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.
This is Bruckner Arrives in Heaven, by Otto Böhler, whose last name has an accent above the o that I can’t be bothered to find. It reminds me of Kara Walker’s work, purely based upon the fact that it’s a silhouette. Anyway, we’re playing Bruckner’s Symphony No. 4 in E flat major on the GVO’s next concert and rehearsed it last night. It’s mostly tremolo, which is annoying because I get bored and start looking around and daydreaming and then play on rests. Last night I was counting the ceiling fixtures in the hall. There were a lot of them. Can’t remember how many.
I was thinking just now how Laura Branigan’sSelf Control video is the best thing, ever. The song, a remake of Raf’s hit, is just amazing. And the video… well, there are clowns, an evil Phantom of the Opera-esque figure, and an orgy on what looks to be tin foil. Branigan’s room in the video is messier than my own, and the overall effect reminds me that it’s perhaps best to stay home on a Friday night and eat a pan of brownies than venture out. It’s dangerous out there without self control! Best of all, though, Laura Branigan’s dancing at 1:55 is reminiscent of Molly Shannon doing Laura Branigan on Saturday Night Live, which never happened but should have. Branigan, who died almost four years ago, is sorely missed in my book. Sadly, though, she goes in the same category as others who I didn’t fully appreciate until they passed on.
