Musings of the Crabby Shy/Wild

I think Philip Glass is the final cylon on Battlestar Galactica. Just a thought. Because I’ve just realized that the whole hybrid jibber jabber is straight from Einstein on the Beach, minus the newspaper reading. You Battlestar Galacticans will understand. And check this guy out. He got in the tub for his impersonation. But should he really be fiddling with electronic equipment while submerged in the tub? Regardless, what a world. Hard core.

I am watching Dynasty Season Two episode one, that delicious episode in which Alexis first arrives on the scene as the surprise witness at Blake’s trial. This, my favorite TV show as a kid, is why it’s not entirely true when I say that I didn’t have gay role models growing up. Speaking of, watching is making me remember things. Hideous, gay, things! Like that I had two gerbils, Alexis and Sable, and that I would hold one in each hand and pretend that they were fighting. Or that I played the theme quite handily on the piano. 

But for all the cat fighting, diva behavior, questionable dialogue, and bad 80s fashion, to my mind it is better than the crap on TV now. Personally, it taught me that gay people could fall in love (hello, Steven and Luke) and that black folks could be rich and eat in fancy restaurants and nearly burn to death in cheesy nightclubs. Is anyone learning anything from Farmer Wants a Wife?

My stimulus check has come… and gone. It went to bills, a few essentials, an antique leather doctor’s bag on eBay (fingers crossed), and a new pair of shoes, which I actually quite needed. They are sensible shoes, so I don’t feel in the least guilty. Yesterday during lunch I went to the Puma store on Union Square, but all their shoes now seem to be made in conjunction with another retailer or show or something. I didn’t want “Yo! MTV Raps” or Ducati Pumas so I left, rather annoyed, and took myself over to Shoegasm, where I was successful in stimulating the economy with the purchase of a pair of New Balance sneakers. Apparently, one can run in them. 

Some things I love, despite the fact that they are completely pointless and useless. Take my cats and Today Show semi-hostess Ann Curry. Though she may not be with us long. They are intent on getting rid of her in not-so-subtle ways, whether it’s forcing her to go skydiving or sending her to the seemingly doomed and deadly Quantum of Solace set.

Anyway, my new favorite pointless and useless thing is this cell phone - what shall we call it - caddy.

I’m watching Law & Order. Sometimes, like just now, the detectives get uppity and the captain has to yell “You are out of order! In my office now!” Anyway, this Verizon Fios commercial was just on, too. I think cats and women everywhere should be up in arms. 

Today, in an hour in fact, I have a casting for an iPod commercial. Which wouldn’t be so bad except for the fact that I’m meant to be playing my viola for the casting and presumably the commercial. It is with great sadness that I report to you that I haven’t been practicing. So I’m not so nervous about going in and meeting them but I have no idea what I’ll play. Most likely whatever I attempt will end up sounding quite post modern. Anyway, I’m just going to pretend that I’m a contestant on America’s Next Top Model. They always give them ridiculously impossible tasks to do, such as playing the viola for a casting. I will wing it and, most importantly, “fully commit,” like Tyra says.  

Update: My star vehicle and the primary funding for lovely fall week in Buenos Aires and Montevideo never came to fruition. Drat! So much for being committed. It was fun, though.

I just got back from the gym on my lunch hour. While on the Stairmaster I was shocked to learn that Star Jones has filed for divorce from Al Reynolds. She expresses her hope that the situation will be handled with “dignity,” which means, yay!, it won’t be. I can’t imagine whatever could have gone wrong. The funny part is that I was on the Stairmaster while on my lunch break for a multitude of reasons, not the least of which is that our house on Fire Island opens this weekend. The middle bedroom, upstairs, is the one I share the weekends I’m out with a roommate. Now I’m told by people who know that years ago Al Reynolds occupied this room during the summers, presumably before he moved down the beach to Water Island and then on to the Hamptons. Perhaps this progression mirrors his “coming out” as a straight man: the Pines to Water Island to the Hamptons. Miami must be next. Anyway, thank the heavens that the Pines has only served to, if anything, make me more gay.

On which note I’ve noticed that the gays at David Barton Gym burp more than any straights I’ve ever known in my life. While in the shower today I heard a big, deep, bellowing burp emanate from the adjacent stall. They are communicating when they burp, I’ve decided. They are talking. What I heard today, for instance, was “Hello. My name is (Brad, Chase, etc.) and while I quite enjoy all manner of gay sex I am masculine. Thank you.” Anyway, please stop burping. It’s gross.

It’s Saturday night, 11.34PM, and like every self respecting New York gay over 30 I’m… making a Berry Gallette. I’ll be such a good husband one day. When I told friends earlier tonight that I was planning on making Berry Gallettes, one of them pointed out what a fierce drag name that would be. Berry Gallette. Anyway, I would like to dedicate this late night Berry Gallette to Martha Stewart’s beloved Paw Paw, even though it’s a Julia Child recipe that Dwayne sent to me and Martha and Julia probably shouldn’t be mixed together because it would be like mixing soy milk and regular milk. And drinking it. Gross, right? 

The gallette is in the oven now. Let me check. It doesn’t look like I imagined it. Okay, look, I’m sure that everything will be fine. Probably I should stop opening the oven every five minutes. It’s sizzling now. Sounds like bacon. Sizzling. Maybe I forgot a step or something. Nevermind, everything is fine. 

In her April 16th blog entry, Martha Stewart covers in excrutiatingly painful detail the passing of her unfortunately named Chow Chow Paw Paw (that is, the dog’s name was Paw Paw). Included among photos and captions documenting the dog’s last pee and slow drift into eternal slumber is the photo below. Dead dog, as ornament.

Dwayne, I know you love her. Could you please explain?

Below, please check out some wallpaper and fabric. I got them all at a Brunschwig & Fils fabric sale at the Metropolitan Pavilion. The sale is on now through Saturday at 110 West 19th Street. Now, I should have known better than to go on opening day of a textiles sale that was featured in The New York Times, especially one with a name as pretentious as Brunschwig & Fils. But I was already obsessed with the thought of wallpapering a wall in my kitchen. So I went. 

The staff people were quite nice and helpful, even being so kind as to mistakenly charge me two rolls of wallpaper for the price of one. It was already on sale! And there were detailed charts up explaining the price color coding, presumably so that you weren’t shamed upon checkout when you learned that what you thought was $40 in fabric was really $400. The atmosphere was rather Barney’s Warehouse sale meets overcrowded Hampton Jitney. At one point I moved in closer to look at a ream of fabric that some dull blonde Upper East Side woman was mulling over and I swear that she grunted and showed her teeth. It was my lunchbreak so I quickly settled on some green wallpaper, scored lengthwise, that will look lovely on this wall in my kitchen. In theory, at least. Wallpapering may just be a new outlet for masochism, as evidenced by the fact that the easiest task, sewing pillows, I have outsourced to Crozet, Virginia.