously apoplectic just thinking about it. Suffice it to say, two things: I actually reflexively smacked myself in the forehead several times while viewing the movie, and I still feel strangely dirty from watching it. Now that's some bad shit, right there.

So, once and for all: my homo brethren, you were right! Hollywood is homophobic. It may actually be that Hollywood is so engaged in masturbatory navel-gazing that it is not so much homophobic, per se, as... retarded, really, but yes, the common gay life experience is completely foreign to them as any common life experience is. And, for the record, I don't think Brokeback Mountain is the best movie ever, even if it has poignant, hot, same-sex cowboy love in it. But in this case? We was robbed. And I'm sorry for not believing, before. Je regrette! Please forgive.

Decisions, Decisions

Help. As those of you who read regularly may know, I have tickets to see Kathy Griffin on the 5th and Rufus Wainwright on the 14th. However, I have also recently learned that the ever-awesome Jollyship the Whizbang is putting on the latest installment of their puppet pirate rock opera on the 7th and 14th only, and none other than Joan Jett, lesbian rock goddess icon, is performing at Southpaw on the 6th.

I know, fabulous, right? Except, as those of you who read regularly may also know, I am too old and tired to pull off going out two, much less than three nights in a row. And no, I haven't done coke since the eighties.

Oh, and did I mention I'm-a want to go to WYSIWYG this time, travelling to the Dirty South next weekend, the midwest on the 23rd and to Ptown the second week of July?

This is one downside to summer in NYC. Too many awesome things to do to fit in (much less afford)! What's a wizened old sofa spud to do?

Whacky Hack

Pop Quiz:

Which is the most unnerving?

1. Your cabbie talks on his cell phone for the whole ride.

2. Your cabbie talks to himself for the whole ride.

3. Your cabbie whispers to himself for the whole ride.

Discuss.

If Cher Can Get A New Decor Every Few Years, So Can I

Lookee, lookee. New name for this blog, new look. And the comments should work properly now, too. Tell me what you think!

Oh, My God

Literally. Thanks to Qenny, I have, for the first time in my life, learned about The Holy Foreskin. That just made my day.

Oh, to have been born Catholic...

Fore-ay Into Fashion

I've come to a horrifying conclusion. I look good in polo shirts.

Polo shirts, also known as golf shirts, became wildly popular in the late 70s and early 80s as part of the "preppy" style. Having a teenage sister in a private school in Pennington, NJ, at the time (and later going to private school in Princeton for the last three years of high school, myself) I became quite familiar with this trend. To me, it smacked of privileged whiteness and uniformity, and I viewed it with some disdain. Unless it was part of a gym uniform, I wouldn't be caught dead in one of the things.

Back off, Townie - you can't have my Tab!

Fast forward, and the polo shirt has become ubiquitous across various social and class groups. Still, it rubs me the wrong way. To me, it's now emblematic of middle America, and the middle class, white EveryDad, in particular (EveryDad being a far cry from being a "Daddy", if you know what I mean). Everybody wears it as sort of a "dressy" t-shirt - something you don't have to think too much about. It's boring, unavoidable, and apparently part of the national civilian uniform.

The problem is, it flatters me.

I went shopping this weekend, and it's always a chore. Being fat does not afford one many clothing choices. Being a not-wealthy, fat woman even less. Apparently, if you are a woman, being fat somehow nullifies some of your femininity, so you are supposed to wear extra frills, floral patterns, bright colours and bedazzles to make yourself semi-appealng, because nobody likes a fat, dykey woman. Alas, a fat, dykey woman is exactly what I am. I like simple clothes, decently tailored, in natural fibres. You can see where I'm at odds, therefore, with the clothing industry. Most of my clothes and shoes are designed for short men, which means they fit me oddly in some ways, but are at least closer to what I like. Believe me, it's murder tyring to find simple work shoes in a men's size 6. (Also, I loathe shoelaces, but that's another story.)

Yet, I don't want to look completely masculine. It's just that I grew up in the eighties, where men and women alike wore Doc Martens, men's jackets with the sleeves rolled up, Capezios and ties.

Me in the 1980s.

I don't want to switch to rhinestone flip-flops and Indian skirts - and I wouldn't want to even if I was skinny. We also have to watch our money. So, when at Old Navy , Mrs. Nator remarked to me "if I don't absolutely love something, I don't bother to buy it," I shot back "for me, if something kind of fits me and isn't atrocious, I pretty much have to buy it." Because otherwise? I'd be fat and naked.

So, it was with this in mind that I remembered that some short-sleeved collared shirts I have are some of the most flattering ones I own, and I forced myself to try on some polo shirts.

Damn. They're thinning. They're comfortable. Is this why all the Dads wear 'em?

I'm still kind of mortified, but I'd rather be thinned, comfortable and clothed mortified than wearing long-sleeved shirts all summer, sweaty, and stained mortified.

Me now.

Perhaps one day I will have the money, body, or both to be semi-fashionable again (or satisfy my own, specific and rather expensive tastes in fashion).

Until then, maybe I'll just take up golfing. I hear it's all the rage with Dads.

Barbaric

Well, in case you haven't heard, the great Triple Crown hope, Barbaro, suffered a horrific injury in the Preakness and may not make it.

At the risk of receiving hate mail from fans of the sport, I've said it before and I'll say it again: animals were not meant to be selectively bred and raced this way.

It really breaks my heart.

Buried With A Donkey, He's My Favourite Honky

I remember being fascinated with King Tut back when the first exhibition of his treasures toured the U.S. in the seventies. I also remember seeing my first mummy in a museum, and how spooky and utterly intriguing I found it. As I recall my interest, in particular, with the fact that the mummy was not just an example of thousands-year old dessicated human remains, but a naked one at that, I could chalk it up to having seen very few unclothed adults by that point in my life. However, I've always figured it was more likely due to my being an odd child, in general.

Well, perhaps I wasn't all that odd, after all. It turns out that scientists have been concerned for some time with something: King Tut's penis. More specifically, they were concerned as to where it was, as it has been missing for years.

Well, I think we can all rest a little easier tonight. The royal jimmy has been found.

Considering all the fetishes out there, can mummy porn be far behind?

Even Super Lesbians Can’t Dance

Thanks to Chris Sims and Prism Comics, we now know the true origin of the term “FemiNazi”…

I Hear It’s All The Rage In Paris, or: Why I Should Never Volunteer To Help Anyone With Anything

Today’s fashion accoutrement is: baby vomit! Yes, I noticed a mother struggling to get her kid and stroller down the subway steps this morning, and, since my back and neck have been fine lately, offered to help. It rapidly became clear that I have no experience in this sort of thing.

First of all, when I leaned down to pick up the front of the stroller, my backpack, which I only had on one shoulder, whipped around and nearly clocked the infant in the face. Nonplussed, the mother offered to carry my bag, which sort of defeated the purpose of my helping her, I thought, so I waved her off. Instead, I put the stroller back down and put my bag on both shoulders, then proceeded again. Instead of trying to grab it by the side and walk down forwards, however, I opted to grab it from the front and back down the stairs, for some reason, but then I got nervous that I’d trip and take us all with me. So, I grabbed the railing with one hand, thus causing the stroller to list crazily to one side. At this point, the mother’s face was unmistakably projecting “perhaps I should have rejected her offer.” Finally, about four steps from the bottom, I looked up at the adorable tyke, whose upper face was incongruously covered by a lemon yellow hoodie, making him or her look like the world’s smallest monk or gangsta rapper, only to be met with a projectile blurp. Nice.

Of course, the mother was very apologetic, and I assured her that I understood these things happen with little ones. Luckily, the kid was tiny, so it was no more than milky spit, but nonetheless I bid a hasty retreat, digging in my bag for a tissue pack with my one dry arm on my way through the turnstile.

I love the smell of breast milk in the morning.

Rainy Tuesday Blogging

I am a wee bit tired, childrens. There are a bunch of major deadlines at work that have everyone cray-cray, which means it was a great time for me to quit seeing my therapist (I’m doing fine with it, although I’m still angry about the session spent on processing her financial needs, I figure I’d been considering moving on for some time, anyway). Mrs. Nator is the sickiest sick girl in the land, and her pathetic hacking and snorking has been keeping me awake for several nights (I am fortunate that we have the advantage - rare, in Brooklyn - of a large, cheap apartment, so I could switch to a far-away guest bed at 2 AM this morning). And the weather? Don’t even get me started. Deee-pressing (although it’s good for the plants and water table ‘round here, I know).

All of which comes to: I’m probably not doing any major thought-provoking, meaningful posting for a little while. I actually had a number of interesting (I think) topics I wanted blather on recently, but, maybe later.

For now, just a few disjointed thoughts on how to keep one’s spirits up during weeks of rain and girlfriendly mucus:

Enjoy the little things. I recently happened upon Kiss My Face’s foaming hand soap in grapefruit & bergamot scent. It doesn’t soundlike much, but the smell of this stuff somehow activates all the happy energy chemicals in my limbic system. Also, it makes me crave Froot Loops (for which I settled for Barbara’s Fruity Punch Organic Wild Puffs, although they lack the same ring, both name and shape-wise). The point being, normally I am not the type to say “unhappy? Perk up your mornings with the delicious scent of Product X!”. This time, however, it’s true, so maybe you should check it out.

Find humour where you can. Sometimes it has to be dark humour, but still. For example, you may have heard about the terrible flooding that is taking place in the northeast states, and how it is causing gajillions of dollars in damage and threatening lives. Yet? This: Is funny. I mean, how long do you think that guy has kept his whacky amphibious car in the garage, just to one day have this opportunity to go “nyah nyah!” Hee.

Plan something fun. Like, for example, your summer vacation – whooo! Although we’re not going to any exotic locations this year, Mrs. Nator, the financial half of the family, has authorized me a certain amount of funds and time to plan a week in Cape Cod. Although we won't go 'til July, just thinking about lounging on the beach, going on whale watches and the pirate museum has got me all excited, already. We have to be frugal, but it’s more than I expected we’d be doing (it turns out we most likely won’t be taking her family’s old car, after all, which means we don’t have to spend the time and funds to get it up here). So, when I get all aggravated at work, I can just think of this: And smile dreamily.

Those are my deep thoughts for the day. Now go do something that makes you feel good.

Just What Is The "NY Lifestyle"?

My friend Mickie sent this on to me. I love that she actually sent the following email to them.

I hope you can see this ad below. Scroll down to the bottom. (I got this from an email list I'm on of NYC events.)

Huh?

This is a company that promotes drinking/dining/social parties and has classifieds, focusing on the NYC 20s-40s scene. I think it's trying to be like Citysearch.com

I wrote MetroChai a letter asking, "Looking for clarity: are you implying you have a 'casting couch' for talented female writers? Do you want stories about soft porn ads for Versace? Or are you looking for interesting stories about blow jobs?"

If you want to give them feedback, click here http://www.metro212.com/footer/contact.php

Not What You Expected

Congratulations to the visitor from Saudi Arabia who somehow got to my site via a search for a video featuring "horse dick". Hope you enjoyed your stay!

BTW, you and everyone else are welcome to comment on my latest blog design question. Sorry, no horse dick included!

How Do I Look?

There are a lot of things I like about the look of this blog, and a lot of things I don't. The colour scheme really suits me, and enjoy my found Velveeta Girl pinup graphic, even if it is a bit fuzzy. The thing is, the template I reworked to get me here is causing problems with comments and other things, and a number of people have told me that they have trouble reading the red text on black. I've also received the suggestion that I change a couple times.

So, taking it all into consideration, I've been playing around, and worked up a new template here. It's just a draft - I'm sure there's more to be done to it - but I've done enough that I'm a bit burned out by now and could use some input.

So, nu? Likes, dislikes? Old template, new? Please let me know what you think (so I can stop staring at the damn thing)...

Poor, Poor David Blaine

Weep for his suffering, America. Weep!

Meanwhile, in Darfur...

Gawker has the acid review and the clip. Meanwhile, I will try to parlay my "skills" into a high-paying media event. What's the record for hours spent Web surfing in a terry robe? I hear it may involve risking the dreaded "Mouse-Clicker Finger"...

Why The French Are Cooler Than Us

Would you believe it's their anti-AIDS PSAs? Normally computer animated people give me the willies, but this cartoon by Wilfred Brimo, set to The Rubettes' 1974 classic "Sugar Baby Love", is both important and adorable. Click to play, and ask yourself: can you imagine anything like this ever being shown on regular US television?

Thanks, I Think I’m Sterile, Now

Courtesy of Wax Madness on planetdan.

Talk To Me, Baby

My apologies to anyone who tried to leave a comment over the last week and couldn't. Seems this template is persnickety about the comment settings (another reason I'm working on a new one). It seems to be fixed, now, so fire away!

Paris Is Burning

I just wanted to say that, although I've lost most interest in American Idol, I'm disappointed Paris got voted off. I can see why, but I still say she has more talent than any other of the contestants this year, and even some of them combined.

Stupid America. Eat it, bitches.

And The Answer Is: None More Gay

The question is, of course, could Mrs. Nator and I be any gayer? I've already mentioned my penchant for listening to Real Life and the fact that we're going to see Kathy Griffin in June. But that was nothing. Here's the motherlode:

We are going to see Rufus Wainwright at Carnegie Hall, where he will be performing the entire legendary 1961 Judy Garland concert with an orchestra. Squeeeeee!

Oh, my God. I think I just sprained my Gay.

Of course, considering all this it becomes painfully clear that what Mrs. Nator and I are, actually, is gay men, which comes as some surprise to us, not having penises.* But we just paid a buttload for those tickets, so, we will no doubt soldier on. See you at Splash?

* By the way, over the course of the last two posts, I must have typed the word "penis" more times than I... well, ever. So, then: vagina, vagina, vagina!

Spawn Sung Blue

So, here’s the deal: I just don’t know if I want children. Here I am, halfway through my thirties, with a partner who wants children, and friends who want or are having children – even if it means ordering sperm on the rocks long distance, and I still look at babies and think “uh?” As in, insert Peggy Lee singing “Is That All There Is” here, because, yeah, they’re cute and all, and I’m sure they love their parents, but… are they cute next-twenty-plus-years-of-my-life, cute? I mean, honestly, can't I just have another cat?

And that’s another thing here, because my cats? Three of them, and then the two turtles? It’s not like we’re taking the best care of them we possibly could, to begin with. I mean, there are weeks the litter does not get scooped, or the turtle tank water evaporates to half its regular volume, or we just feel repeatedly compelled to yell “What, you big, whiny, baby - WHAT?” at one or the other or all of them (OK, that’s mostly Maurice, who often morphs into Mr. Whinypants Johnson for days at a time, and who can blame him what with having the name Maurice and all, but I’m trying to make a point). Do we really think we can transfer that sort of devil-may-care, lackadaisical, possibly traumatizing supervision to a human child? Because, well, yeah, maybe, but we’re The Gay, so people always watch us on that kind of stuff, as opposed to the Normal, Heterosexual People, who can chain their children to a radiator in the basement for years and get boxed chocolates from Children’s Services each Thursday – do you hear what I’m saying? It’s a lot of freaking responsibility! And besides my curmudgeonly, spastic, slovenly ways, Mrs. Nator can barely remember where she put her cell phone, wallet or keys half the time, nor to purchase toilet paper when we are completely out, so... well, to wit, allow me to quote a passage from The Importance of Being Earnest, most particularly some key lines I delivered myself whilst playing Miss Prism in our much-acclaimed and extended high school production:

Lady Bracknell: … Prism! Where is that baby? [A pause.]

Miss Prism: Lady Bracknell, I admit with shame that I do not know. I only wish I did. The plain facts of the case are these. On the morning of the day you mention, a day that is for ever branded on my memory, I prepared as usual to take the baby out in its perambulator. I had also with me a somewhat old, but capacious hand-bag in which I had intended to place the manuscript of a work of fiction that I had written during my few unoccupied hours. In a moment of mental abstraction, for which I never can forgive myself, I deposited the manuscript in the basinet, and placed the baby in the hand-bag.

Jack: [Who has been listening attentively.] But where did you deposit the hand-bag?

Miss Prism: Do not ask me, Mr. Worthing.

Jack: Miss Prism, this is a matter of no small importance to me. I insist on knowing where you deposited the hand-bag that contained that infant.

Miss Prism: I left it in the cloak-room of one of the larger railway stations in London.

I don’t remember much after that, except supposedly all ended well, but every night just before blackout I had to fling myself into the passionate embrace of the boy playing Rev. Chasuble, with a force that broke my granny glasses not once, but twice. Apparently, this was extremely humourous to the audience, but a bit disconcerting to me, especially since somehow I infused said glasses with a good portion of my characterization and, once they were broken, ran around most of the next day trying to scrape up new ones, else I wouldn’t feel all Stanislavskied all up in my Method, or something. Oh, and that I was called Laetitia, which, knowing me, would be a name I would saddle a baby with just for my own amusement. So, you see? I am far too circumlocutory to be a parent, and, what’s more, neurotic and just a little bit mean.

But:

As I said, my partner wants children. What’s more, she insists that I really want them, too, and would make an excellent parent. It’s just that I’m held back by my fears of being good enough, memories of a difficult childhood, &c. In fact, it is not just my partner who says this, but a number of my so-called friends and family members. Apparently, if you asked them, they would tell you that children’s eyes just light up when they see me, and I speak some special language that only small animals and children understand. Moreover, I am so sweet and kindhearted, so intelligent and entertaining, it would be nigh on a crime if I didn’t reproduce or at least raise some little foundling posthaste. To which I answer: Projecting – all of you! And also: Quit having me on! And finally: Have your own damn children, keep your guilty guiltifying and… and… thanks, but – yikes!

See, the thing is, I’m pretty sure that if I’d gotten together with Mrs. Nator and she’d never wanted to have children, I’d be totally behind that. Because I did have a difficult childhood, and I do have self-esteem issues, and I never had much experience with other children except as a child myself, who, quite frankly, did not even understand or relate well to them, then. So, until recently, when I saw a kid, it was more discomfiting than heartwarming to me. You never know what they’re thinking, what they really want or how easily they might break – or break you - in my book. Nowadays, I’ve somehow begun to actually look at some babies and children and think they’re, okay, kind of cute, but I’m not entirely certain that isn’t because everyone’s telling me I’m supposed to, you dig?

And yet… of course I’m worried that what they say is true. That I am holding back my precious love that could nurture little beings due to my own fears, self-doubt and internalized homophobia. That one day, if I don’t have or take in any children, but soon, I will look back and say “I missed out on the greatest joy in life, and I am nothing without progeny to carry on my… me-ness (and quite possibly pay for my in-home senior care nurse/companion).” Not to mention that I’m worried that Mrs. Nator will decide that this all bespeaks some unconscionable flaw in my character and go find someone more interested in increasing the population. (To which I add: “the Earth is drowning in a blood-sucking, environment-and-species-destroying infestation of homo sapiens as we speak, many of whom are fundamentalists and Republicans!” To which she answers: “All the more reason for us to bring up a good one or two to balance things out and do something good,” and I counter “The devil you say – they’ll be ground in the corporate cogs and eaten!” And then she decides she has some important business to attend to involving removing her hangnails, or reading the obituaries, or some such.)

So, it is with all this in mind that, each time I go down to visit the little Natorling nephew and niece, I observe them, their parents and myself quite closely. Here are some of my observations from this past weekend:

• Niece and Nephew Natorling are, as children go, fairly adorable. Nephew is a budding little geekling and niece is, as they say, spirited, which it is alleged is the way I was at her age, which is… I’m not sure how I feel about that.
• Okay, it is true: children do find me hilarious – at least these two. Apparently, I have excellent taste in children’s literature (not surprising, as I was a bookworm, myself). Also, the way I run back and forth and pick them up is, it would appear, a laugh riot. On the other hand, how many ways are there to run around and pick children up, especially if one doesn’t have the history of herniated discs that I do? It ain’t rocket science.
• Children can teach us valuable lessons. Niece taught me, for example, that it is perfectly acceptable and effective to stare lengthily and utterly blankly at someone when they ask you a question until they go away, not because you don’t know the answer, but because you don’t feel like talking to them.
• At age eight, boys seem to be acutely aware that they have penises. They are not acutely aware, however, that everyone else is can see when they are touching their penises, and may not find this quite as stimulating, in a good way. Good Lord, as a card-carrying lifelong lesbian, I just don’t know how I’d handle that one with my own child. I’d be afraid of either allowing him to grow into another Dan Hoyt or, conversely, causing him to become afraid of his own penis and end up telling someone to put the lotion in the basket someday. In Nephew’s defence, however, I will say that, once again, he is only eight and, from what I have gathered from casual observation, this is a habit many grown men not only never outgrow, but parlay into profit in one way or another.
• Having a small child hug, kiss or snuggle up to you can fill one with contentment. Having a small child violently smush your cheeks and call you “squishy!” (or, in the case of GrandMaMa Nator, exclaim “you have a beard!”)… not so much.

• Children rarely like to share. Fortunately, this is counterbalanced by their short attention spans, so if you grab the thing they clung to so greedily five minutes ago, they’ll hardly notice.
• Children can be heartbreaking. The most difficult part of the visit was listening in while Sis and Bro-in-law Nator explained to Nephew that, whereas Niece would share their bed to make room for the guests, he had become too big to join them. Hearing a usually happy and mature kid repeatedly sob “but I would do anything to make you change your mind!” made me want to crawl into my safe space. His parents dealt with it admirably and fairly, but I am not so sure I could have done the same in their place. After all, how do we ever reconcile ourselves completely to the fact that we will inevitably hurt the ones we love? And how much more devastating is that when it is our children we hurt, and vice versa?
• If you cannot smile at a naked, giggling and dancing two and a half year old, you are probably dead.

Such are my most recent observations. I can’t say that any of this has entirely eased my mind or helped me make it up one way or another. I can say, however, that it is oh so much more quiet when there are no small children around, even when the cats try their damnedest to be annoying. So, here’s my thought: Several more cats, for practice. Also, I can test out some toys on my own, to see what it’s like - particularly the computer games. Finally, I suppose if I should be afflicted with the miracle of virgin birth I will see it through, albeit from my cozy perch in a padded cell, no doubt. Until then, I have more observing and thinking to do. Perhaps I will decide by the time I am forty. Perhaps.

Emotional Trauma?

Would it seem appropriate to you for, say, your therapist, who has only two or three weeks ago confirmed that she is fine to wait for your insurance checks to come in for payment, to spend an entire session then telling you that she is not fine with it and how you should "assert yourself" more with the insurance company to get the checks faster or figure out another payment plan?

I am... displeased.

Deep Thoughts

I am still totally knackered from my family visit. I love them people, but the whole mishegoss of traveling and visiting is tiring.

Questions for the day:

1. Am I a total commie for taking May Day off?

2. Can we go back to the days when gay people were expected not to have children?

3. How does clutter reproduce?

Discuss.

Did We All Have That Haircut In The 80s?

I am off for several days to visit some Nator fam, including my oh-so-cute and brilliant niece and nephew. I'm sure y'all will pine for me, so I'll leave you with a bit of entertainment.

Bust a move, Lady L...

That’s Frahnk-en-shteen.

I’ve been pondering why I feel so drawn to yet repulsed by the videos I posted yesterday, and I think I’ve got it. I feel drawn to them because they are just so darn cool. I mean, just the fact that humans can make moving representations of creatures and people that are so eerily lifelike is amazing, but add to that the fact that I have always been fascinated with simple mechanical devices and robotics and it’s a good fit for me. Admittedly, my knowledge of engineering may be barely past a basic understanding of gears, but that didn’t stop me from repeatedly drawing doodles of weird, one-cylinder vehicles when I was a kid, once I learned a little bit about how a combustion engine works.

This fascination extends in several directions, including a love of intricate, Rube Goldberg-esque machines and an attraction to early devices like Da Vinci’s flying machines and various automata. I’m not sure where this all started – multiple school trips to The Franklin Institute? Seeing Rowland Emett’s whacky devices in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang or the crazy mechanisms in the Looney Tunes/Merrie Melodies shorts (you know, the ones with that great Roland Scott theme “Powerhouse” in the background)? Heck, maybe it was playing Mouse Trap. Whatever it was, intricate machines tickle me, but add the whimsical feature of making them look like creatures, and it’s a whole different ballgame.

I mean, let’s face it, what demonstrates mankind’s god-like powers more than being able to simulate life? If you can do that, you must have serious skillz. The problem with it is, it really is supposed to be the work of God (gods, higher beings, whatever). It seems wrong, somehow – presumptuous. And it’s never quite right. It’s always – almost, but not quite alive, and that’s disturbing. Think of baby dolls whose eyes open automatically*. Furbies. Or, to get more meta, zombies. Heck, how about Frankenstein’s monster? Even those damn Billy Bass things are a little bit freaky.

But while full-on robots are disturbing in that they make you think man’s AI children are going to kill us all and take over the world (which would not be so bad, if they looked like Number Six), robots that look like disembodied parts of living creatures are just plain horrifying. Because clearly, brainless parts of things should not be alive, nor appear to be so. That, my friends, is The Devil’s Work. Unnatural. And probably the last thing you’ll ever see.

So, that explains why I keep watching those damn videos over and over even though they give me the serious willies. But afterwards, perhaps I can cleanse my brain with some less anthropomorphic, yet equally fascinating mechanical wonders. To this end, I give you videos of Goldbergian creations from the Japanese children's educational television show ピタゴラスイッチ ("Pitagora Suicchi", or "Pythagorean Switch") and the artier and much larger scale German production Der Lauf Der Dinge (“The Way Things Go”). Enjoy!

*Incidentally, I had a baby doll with opening eyes that someone gave me when I was a kid. I hated that thing, and hid it in my closet, burying it under layers of crap. I already avoided looking into the closet because I was convinced it was home to 1.) a vampire and/or 2.) a headless woman. Nevertheless, I had to get clothes, sometimes, and somehow, every once and a while, I’d open the door and it would be sitting up, looking at me and nearly causing me to wet my freakin’ pants. Neither of my siblings admits to setting this up to this day, so my only suspects are the vampire, the headless woman, or the doll itself, which makes this story All. The. More. Chilling!

Gym Bunny

Thoughts regarding recent workouts:

1. Ow, my goddamn shoulders!

2. Why can’t I stop listening to Kanye West’s The New Workout Plan? It is completely misogynistic. But so very funny. And the beat works for everything from crunches to the elliptical machine!

3. After a couple months of seeing almost no visible results, this morning I accidentally ironed the wrong pair of pants, which I hadn’t been able to squeeze into since before I herniated my neck, and put. Them. On. They are a little tighter than I’d prefer, but still. Feeling stronger and more energetic is great, but this? I can really get behind.

4. Great, only five or six sizes to go…! (plotz.)

Abraca...YAWN

Am I supposed to be excited that David Blaine will be setting up shop in an aquarium right outside my office next week? Because, not so much.

You might assume that as a fan of magic I would be all a-twitter, but I'm not. That's because I'm a fan of magic, not endurance stunts. Blaine was interesting when he did street magic, but what's the point, now? Are we all supposed to go along with him on some kind of Zen minimalist journey? We already know that people can live in hardship for long periods of time, and it's not like he's doing it for a political cause. It's just a stunt, without even any major skill involved, except perhaps staying calm and the breath-holding at the end. Houdini would be bored.

Scuttlebutt has it that Blaine cooks up these isolationist bits partly because he just doesn't like speaking with people. So? When am I going to get fame and big bucks for sitting in my office oubliette, eating lunch at my desk and avoiding phone calls? Because I could do that for far more than a week straight.

Feh.

Cheesiest poster ever?

ARRGGGGHHH!!!

Christ in a hatchback, this "president" drives me into inexpressible, apoplectic rage! Now that his war and reach-arounds for the oil industry have driven up gas prices enough to threaten his party's mid-term election results, one of his bright solutions is to "temporarily" lower EPA clean-air standards for fuel.

Is anyone willing to join me in a plan to have him mauled to death by endangered species? What if WE are the endangered species?

More intelligent analysis here.

Futureworld, Present Tense

I am almost creeped out beyond words. I just read a post on and viewed a video of a robot on And I Am Not Lying, For Real. The video should be innocuous - it merely shows testing of a four-legged robot to see how well it navigates uneven surfaces. The thing is, the way this robot moves? Brrrr. It is just waaaay too life-like. Honestly, it looks like a headless animal. The testers even kick it, and it staggers just like a dog.

Jeff at I Am Not Lying explains the disturbing nature of this video excellently, and you should go check his thoughts out for yourself. Honestly, I don't think I've been quite so squicked out by an animatronic figure since Herbie Hancock's Rockit video. Heck, that one still makes me scream a little when I see it. The question is, why am I so fascinated that I can't stop subjecting myself to these videos over and over again, even though they make me a little queasy and dizzy every time? Perhaps they are sort of a safer version of an adrenal gland-stimulating trip through Castle Dracula? Or perhaps they just invoke the specter of man-as-machine by being too lifelike, giving one a sort of spooky uncertainty about how to distinguish life from death, consciousness from physical manipulation? Freaky, freaky stuff...

Although I am almost loathe to display them here, you be the judge...

The DogBot

Rockit

Yikes. The doglike 'bot turns out, by the way, to be aptly named "BigDog", and you can see more about it and other slightly less scary robots at Boston Dynamics. Oh, and the Rockit video was directed by Godley & Creme, formerly of 10cc, who directed quite a few groundbreaking videos back in the day.

One last note - in pondering this I somehow accessed a horrifying scene from my early childhood. I was watching some program, and it involved a person's face coming off to reveal that they were actually a robot. In retrospect, I'm sure the effects were rudimentary, this being the early 70s, but it left a huge impression on me at the time (nightmares about my parents being robots and whatnot). I've been scouring the internets trying to figure out what it was, but I can't figure out if it was even a movie or a television show. The closest things I can find are references to a film called Futureworld, although I can't be sure it wasn't an episode of The Six Million Dollar Man. I'm pretty sure the robot, however, was a woman. If you have any idea what show this might have been, I'd love to know!

Not A G'Day

Well, mate, I'll just put anothah shrimp on the barbie and... Holy Mary, mother of God!

Say hello to Monica, a category 5 cyclone approaching the northern coast of Australia at this very moment. That's category 5 as in currently packing winds of up to 217 mph. Remind you of anything?

Actually, it looks a little more impressive than the shot of hurricane Katrina above. And guess what? This comes only about a month after Larry, another category 5 cyclone hit North Queensland. Meterologists are saying these two cyclones are two of the biggest ever seen.

Hmm, isn't it interesting that Australia and the US are the only two major developed countries that have not ratified the Kyoto Protocol, thus insuring continued environmental damage that can lead to global warming and worse storms? Aah, but what could that have to do with anything? After all, New Orleans has Mardi Gras and Australia has Gay Mardi Gras (not to mention Kylie Minogue). God must just be sending these storms to smite the faggots!

But seriously, the Northern Territory is one of the least populated areas of Australia, but it's also relatively financially poor. It's populated by more indigenous Australians ("aborigines") than anywhere else. This means that once again the poor, brown people are in the path of the natural disaster. Be sure to send them your thoughts, good energy or prayers, and let's keep an eye on this story.

Your Humour Style Is: Lemming

Everybody else is taking this test, why not me?

Your humor style is: the Cutting Edge (61% dark, 42% spontaneous, 31% vulgar)

your humor style: CLEAN | SPONTANEOUS | DARK Your humor's mostly innocent and off-the-cuff, but somehow there's something slightly menacing about you. Part of your humor is making people a little uncomfortable, even if the things you say aren't themselves confrontational. You probably have a very dry delivery, or are seriously over-the-top. Your type is the most likely to appreciate a good insult and/or broken bone and/or very very fat person dancing. PEOPLE LIKE YOU: David Letterman - John Belushi The 3-Variable Funny Test! - it rules - If you're interested, try my best friend's best test: The Genghis Khan Genetic Fitness Masterpiece

My test tracked 3 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 73% on darkness You scored higher than 40% on spontaneity You scored higher than 43% on vulgarity

Link: The 3 Variable Funny Test written by jason_bateman on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the 32-Type Dating Test

Somehow I think I'm slightly more vulgar than that, but whate'er. I'm glad I still have a sense of humour today, what with being such a big, fat softie that I've been completely devastated by Loaner Cat going home.

Sigh. So a dyke walks into a bar with a cat on her head...

I Am So Gay

I just spent a good half hour searching for Real Life on Limewire. Then? Rebbie Jackson.

So. Very. Gay.

Fare Thee Well, Fine Feline Friend

Boo and hoo! Loaner Cat is leaving. His real person finally got a new place, so we are bringing him back to her this Sunday. Alas! We got accustomed to his face, if not his chronic indigestion. We'll miss his goofy, gangly, adolescent ways - with the playing and the annoying the other cats, knocking things over and continually looking perplexed. Queen Bitch Cat must've lost at least a pound or two on the Pure Hatred Diet™, thanks to him. He has bumbled and snuggled his way into our hearts.

It was perhaps fotunate I was home sick, today. We shared some excellent farewell cuddling, and he showered me with affection, purrs, and fur - lots of it. Take good care and thanks for visiting, our sweet, spotted bandito. We hope you don't get too bored with no other kitties to harass. Don't forget to write!

Joan Osborne at Southpaw

It’s about time she was back on the scene again, ‘cause the lady can blow. It had been five or six years since we saw her last, at Irving Plaza, and it was evident last night that she had matured as a musician. I mean, she was terrific back then, but to see her in the intimate setting of Southpaw with the band hanging off her every word and motion just proved she’s not been lying fallow. If anything, she’s gained more control over her soulful voice and more mastery of leading a band. If her early recordings sounded like Janis Joplin with more vocal depth and less pain and drugs, her current vocals contain a lot more Etta James, with patches of Patsy Cline restraint and hints of the Qawwali music style she learned from Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan.*

The Patsy Cline influence was most obvious last night, with a few nods to Dolly and Loretta, as she and her band used the audience as “guinea pigs” to test a new set of country-style tunes. Mrs. Nator and I had been musing during the country-flavoured pre-show music that Osborne might be moving toward this style - which is not surprising, considering her southern roots - and agreed that her voice could easily fit a country-soul mode. We were not disappointed. Taking the stage in a simple white cotton dress, Osborne called to mind a shy 50s housewife at a VFW dinner who suddenly busted out with serious talent (“Hey, y’all know Ellie Sue can sing? Git up there on the stage, Ellie Sue, and show them what you can do!” “Aw, no, I couldn’t… I’ve got to serve up the pie, now. Welll-l-l, o-kay…” Ka-POW!). Despite the unfamiliarity of the material, the audience ate it up, and each song was CD-perfect, tight. One of my particular favourites, not surprisingly, was a country-western lesbian love ballad to one “Jane”. Alas, Ms. Osborne is, as far as I’ve heard, all hetero, but that didn’t stop her from imbuing the piece with the sincerity of a consummate performer. Don’t make me stalk you, Joan.

Despite our advancing age, Mrs. Nator and I probably fell in the mid-range of the audience spectrum, proving Osborne’s wide appeal. We were, no doubt, not the only ones out past our bedtime – and Mrs. Nator with a bum knee, no less – but it was well worth it to stay for through the end of the set and into the encore. Despite protesting that her some of new band didn’t know her old songs well, Osborne treated us to stomping renditions of “Spider Web” and “St. Teresa” that had almost everyone out of their seats and pressed toward the stage. Although the set could easily have stood on its own without the old material, it was a satisfying coda that left everybody energized and smiling.

All in all, the best show I’ve been to in some time, and well worth dragging my sorry ass out on a Wednesday night. I certainly do hope that the material Osborne’s been shopping around for the last year or two finally gets released, and the songs she did last night do get recorded in Nashville soon, as she is planning. It’s sadly unsurprising in this candy-pop, hip-hop world that a singer of such old-school skill and substance can go unreleased and unpromoted for such a long period of time, but that doesn’t make it any less of a crime.

*Note: I didn't just have that memorized because I really am a stalker - I just read it on her bio this morning. Besides, Mrs. Nator frowns heavily on stalking, unless it's related to ridiculous kitty hijinks.

Completely Unfabulous?

Yuck. I just took a look at the site for the upcoming movie adaption of The Mostly Unfabulous Social Life of Ethan Green. It looks... nothing like the comic. And possibly quite lame. Apparently, Eric Orner has given his blessing, and it's even got Meredith Baxter in it, which must indicate at least some camp value. But I'm a fan of the cartoon series from way back - I actually much prefer the earlier, hand-drawn episodes - so I have been prepared to be disappointed. It's just that, now that I've seen the site? I am convinced I will be.

If anyone's seen this, let me know what you thought. Otherwise, I will continue to wallow in narrow-minded pre-judgement, as per usual.

Eat It, Bitches

Because I am going to two, that’s two fabulous concerts. Tomorrow night Mrs. Nator and I are going to see the very talented songstress Joan Osborne at the little old Southpaw, and in June we will finally be able to see the “D-List” goddess herself, Kathy Griffin, live in NYC. Although we will be in ye gods for that show, I am excited enough to start squeeeeee!-ing, already. I’ll just have to bring binoculars (and pep pills for the next morning, because I am too old for all this hullabaloo on work nights, let me tell ya).

And now, just because, here is a video of Kathy Griffin dressed as a giant rat.

Link Lives!

Heh. Some people have way too much time on their hands. Of course, I'm one of them.

Feng Shui My Blog

I’ve been getting complaints about my red type again, and I’ve been generally itchy over the layout and name of this blog, lately. I think the basic colours and graphic suit my personality, and the name worked as tongue-in-cheek for a while, but perhaps it’s time to move on. I have some ideas for redesigns and names, but my limited Blogger coding skillz may slow down the project. Still, if y’all have any suggestions, please let me know. Otherwise, I’ll be in a dark room trying to channel the spirit of Saul Bass.

How To Celebrate The Holidays

1. Pesach: Have a little Popcorn on Passover, by listening to Gershon Kingsley’s Moog synthesized operetta for the Seder.

2. Easter: Celebrate great moments in Rock n' Roll history with Peeps.

Have A Gurney Standing By

I have my first session with Big Black Sex Trainer tomorrow. He seems like a really nice guy, and I’m sure he’ll basically be evaluating my fitness to start, but I’m still intimidated. I’ve been really pooped and not working out much the past couple weeks, so I feel like I’m slipping back into gelatinous blob mode. Wish me luck!

I Heel For You, I Think I Love You

According to the NY Times, super-high heeled shoes are going to be all the fashion this spring and summer. I suppose I should not be surprised, as Mrs. Nator, who seems to always just be slightly ahead of the trends, sent me a picture of some terribly tall Steve Maddens she simply had to order yesterday. Mind you, this is a woman who went through embarrassment and excruciating pain after breaking her foot in a fall down a hill from towering platform shoes several years back, but who am I to judge? She does have great gams to show off, and I can’t say that some of the hairdos I wore in my stylish past (yes, I had one) couldn’t be life-threatening.

The thing is, even more than I worry for women’s feet and about submission to the patriarchy (because P-Funk reunions aside, how many men do you think will be sporting stacked heels anytime soon?), I’m afraid Mrs. Nator won’t be able to even hear me anymore. She is an unusually tall woman to begin with, and with these types of shoes she may border on altitudinous. It might fit in with her plans to feel big and strong, but I still subscribe, for several reasons, to the tradition of being a woman in comfortable shoes, and I’m not sure how it will affect the relationship if I am continually at crotch licking level while standing up. Although that might fit in with her plans, too, come to think of it.

Does anyone know where I can take stilt-walking lessons?

I Didn’t Know It Was Actually Pronounced “Oops!”

This past Christmas, I got a video iPod. I’d heard that they scratch easily, so I ordered a nifty case online right away. Here is where my heartache began.

It turns out that, although it did not indicate this anywhere on the store site, the case I had selected was not yet available. So, several weeks later, having received nothing, I emailed the store. I got no response for a few days, so I called them, and got someone who put me on hold forever and then told me that the only person there who knew about email orders was out indefinitely. I wrote again. I got no response until I finally saw they had posted something on my account page rather than emailing me. The note said the case was expected within a month or so. I considered cancelling or exchanging the order, but I figured that with all the trouble already, I might as well just wait until the unique case I really wanted arrived.

So I waited, and every month or so I emailed, to no response, and the occasional update on the store site saying the case wouldn't come in for another (X) weeks, after all. I had given up, until one day a couple weeks ago when I finally saw a UPS sticky on my front door with my name on it. This was annoying, not only because I hadn’t been notified, but because the package had been sent to my home address when I specifically requested it be sent to my office (why don’t most service providers and sellers realize that most people cannot be home between 9 and 5 to wait breathlessly for the UPS/Cable guy/meter reader?). Having experienced that mistake before, however, I thought I’d just call UPS, request a change of shipping address and get the package. I was wrong.

Instead, the package was sent back to the store, with no explanation. I had to call UPS and complain, and then call the store to have it re-sent. Again, I indicated it should go to my work address. Again, several days later, I got a UPS sticky on my home door. Again I called with the work address.

But wait, there’s more!

The package disappeared. Poof - no word for several days. When I looked it up today, the tracking said “delivered”. Um, no? So I called UPS again. Oh, it was delivered, alright. To a completely random person at an entirely unrelated address.

Nice.

Let’s just say I wasn’t as full of sunshine-y goodness when speaking with the UPS people this time. I did get put through to a supervisor. Who then managed to put me on hold and disconnect me (“accidentally”?).

May I just ask, how exactly does this sort of thing happen? It’s not like I screamed at anyone at UPS or the store and thus deserved some spit in my lemonade. I was somewhat terse and annoyed, but that’s it. The only thing I can think of is that the whole mess was due to just plain incompetence. You’d think that by now, with my dim and pessimistic view of the human race, in general, I’d be used to this sort of thing – and I am. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t make me pop a vein, now and then. I mean, it’s no moral outrage or anything, but it’s the type of occurrence that makes me want to write personal letters to each an every creationist outlining this chain of events and asking “so, tell me why it is, again, that you think that humans are too majestic to be evolved from apes? Once you’re done picking the ticks off your brother, that is - take your time.”

I finally, after calling again, got transferred to a “special department that can make outside calls to track packages” (ooh, the freedom! And just what did they do to earn those privileges? Are the rest of the phone reps in lockdown?). There a somewhat bumbling, if seemingly well-meaning lad (he messed up my name twice and my address four times) claimed to have contacted whoever it was who signed for the package at whatever location, confirm it could be picked up there and let me know it would then be sent to my work address. Supposedly.

Nearly five months after my order, I look forward to finally getting my fancy iPod case, which now has more miles on it than John Madden’s bus. I also look forward to putting it on my iPod, which now has so many scratches I have to hold it at different angles depending on the time of day to be able to see anything on the screen.

The moral of the story? Humans are stupid, though we can make tools. Next time, I’ll make me a case out of Saran wrap and duct tape.

Cruisin’ For A Bruisin’

Do you think that my heavily-muscled potential new personal trainer might be offended that Mrs. Nator and I have started referring to him as “Big Black Sex Trainer,” in homage to Keith on Six Feet Under? It’s well-meant, and certainly more flattering than the nicknames we have for other regulars in the gym, such as “The Guy With The Neck,” “Yami Guy,” “The Dour Lesbians” or “That Lesbian You Hate”.

Perhaps all this should be filed under “things I should never have admitted to,” along with “wanting to see that new Antonio Banderas where he teaches ballroom dancing”… whoops!

O Happy Day

I am a complete lightweight. I had one measly glass of wine last night, and woke up this morning with a terrible hangover.

I was roused to consciousness by the desperate voices of 9/11 victims on recordings of their last calls for help, thanks to NPR news.

I now have to go to the interminable weekly departmental meeting. These usually last over an hour, in which nothing that has anything to do with my job is addressed.

I have to go to the dentist this afternoon. It’s likely he will have to drill.

I have concluded that today must be perfect day to buy a Mega Millions ticket.

But Tell Me What You Really Think

I tried an interesting series of little online exercises recently, called Implicit Association Tests. Designed by scientists at Harvard, they are meant to determine what one's underlying preferences or attitudes are about certain subjects. For example, in the test for determining if you have a preference for black people's faces or white people's, as explained on the BBC News site:

• Users put positive and negative words, such as "failure", "glorious", "wonderful" and "nasty" into categories of "good" and "bad", then do the same with images of black and white faces.
• By responding to the prompts as quickly as possible, the test aims to side-step what's known as "cognitive control" - the brief, but significant, time lapse we need to give an "acceptable" answer rather than a truly honest one.
• Depending on the magnitude of the result, respondents are judged to have either "little or no bias" or a bias rated as "slight", "moderate" or "strong".

Personally, the test results or me indicated that I have "implicit" preferences for gay people over straight people, black people over white people and Richard Nixon over G.W. Bush (now there's a case of weighing two evils if I ever saw one). None of this overly surprised me, considering my political beliefs and background. I was a little bit surprised at my slight bias in favour of black people at first, since I'm convinced white racism is so prevalent in United States society that we must all internalize it by default, but not overly so, considering both my upbringing with a semi-radical black stepfather and a general aversion to, as they say, The Man.

It does seem, however, that a lot of people are surprised by their results, and this has touched off a lot of dialogue and self-examination, particuarly regarding the race test results. Of course, as even the designers of the test admit, the results may not be entirely accurate. The methodology of the tests have been questioned by other scientists, naturally, and taking a quick online quiz based on reaction times is not exactly an exhaustive, controlled analysis. But, even if you don't necessarily believe the tests to be completely accurate or comprehensive, as I don't, they do make for good conversation pieces and tools for confronting one's own attitudes.

Try them yourself here, and let me know what you think.

Via: Cooper King's blog

Go Orange For The ASPCA

Don't forget to "go orange" in support of the ASPCA's 140th anniversary on Monday, and send a donation while you're at it.

Do y'all think Queen Bitch Cat would slice n' dice me if I Manic-Panicked her a construction cone hue?

Comments On The Fritz

Please stand by... for some reason I am receiving comment emails but they are not appearing on the blog, nor am I able to respond to them. It may be a wonky side-effect of the template I tweaked, but it's been working for a while, so it could be a blogger thang. I hope to get it fixed, soon.

Update: OK, it seems the comments code I have doesn't want to take links, which was the problem. Unfortunately, I don't have time to muck with it and figure out why, just now. Carry on.

Dear New York Times

I hate your new online layout. I can't find shit, anymore. Whose bright idea was this, anyway?

Also, I hate that damn freaky Ralph Lauren flash ad with the spooky little blonde girl all I-see-no-I-AM-dead-people floating around over a flashing sky and "quaint house". Please make it go away NOW.

Thank you.

EEK!

I Wish I Knew How To Make Everybody QUIT IT

Okay, seriously - is this Brokeback Mountain reference thing going to go on forever? I mean, I think it's great so many people have seen a film about homos - oh, wait, not homos, queer love... no, oops, it's just about love, silly me - so sorry! Actually, can we just say it's about queers? Because, although everybody's cooing that it's about universal love and how it should be celebrated no matter what genders it's between, blah bling blah, the fact is that the central theme of the movie is how the characters can't express that love because they are, in fact, queer. I'm not going to get into debate over labels and were they gay, bi, just in love with each other, whatever, because the fact of the matter is that if you fall in sexual love with someone of the same sex you are officially queer. Thank you.

Anyway, I thought it was a pretty good film, with great cinematography, some excellent moments and a nice adherance to the exquisitely written original story. I have to say I can't tell you exactly how good I think it was, because, quite frankly, all the hype clouded my perceptions to the point that I can't decide whether I really liked it or not. But I do know that I'm sick of that hype. The fact is, Brokeback Mountain has become some sort of cutesy shorthand for being gay, and it's really tired.

For example, back in February my friend at Life Below The Line was reporting the annoying prevalence of straight men using Brokeback Mountain to tease each other. You know how it goes, one guy expresses some kind of emotion and the other "jokes" something like "Hey, don't get all Brokeback Mountain on me, here." This may be mildly amusing the first several times, but at this point it's just being used to reinforce the same stereotypes that any other fag jokes do, except just replacing the word "fag" with the hipper version, "Brokeback Mountain." It also allows the straight jokester to deflect any protests to his or her joke by alluding that if they are sensitive and liberal enough to have seen BBM, or even just heard of it (which... who hasn't?), then they can't really be bigoted and offensive. Right.

At the same time, even homages within the gay and gay-friendly world can be tiresome. As Joe.My.God reported, among other things, BBM catchphrases are showing up in both romance and retaliation between gay men. Elsewhere, several sites on the Web have been chuckling over an ice-skating routine done by men dressed as cowboys (did the creators know it was gay? Was it produced before or after BBM? How gay would it be on the scale of gay dependant on that fine point?). Meanwhile, here in NYC, Jacques Torres is selling chocolate Brokeback Bunnies for Easter. Is it an adorable homage, or a passé marketing ploy? Looks like both to me.

Which all boils down to: listen, people, enough's enough. It's just not cute anymore, and it's certainly not fashionable. Yes, even I indulged in references up until several weeks ago, but it has reached its saturation point. So quit it. Because much further and we'll be out of Montana and into Macarena territory.

Da Amazing Natori

I've been into magic since I was a kid. I remember getting one of those 20-something-in-one magic trick kits when I was about six and playing with it endlessly. Not that I really learned anything, because I was a) too unimpressed with some of the really hokey, plastic tricks that were painfully obvious in execution and b) too lazy to do anything hard. Mind you, that didn't stop me from bragging to my first grade teacher for months that I was learning magic, until she put me on the spot and asked me to just come in tomorrow and show the class a trick, already. I don't remember if I even tried to learn anything that night or just blanked out in a cold sweat, but the next day I did a coin-from-the-ear penny palming trick that was about the worst ever (I made it up on the spot). To her credit, Ms. Rain oohed and ahhed over it, perhaps saving my cute little face, but I still felt shame within.

Popular magic shows - besides the Harry Potter movie variety - seem to have taken a much more "street" turn of late, what with the rise of David Blaine, Criss Angel and their like. I will forever bemoan the loss of Siegfried and Roy's extravaganza before I could see it, but it kind of makes sense. Street magic is much more appealing for the ironic/skeptical hipster youth of today, and also often both cheaper to produce and more convincing, when done properly.

Recently, however, I happened to see newly popular "experimentalist", Gerard Senehi, on the Ellen show and was intrigued. Senehi seems to use some of the more modern street magic effects while maintaining the "mysterious mentalist" demeanor (and suited dress code) of more innocent times. It's a pretty good combination, and more reminiscent of a more understated Uri Geller than the in-your-face hijinks of Blaine or Angel. Like them, however, Senehi's techniques are impressive enough to get many in his audience to wonder if his tricks are actual psychic/telekinetic phenomena, and he's taking his spoon-beinding skillz to the bank (although in his case, there's talk that his profits are mainly going to a creepy cult run by a less benign charlatan).

All of this led me to fondly recall my childhood love of magic and wonder, could I learn any of these tricks? Back then, magicians carefully guarded most of their secrets, and only revealed them to a select, interested few via magic-shop gatherings and writings. However, now we've got the Web, and guess what? For a certain price, it is entirely possible for anybody to get DVDs that will teach them to melt forks or levitate themselves like the pros.

So, the answer is, yes, I can learn them. And I'm definitely adding some of these goods to my birthday list, so I can entertain friends and party guests. But it's a little sad to know that modern magic is not only far less glam, but available to easily buy. Maybe, if I want a little fun, I should just drop the spoon-bending instructions and get me one of these.

Betrayed With A Kiss

I am utterly fascinated with the authentification of yet another early Christian text, the Gospel of Judas. It is very intriguing, indeed, to see how early Christian texts and sects were approved or condemned to form the bible and churches we have today. It's a great illustration of how politics, power and religion influence each other throughout history.

There are, however, two downsides to all this. One is still having to deal with the continual insistance by religious groups that their particular text and interpretation is the only true word of God(s), despite the evidence of tampering and fabrication over the centuries. The other downside is, of course, dreading the time when Dan Brown hops on the bandwagon.

Captured and Captivating

The online-only American Museum of Photography has some great exhibits up on Pulp/Noir photos and Photomontage, but it's their historical exhibits that get me every time. Viewing the AMP may not be as cool as a trip to the International Center of Photography, but it's worth checking out now and then.

Hiii-YAH!

If you haven't seen Ask A Ninja yet, check it out posthaste. Very funny stuff, as you may witness by this example.

Dear U.S. Bureau of Printing and Engraving

No, no, no, no, no.

I may be a little behind the times here, but the new ten dollar bill? Fugly. I mean, I thought the $20 was bad. But this? Wow.

Listen. Are you listening to me? Okay. Dark green and light orange do not go together. Ever. I understand you want the new bills to be all safe and secure and whatnot, but stop it. I can deal with the changed bust sizes, the watermarks, the security tape, even the new images. But the changing ink colours were pushing it (are we paying for groceries or attending a rave?) and the tiny 10s or 20s all over the new bills look like nothing so much as a contagious pox. And now this.

I understand that a lot of people have been really wedded to the old green and black bills. I know change is hard. But if you're going to do it, don't go all half-assed and try to appease the traditionalists, foil the forgers and get arty about it. If you're going to change the bills to several colours, just make them a brighter mix and be done with it. Hell, even red, white and blue would be an improvement. Or, even better, make it a practically a painting. I'm particularly fond of Tahiti's tender, for example.

Thank you for your attention to this very important matter,

Da Nator

What Do The Rockefeller Laws Indicate For This?

When I got home from the gym this morning, I glanced into the kitchen and stopped short. At first, I couldn't really tell what the substance was on the floor. One cat was yowling at me for breakfast in his usual manner, but then... all three other cats were writhing on the linoleum. Queen Bitch cat, in fact, was rolling drunkenly not one foot from both Loaner Cat and The Little One, both of whom she is normally trying to draw and quarter. Yes, the substance on the floor was, indeed, a copious amount of catnip.

It seems that somebody managed to squeeze his or her little paw into a small, inadvertant opening in The Forbidden Drawer, haul out the entire bag of nippage and rip it to shreds, dragging it as he or she went. I suspect Loaner Cat, since he's young, curious and an unknown factor. Also, he was trying to swallow the plastic nip bag when I came in.

The Little One made herself scarce, but not before I saw she was practically bedazzled with herbal flakes. The others were all the same, with Queen Bitch perhaps the most dishabille, three sheets to the wind and close to farting pixies. If they'd have managed to have the Dead playing on the boom box and the lava lamps on, I would not have been surprised.

It took some time cleaning up, between the hysterical laughter and unwrapping eleven pounds of Loaner Cat from the broom every few seconds. The stumper is, did we have this coming, as we were clearly depriving the children, or do they deserve some sort of punishment? Do felines get hangovers?

Weighty questions, indeed. I, however, received my 'awa in the mail today. So, I suspect between that and celebrating Mrs. Nator's landing of a large grant for work, I may spend the better part of the evening butt-waxing the lino, myself.