The Search for Love in Manhattan A gay odyssey of neurosis
Friday, September 30, 2005
Warning: This may be the most unamusing post I've ever written.
So does anybody have any experience with WeRecoverData.com? After examining my hard drive, they have just quoted me a price only slightly less astronomical than the other company I spoke with. (Apparently I suffered a level 4 crash. I don't know what this means but evidently it's very bad.) For the sake of convenience I'd just as soon stay in Manhattan--the home of WeRecoverData.com--but if anybody has had a bad experience with them then I'd rather send the thing to the place on the west coast I mentioned a few days ago. It'll take roughly the same amount of time in either case.
So if anybody knows anything about WeRecoverData.com, or, you know, just wants to comfort me, feel free to comment.
My hard drive is still totally in limbo--hence the dearth of postings lately--but I had to duck into a copy shop and pay the exhorbitant computer-use fee to reveal that, after a conversation with my friend A.N., I have the best drag name ever.
It's Ann Hedonia.
Next time you see me, I'll be singing a concert of break-up songs in a dress made out of a burlap sack.
It would have been okay if my computer had just crashed in a horrible, horrible way, making it unclear whether I'm ever going to recover any of my data, none of which was backed up.
It would have been okay if my computer had just crashed in a horrible, horrible way and I'd spent the last four days in a Chicago suburb where people said things like, "oh, it's just two blocks that way" and I started walking and three miles later I still hadn't gotten there.
But to suffer these things all while staying in a motel where there was no gay porn on the pay-per-view--well, really, it was more than I could bear.
Tomorrow I am attending a Mexican-themed dinner party to which I have been assigned to bring dessert. Unfortunately, I have no Mexican cookbooks, so I was forced to turn to other sources of inspiration. After scouring the internet for appropriate recipes earlier in the week, I settled on Boca Negra Chocolate Chipotle Cakes with Sweet Tomatillo Sauce and Vanilla Custard Sauce. This would involve toasting dried chiles, halving vanilla beans, blending tomatillos, cutting up unrefined brown sugar--a substance I have never encountered before--and generally making a big fuss in the kitchen, which is something I love to do above all things. Well, above most things, anyway.
And so by 9:00 tonight, having acquired none of the requisite ingredients and realizing that I have no free time at all during the day tomorrow, I accepted that there was absolutely no way it was going to happen, so I just made my regular chocolate cake recipe and tossed in a quarter cup of cinnamon and three tablespoons of chili paste. I was so flustered by the fact that I was making up a recipe that I forgot to put any eggs in; I rectified the omission, luckily, before it was too late.
If the batter was any indication, this cake is going to burn people's tongues off.
Which just goes to show you I should just do what the fucking cookbook tells me to do.
If a) serial killer humor tickles your funny bone, and b) you're not already familiar with Chopping Block ("because serial killers are people too"), go here. (Thanks to him for the link, even if he's no longer blogging.)
When I was applying to colleges during my senior year of high school, one institution I considered was Oberlin, in Ohio; it had a terrific college and an even better conservatory. I planned a visit there during the winter. In South Carolina, the weather is warm and mild almost year round, but even then I knew enough not to expect this to be true in other parts of the country. As I packed, therefore, I thought, It'll be cold in Ohio in January. I'll take a sweater.
So I spent three days in Ohio in January with a cotton sweater.
The admissions office had housed me with a hockey player named Topher, who graciously loaned me a down jacket so I wouldn't die of frostbite but whose conversation was hopelessly tedious.
I could have stuck out the bitter cold and the unscintillating conversation, but he also had an unattractive ass.
Here is a conversation I had the other day with E.S.:
Faustus: Oh, my God, have you seen Celine Dion's crying plea from Larry King Live? E.S.: No, I haven't. Faustus: It was totally moving. She was so impassioned. She gave a million dollars to relief efforts and then she attacked the administration for its lack of response to Katrina and for the war in Iraq and then she sang a beautiful song. I cried. E.S.: Now there's a shock. Faustus: It made me want to buy a Celine Dion CD. E.S.: Really? What would you do with it? Faustus: Shut up. E.S.: Do you even know who Celine Dion is?
Last night was the first night of the musical theater writing class I teach at NYU. All of my clothes were in the hamper, so I had to throw together an outfit at the last minute from whatever I could find; I ended up making very felicitous choices, and I looked really good.
After class, I got to E.S.'s apartment and we had the following conversation.
E.S.: You're totally the hot professor. Faustus: I do look good in this outfit, don't I? E.S.: All the girls probably loved you. And the boys loved you even more. Faustus: There's one girl in the class. Everybody else is a boy. Pause. E.S.: I absolutely forbid you to teach this class. You have to drop it. Faustus: It's okay. The boys are more your type than mine anyway. E.S.: What, no tall blond Australians? Faustus: If there were, do you really think I'd be here right now?
Spring semester of my senior year of college, MIT's Noam Chomsky, not only a brilliant political mind but also the father of modern linguistics (my field of study), decided to offer an undergraduate class. He had never done so before and he has never done so again. The class was open to students from other universities, so I decided to try it out. There were a dozen students there every Tuesday afternoon, listening to the man who had invented the field and who continued to be one of its chief innovators and pioneers. It was like hearing Darwin lecture, or Shakespeare. Every word out of his mouth was an epiphany.
But that was the semester I'd worked my schedule so that I only had class on Monday afternoon, so I had to drop the course.
E.S.'s birthday is this Sunday, and I have been secretly planning to take him on a picnic. It should be taken as a measure of my dedication to this man that I have intended this picnic to take place in Brooklyn.
However, E.S. revealed to me today that his parents are coming into town for his birthday and will be taking us out to their favorite Turkish restaurant. "I wish you'd told me," I said crossly.
"What do you mean?" he said. "I was talking to them on the phone about it two days ago right in front of you."
"Oh, was that when you were shrieking at the top of your lungs while I was trying to catch up on back episodes of Six Feet Under?"
I told him about the picnic, and we decided to have it on Monday instead. "The one problem," I pointed out, "is that the cupcakes I was going to get Saturday night from Sweet Sugar Sunshine would be dry and crusty by Monday. So we can't have cupcakes."
E.S. looked disappointed. "We can't get them Monday morning?"
"Closed for Labor Day."
His face brightened. "Maybe I could get a sexy redhead to bake me some cupcakes for my birthday."
I was already going to go to Brooklyn; I wasn't about to bake cupcakes too. "Where are you going to find somebody like that?" I asked, one eyebrow raised in scorn.
He looked at me as if this were the stupidest question on earth. "Duh. On the internet, of course."
"Fine," I snapped. "I'll be celebrating your birthday with Trainer Bob."
Then we went back to his place and looked at apartments to rent together.
When I was six, I picketed my house, hoping to be allowed to eat breakfast before getting dressed rather than after.
I marched back and forth in front of our front door, carrying a sign that said "BREKFAST FIRST DRESSED LATER."
My parents, being civil rights workers, didn't cross picket lines, and that was the only way into or out of our house,
so they were trapped there until they acceded to my demand.