Lee: I mean, it's limp, it has a shaft and a head, there are nuts underneath. Who cares?
Witold: So that's it? No more interest in Viggo's Mortensen?
Lee: You say that like this is an easy decision for me.
Witold: 'It's limp, it has a shaft and a head, there are nuts underneath.' This needs to go on your tombstone.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Not Just R.I.P.
From an email exchange regarding Viggo Mortensen's full-frontal male nudeness in the film "Eastern Promises."
Monday, September 24, 2007
Perilla
For my birthday, Kip was wonderful enough to take me to Perilla, the new restaurant run by chef Harold Dieterle, winner of season one of Bravo's "Top Chef." It was, in short, perfect food.
To start, we had: Garden Pea Salad, with wasabi peas, pea sprouts and pickled radishes; and Seared Scallops with a parsnip puree and other wonderful other things on the side -- oh, now I'm remembering, hearts of palm and....watercress? Something like that. Along with a side of creamed corn with watercress and chiles.
Then we had the Roasted Organic Chicken with asparagus, hazelnuts and apricot puree. Also Red Snapper with something lovely, something else and pickled vegetables. The veggies with the snapper weren't exactly my taste, but it was still flawless. I could see how the dish was constructed, and how, were that your thing, it would be your fantasy in sweet/sour snapperdom.
Dessert was the Mascarpone Panna Cotta with vanilla shortbread and tropical fruit; and the White Chocolate-Hazelnut Parfait with macerated raspberries and candied citrus zest. One of the highlights of the evening--not just the food, of course--was the table next to me, wondering aloud to each other what 'macerated' meant. "I think it's like, chewed up," he said to his date.
The space is beautiful; forgive me if I steal from the Times and cut and paste: "Like a bistro with elegant tailoring, it has a low-key glow rather than a high-wattage sheen."
Everything was incredible.
To start, we had: Garden Pea Salad, with wasabi peas, pea sprouts and pickled radishes; and Seared Scallops with a parsnip puree and other wonderful other things on the side -- oh, now I'm remembering, hearts of palm and....watercress? Something like that. Along with a side of creamed corn with watercress and chiles.
Then we had the Roasted Organic Chicken with asparagus, hazelnuts and apricot puree. Also Red Snapper with something lovely, something else and pickled vegetables. The veggies with the snapper weren't exactly my taste, but it was still flawless. I could see how the dish was constructed, and how, were that your thing, it would be your fantasy in sweet/sour snapperdom.
Dessert was the Mascarpone Panna Cotta with vanilla shortbread and tropical fruit; and the White Chocolate-Hazelnut Parfait with macerated raspberries and candied citrus zest. One of the highlights of the evening--not just the food, of course--was the table next to me, wondering aloud to each other what 'macerated' meant. "I think it's like, chewed up," he said to his date.
The space is beautiful; forgive me if I steal from the Times and cut and paste: "Like a bistro with elegant tailoring, it has a low-key glow rather than a high-wattage sheen."
Everything was incredible.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Overheard
Woman waiting on the F Train: "Can you believe he just volunteered his sperm like that? It's not like he's rich, or smart, or good-looking."
Monday, September 17, 2007
The Moral of the Story
I went to bed last night already dreaming of the circus. They, whomever they are when we speak of them, say that most of your dreams--the ones you dream at the beginning of your cycles--are mainly the kind where you replay the day from back to front. The idea is that whatever you, or your subconscious wants to keep, files speedily away, and the rest of it gets tossed out--or filed deeper, in locked, hard-to-access areas.
The dream was a series of quick costume changes that happen at one point of the show, when I help four of the ring performers out of their clothes basically all at once. I'll leave it at that--no body really wants to hear anyone else's dream. The details are too staggeringly real to be meaningful to anyone else. And once you've told the dream, then that person has to walk around in your dream for the rest of the day. Unless they unload it on someone else. And what's worse than listening to someone's dream? Listening to someone tell you about someone else's dream, that's what.
The reactions to this year's show were very different. There was a much clearer narrative structure than in year's past. Backstage, we looked through the curtains, wondering why they seemed to be watching so intently--"like they're watching a play," Jennifer said. Perhaps that's because they were. Since the set became smaller, people said, the performances seemed larger. Our bodies in the space felt larger, more raucous, more AMOK. I think the show was also, at it's most basic level, more hilarious, more detailed by the actors than by the stuff, with the right combination of "content jokes" and sight gags.
So, the circus has ended for 2007. I'm glad. I don't like that it's over, or that it ends, although there is a relief. What would it be like to have something so hard and intense go on forever? It would be a different animal. So I'm glad to have the impossible-to-quick-change dresses in their bags, the foam duck feet repaired for the last time, the fucking GWB puppet tied up once and for all, and I'm glad to have the sweat and grime and filth scrubbed off my body for a while. But--some part of me still wishes that in the morning, I'll find some glitter on my pillow.
When someone says to you, like they did to me ten seasons ago, that there's this queer circus you should run away with: Do It.
The dream was a series of quick costume changes that happen at one point of the show, when I help four of the ring performers out of their clothes basically all at once. I'll leave it at that--no body really wants to hear anyone else's dream. The details are too staggeringly real to be meaningful to anyone else. And once you've told the dream, then that person has to walk around in your dream for the rest of the day. Unless they unload it on someone else. And what's worse than listening to someone's dream? Listening to someone tell you about someone else's dream, that's what.
The reactions to this year's show were very different. There was a much clearer narrative structure than in year's past. Backstage, we looked through the curtains, wondering why they seemed to be watching so intently--"like they're watching a play," Jennifer said. Perhaps that's because they were. Since the set became smaller, people said, the performances seemed larger. Our bodies in the space felt larger, more raucous, more AMOK. I think the show was also, at it's most basic level, more hilarious, more detailed by the actors than by the stuff, with the right combination of "content jokes" and sight gags.
So, the circus has ended for 2007. I'm glad. I don't like that it's over, or that it ends, although there is a relief. What would it be like to have something so hard and intense go on forever? It would be a different animal. So I'm glad to have the impossible-to-quick-change dresses in their bags, the foam duck feet repaired for the last time, the fucking GWB puppet tied up once and for all, and I'm glad to have the sweat and grime and filth scrubbed off my body for a while. But--some part of me still wishes that in the morning, I'll find some glitter on my pillow.
When someone says to you, like they did to me ten seasons ago, that there's this queer circus you should run away with: Do It.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Peach Cobbler
I don't normally do this--share recipes over the blog. But this one is too good to ignore. My mother has been making this peach cobbler forever, and I am now going to share it with you, along with her keen tips, in italics:
butter
1 cup milk
1 cup self-rising flour
1 cup sugar
peaches
Melt 1/2 stick of butter in a 8x8 or 9x9 pan, or one of similar dimensions. (Use a pan that will allow about 1 inch of extra space for rising of the soft cake.) Whisk the three cup of's together and gently pour over the melted butter.
Peel and slice about 3 large fresh peaches, letting any golden juice drip seductively into the bowl. Add a little warm water to them if you need more juice. (It is better to have some juice instead of just dry sliced peaches, but you will have juice if the peaches have had a favorable growing season.) Carefully spoon the aromatic peaches and juice onto the top of the butter/batter, creating a marbled effect.
Bake uncovered at 325 for glass pan, 350 for metal pan about 30 minutes, but don't set a timer and wait for it to ring. Check the cobbler after 25 minutes. Sometimes it takes longer, but the sides of the cake should be golden brown with butter-crusted edges.
Canned peaches are unthinkable. If you have any blueberries, sprinkle some in before baking for an added nutritional treat and enhanced visual appeal. The purple nestled with the coral is delightful!
Serve just warm with whipped cream or rich, vanilla ice cream, if desired. Cover and refrigerate any leftovers. I guess that's what you would do; I don't have any leftovers.
Peach Cobbler
butter
1 cup milk
1 cup self-rising flour
1 cup sugar
peaches
Melt 1/2 stick of butter in a 8x8 or 9x9 pan, or one of similar dimensions. (Use a pan that will allow about 1 inch of extra space for rising of the soft cake.) Whisk the three cup of's together and gently pour over the melted butter.
Peel and slice about 3 large fresh peaches, letting any golden juice drip seductively into the bowl. Add a little warm water to them if you need more juice. (It is better to have some juice instead of just dry sliced peaches, but you will have juice if the peaches have had a favorable growing season.) Carefully spoon the aromatic peaches and juice onto the top of the butter/batter, creating a marbled effect.
Bake uncovered at 325 for glass pan, 350 for metal pan about 30 minutes, but don't set a timer and wait for it to ring. Check the cobbler after 25 minutes. Sometimes it takes longer, but the sides of the cake should be golden brown with butter-crusted edges.
Canned peaches are unthinkable. If you have any blueberries, sprinkle some in before baking for an added nutritional treat and enhanced visual appeal. The purple nestled with the coral is delightful!
Serve just warm with whipped cream or rich, vanilla ice cream, if desired. Cover and refrigerate any leftovers. I guess that's what you would do; I don't have any leftovers.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
What Do You Need?
do we make history? you asked
knocking the heel of your boot against mine,
holding your wrist behind your head,
so I could see the fur in your armpit.
or are we made by history?
that's when I accused you--rightly
of plagiarizing Tony Kushner,
because I recognized that quote
from an old interview in Mother Jones,
which I used to read before I moved to
New York and got bored by The Whole Thing.
(unfortunately.)
you said
you did it because
you knew that I knew
the quote, and you knew that
it would provoke, in me, the response
that you wanted, and what did it say
about me
that I did exactly that.
nothing, I said.
what does all that say about you?
let me, I used to say.
reaching into your wet eyeball
to retrieve a stray lash.
what do you need?
I wanted to say.
when you got out of bed and went into the
dark living room, with long shadows
born of the dry, mangy ficus by the
window, you stood there
looking away for
a moment,
naked
what do you need?
knocking the heel of your boot against mine,
holding your wrist behind your head,
so I could see the fur in your armpit.
or are we made by history?
that's when I accused you--rightly
of plagiarizing Tony Kushner,
because I recognized that quote
from an old interview in Mother Jones,
which I used to read before I moved to
New York and got bored by The Whole Thing.
(unfortunately.)
you said
you did it because
you knew that I knew
the quote, and you knew that
it would provoke, in me, the response
that you wanted, and what did it say
about me
that I did exactly that.
nothing, I said.
what does all that say about you?
let me, I used to say.
reaching into your wet eyeball
to retrieve a stray lash.
what do you need?
I wanted to say.
when you got out of bed and went into the
dark living room, with long shadows
born of the dry, mangy ficus by the
window, you stood there
looking away for
a moment,
naked
what do you need?
Saturday, September 08, 2007
Best Gay Erotica 2008
Look for my piece "Orange" in the upcoming Best Gay Erotica 2008.
"Step one: Pick a moment in your life. Press your finger down onto it, holding it like you would the first loop in a square knot. Step two: Find a moment that represents where you are now, something separate, current and different, and touch another finger to that, too. Step three: Measure the distance from one to the other—in lovers lost, furniture stolen from street corners, estimated electric bills paid, early morning phone solicitations, car accidents you witnessed. Band-Aids on fingers. Step four: Figure out how the hell you got here now from where you were then..."
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Goodbye, Coney
Circus Amok did two shows in Coney Island yesterday--possibly the last time we'll be able to perform there. Thor Equities (along with Taconic, and soon maybe others,) has managed to buy up most of the land along Stillwell Avenue, promising to turn the area into a large, resort-style hotel, much in the vein of Las Vegas's Bellagio, surrounded by smaller amusements. Ideas that have been floated around--none of them confirmed or unconfirmed--are an indoor water park, 975 high-rise condos, retail shops galore, a man-made canal, and several other roller coasters to rival the historic Cyclone.
Even the developers continue to wrangle back and forth about what the area should become, and should be used for. Joe Sitt, the founder and chief executive of Thor Equities, said upon release of the newest set of plans: "This is our way of showing the New York community that we're responsive to what they want." But this is not what we want. What we want is Coney Island.
Coney Island for me is ten seasons of Circus Amok, loading tons of scaffolding and props onto West 10th Street, under the rickety roar of the Cylcone--still at 80 years old one of the world's greatest roller coasters. It is the winter that Chris and I walked on the beach, in the snow, and had our pictures taken. It is the year when I passed out on the subway after a day in the sun with too little to eat. It is the old Thunderbolt coaster, decrepit, crumbling, finally torn down in 2000, to everyone's dismay. (Or maybe only to coaster enthusiast's dismay.)
Coney Island, as novelist Wade Rubenstein said, is "once America's playground, [but] now it's subconsious." The warring parties will go back and forth--and eventually some stale solution will be found. I don't know what it will be, what it will look like. But I promise that the development will take away something genuine about the place. Perhaps the biggest loss will be the move from public to private ownership. Because with hotels and fancy shops come more security, a new image to protect and cultivate, new public relations campaigns.
Will the new architects and designers know how the decades of use have made Coney Island beautiful? The thousands of hands brushing across the edges, people climbing up onto the BreakDancer, the WonderWheel. Please remember when you tear down the railings: the paint is worn off because they are loved.
Even the developers continue to wrangle back and forth about what the area should become, and should be used for. Joe Sitt, the founder and chief executive of Thor Equities, said upon release of the newest set of plans: "This is our way of showing the New York community that we're responsive to what they want." But this is not what we want. What we want is Coney Island.
Coney Island for me is ten seasons of Circus Amok, loading tons of scaffolding and props onto West 10th Street, under the rickety roar of the Cylcone--still at 80 years old one of the world's greatest roller coasters. It is the winter that Chris and I walked on the beach, in the snow, and had our pictures taken. It is the year when I passed out on the subway after a day in the sun with too little to eat. It is the old Thunderbolt coaster, decrepit, crumbling, finally torn down in 2000, to everyone's dismay. (Or maybe only to coaster enthusiast's dismay.)
Coney Island, as novelist Wade Rubenstein said, is "once America's playground, [but] now it's subconsious." The warring parties will go back and forth--and eventually some stale solution will be found. I don't know what it will be, what it will look like. But I promise that the development will take away something genuine about the place. Perhaps the biggest loss will be the move from public to private ownership. Because with hotels and fancy shops come more security, a new image to protect and cultivate, new public relations campaigns.
Will the new architects and designers know how the decades of use have made Coney Island beautiful? The thousands of hands brushing across the edges, people climbing up onto the BreakDancer, the WonderWheel. Please remember when you tear down the railings: the paint is worn off because they are loved.
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