"Unimaginative plotting yields protracted bridges of tedium riveted together with predictability."

Why is it a universal truth that lesbian movies are generally shit? Okay, well there are some exceptions (Fire, Fingersmith, Tipping the Velvet, Aimee and Jaguar, But I'm a Cheerleader), but seriously. Imagine Me & You? Not awful, but fairly pedestrian. Saving Face? Warm hearted but forgettable. Girl Play? Oh so bad. Christ, even the L Word teeters dangerously close to mediocrity and even crosses that line occasionally.

I'm all worked up because I'm only 30 minutes into Gray Matters and I want to gouge my eyes out. Gouge. My. Eyes. Out. Or at least beat my sofa cushions in frustration. The writing is banal, the story line unimaginative, and the acting is generally so very bad. But I paid $4.95 for it and goddammmit I'm going to get my money's worth.

Why oh why can't there be a whip smart, juicy dialogue laden script out there about a woman finding love in the city? Oh wait. I think it's called Operation Find The Lesbians: The Movie.

Sigh.

"Hello. I am the designer."

I'm not in the habit of ordering $200 worth of Iranian caviar at a Manhattan vodka bar, but the Uzbeki man who sat next to me told me I should.

Let's call him Mr. Investment Banker. We had been celebrating the launch of the Russian business magazine that I have been freelancing on and even though one of my employers had encouraged me to order whatever I wanted, I felt that a bottle of prosecco was probably a safe bet. Maybe even some $20 domestic caviar. No, Mr. Investment Banker insisted, I should order the Iranian caviar.

I protested the extravagance of such a cost, but secretly wanted the chance to try sturgeon from the Caspian Sea.

You order it, I countered.

He offered up his expense account to cover the cost. No, you should definitely order, he said.

That's when I selected one ounce of caviar for the grand total of $200. I could have ordered the $400 one, but didn't want to push my luck. I felt reckless. I felt drunk on the bottle of prosecco I had nearly finished. The foodie in me reveled in the rare opportunity. The caviar arrived in a small container nestled in a block of ice. Served with blintzes and sour cream, the taste was amazing and I figured I would probably never have the opportunity again.

I have no idea how the bill was sorted out because I stumbled out of the restaurant sometime around midnight after smoking a very ill advised cigarette. When I got back to Brooklyn I ate some ice cream and watched Romeo + Juliet till 1 am.

Apparently this is how I roll. On a work night.

"It's a terror of knowing what this world is about."

Sorry I haven't been around much, dear readers. My work has decided implode, which has cut into my will to blog. I've had to go through all the stages of grief as beloved colleagues have suddenly left. So yeah. Perhaps tomorrow? I have been too busy secretly crying at my desk.

But let's look at things that make me unbearably happy!

David Bowie.
Flight of the Conchords.
Flight of the Conchords parodying David Bowie.
Oh yeah, and cats.

". . . which by the way [OFAG] is fucking pathetic. She needs an operation to get a girl? I still don't get why you even like her."

The thing that has been the most difficult over the last month since meeting Ms. K is that I have felt like I haven't been able to openly talk about my feelings. Actually it's been absolute torture since I no longer have a safe space to endlessly analyze my emotions knowing that she (and her mom and God knows who else) is reading. Yes, I previously proclaimed that I would be adopting a fuck all y'all stance, but I haven't done a very good job of actually executing that sentiment.

Until now.

Here's my first salvo. Guns blazing. Fuck all y'all, mutherfuckers.

I have to admit that until very recently I didn't really know how serious this whole thing with Ms. K would be. For one thing she's 22 years old, which makes for nearly a seven year difference in age. In her defense she's a card carrying Mensa member and graduated college when she was 19, but still. When I was 22 years old I barely knew which way was up, was fresh out of college, lived in my parents' basement, and was working my first job in Washington, DC. Secondly, Ms. K has a bit of a checkered past. Out of respect for her I won't go into details, but checkered pasts are usually a harbinger of the crazy. And thirdly, she lives in Pennsylvania (mostly) even though she's looking to relocate to Brooklyn from the Upper East Side via the Keystone State. This means she is usually only in New York once a week and our dates are usually on Mondays and Tuesdays.

On the positive side of things, she's incredibly smart, writes extremely well, is a painter and a photographer, owns a library's worth of books, was as paramedic when she was a teenager, does AIDS volunteering, has a business in Pennsylvania, owns property, and can mentally spar with me, even if it means interrogating her and tricking her into revealing all her secrets.

For some reason, perhaps rightly so, I have had a hard time seeing past points one, two, and three outlined above. My main problem has been that the distance between her youthful indiscretions and the present is only four years or so. This lack of time made me worried. I internalized my fears instead of discussing them and stopped seeing the positive things about her whilst focusing on the negative. Ms. K began to notice that I was holding back and when I outlined my reservations, she said I wasn't giving her a chance. I said I had a bad track record of meeting crazy girls and deserved to be a little cautious. She said that I was unfairly comparing her to past girlfriends.

I wanted this to be a much more interesting blog entry then it's shaping up to be, but I'm tired and I'm hungover. Ms. K and I went out last night in Park Slope to talk through my issues. The resolution? She has successfully pleaded her case and plied me with many glasses of prosecco in the process. I still have a hang up about the age difference and the Pennsylvania thing, but I guess we'll see where things go!

"You are the mac daddy of desserts."

I had an epiphany last night as I stood in the cold, steady drizzle of Central Park while watching Rufus Wainwright play SummerStage. It's so refreshing to have artists back in my life. Although I already have a wonderfully strong cadre of women around me, the newest addition of Sinclair and Bird has stimulated a part of my creative brain that I hadn't realized was not getting any love and probably has not been since I was a Studio Art major in college. As a stimulation junkie (the intellectual variety), my brain is very happy to have made these new connections -- especially since Bird said that if she were to choose anyone to be her Siamese twin, she'd choose me. Sniffle.

Speaking of Rufus Wainwright, yesterday marked the third time I had seen him in concert and the first time whilst standing in the rain. And no offense to Maire, who graciously facilitated the evening, but I began to wonder if it was worth the effort as my gray hoodie grew increasingly damp despite huddling under an umbrella. But my doubts vanished when Rufus did an encore dressed as Judy Garland complete with choreographed dance numbers. A-fucking-mazing.

Now this is the point where I talk about the bottle of lube and half dozen pairs of black latex gloves I had stashed in my purse. They were a gift from Maire who along with Sinclair are my new sex positive role models, although I'm a little intimidated at the prospect of trying to work the whole lube avec latex gloves into my daily activities. And after the smutty conversations we were all having before and during the Rufus Wainwright conversation, I've come to the sobering realization that I've barely had the chance to wave my kink flag. As Maire said last night, "No more vanilla girls."

At least I can console myself in the fact that I have been proclaimed the mac daddy of desserts because of my blueberry crumble making skillz.

Why I'm a Femme

No, it's not my pink toes that makes me a Femme. Rather the fact that when I saw these heels in the store on Friday I had to have them.

"The dramas hinged on unlikely plot devices: leg cramps, pie allergies, the surprising things one finds hiding in cupboards."

I've probably milked this death and destruction angle all I can so perhaps it's time for some levity -- especially since I'm very hungover today and my brain faculties are somewhere near cats = funny coupled with a little bit of drool running out the side of my mouth. (The whole LOL cat thing has probably jumped the shark, but it makes me laugh like a fucking ment sometimes.) And look! I'm actually about to mention a Friday Fave on a Friday.

Wait for it . . .

Wait for it . . .

My Friday Fave is R. Kelly. Seriously.

Just for a moment forget that he has a penchant for underage sex and turn your attention to his opus -- his hip hopera if you will -- called Trapped in the Closet. While I get the feeling that R. Kelly thinks of it as a serious artistic statement and a testament to his genius, the rest of the world sees unintended humor in unexpected plot devices. Midgets? Check. Gay love triangle? Check. R. Kelly stuck in a closet? Check.

I think the brilliance of Trapped is that it is so over the top and narcissistic that it actually works. Even the New York Times agrees and seeing how their article is much better written and researched than this blog post, I defer to them to explain why you need to watch it.

You can watch it here on YouTube and you can also check out new installments running on the IFC website. Word.

"I don't want to speak too soon, but I think crisis has been averted."

Ms. K stayed over last night. You know what this means? It means something bad is going to happened somewhere. Maybe. While the day isn't over yet -- at least here on the East Coast -- there is still time for something to happen. I have been checking the news with some trepidation, scanning headlines for tornados, calamities, or general hysteria. Oh that earthquake in Peru? Totally happened yesterday. Doesn't count. Nor can I take claim for the recent problems with the stock market.

I mean, like, seriously y'all.

"Electricity will scribble out your name"

Ms. K and I are going to meet up tomorrow evening for various activities. I have alerted the mayor's office, the Department of Homeland Security, and NOAA because you never know what sort of calamity might strike when she and I get together have sex.

Wait, perhaps I shouldn't be so flippant. I mean, what if this is a real problem and not a coincidence? What if I have heretofore undiscovered dark powers? What if when Ms. K and I meet some calamity befalls the city? The day after we first met 41st Street blew up. Literally. The third time we met there was a tornado in Brooklyn and a flood. Fo reals.

But what of the second time we met? It took some digging around the internet and some retracing of my steps but I am highly suspect about the bridge that collapsed in Minnesota. Okay, it collapsed the day after the day after we met up and it was not in New York City, but this is a worrying trend. And I'm not making light of other's pain and suffering.

My point is that if Thursday, August 16, 2007 manages transpire without some sort of major calamity then the world can breathe a sigh of relief. Apocalypse will have been averted. My dark powers will have been contained.

In other news, in lieu of a belated My Friday Fave, here's my new favorite song.

"It's kind of intimidating."

It's worth mentioning, if belated, that a tornado -- an F2 tornado! -- cut a six mile path through Brooklyn last Wednesday before dissipating somewhere south of Prospect Park. It is also worth mentioning that tornadoes do not happen in Brooklyn, at least not since 1889. Apparently the likelihood of an F2 tornado happening in Brooklyn is a 20,000 to 50,000 year event. Couple that with last month's steam pipe explosion and the near total breakdown of the subway on Wednesday and I think something maybe going on. Just a thought.

Ms. K was in my bed when the storm passed through and while we had no idea that a tornado was raging nearby, we were quite aware of the cannon shots of thunder and flashes of lightning just outside my bay windows. The first time Ms. K stayed over an equally gnarly storm -- minus tornado -- passed through the area. So what does this mean? It means that when invite Ms. K to stay over not only does the sky open up and rain down a storm like no other, but tornadoes are spawned, trees are felled, steam pipes explode, and an entire subway system is rendered useless. Just a thought.

Speaking of Ms. K, she gave me a better, if unscientific, theory as to why I am single:

I think the reason you're single, despite the fact that you're obviously a catch, is due to the fact that you embody such good qualities. It's kind of intimidating. And I would venture to say that most of the women that you attract would fall into one of two categories. The first being the girls who are oblivious to your awesomeness for whatever reason, and that would mean that they suck, and definitely aren't worth it, or two, and you can include me in this one, would be the girls who realize straightaway that you're amazing, and become flustered by your presence, hence making it difficult to not behave like an idiot, and present themselves like normal people, which would then put you off. I for one am still working on not being nervous around you. I mean, it's not that I think that you should be making any apologies for being hot, smart, non-crazy, and having your shit together, it's just that it's unfortunately rare to find all of that in one person, and it's a little confusing in a too-good-to-be-true kind of way.

"I'm still trying to figure out why you are single."

I was in a fighty mood yesterday by the time I met up with Ms. K for beer in Midtown -- fighty because of some ongoing bullshit at work. Needless to say my level of mental energy was somewhere near
Level 8: STORM THE BARRICADES! This translated into me grilling Ms. K a little bit. Ooops.

"Why are you so nervous around me?" I demanded . . . gently. Hopefully.

After a short bit where I could tell she was thinking of how to phrase her answer in the most delicate way, she said, "I'm still trying to figure out why you are single--"

"The $64,000 question."

"--and I keep waiting for you to reveal some deep dark secret because it makes no sense."

I'm sure there was a complement wrapped up in there somewhere.

"The answer is that there is no answer," I confessed with the shrug of a shoulder.

Yes, folks. I don't have two heads nor sporting any facial deformities. I'm not missing large tracts of my gene sequencing. I'm not diseased. I'm not socially awkward. I'm not narcoleptic. I don't have a problem with personal hygiene. And despite my above average intelligence and dashing good looks, I was single for three and a half years. The people who followed that dry spell weren't exactly winners either.

Perhaps some of you in blog land have been wondering the same question. I'm guessing this because Ms. Y and I had a similar conversation back in June. She hypothesized that I am merely a picky person. I hypothesized that I pissed off one of the more major gods. But there had to be a reason for all the dreck and frustration, right? I certainly learned to be a strong, self reliant woman in that time. And that must count for something.

"I know I have the body but of a weak and feeble woman; but I have the heart and stomach of a king."

We need more women warriors.

Not the shrewd, overly spun politicians playing the boy's game, but women with a passion for good and the strength for a fight. The Mariannes leading the charge, the Amazons with their bows and arrows. We need more Clara Bartons, Elizabeth Cady Stantons, Florence Nightingales, suffragettes, abolitionists, do-gooders, meddlers, and martyrs. We need more women who are both warriors and instruments of peace.

Can you tell I'm in a fighting mood? I confess to having watched the trailer for the Elizabeth sequel more than a couple of times.

"But aren't you brushing me off?"

It figured one day that my blog or rather my often flippant recollections would be the source of a misunderstanding. I mean it was inevitable considering that too many of my friends are reading. And sure enough that day came yesterday when Ms. K thought I was brushing her off in some oblique way . . . or rather someone made her think that. Long story.

While I was a little annoyed at having my words misinterpreted so that anyone would think I was so callous to give anyone a kiss off via this blog and not in person (doing so would only have been a couple of degrees away from announcing your divorce via press conference), it did make me think of the uniquely perilous position of dating someone who is a blog reader . . . and someone who started off as a blog reader.

Sympathy? Anyone . . . anyone . . . oh.

"So, I have decided that I think you should go out with me again."

Obviously I'm have not been really good at updating for My Friday Fave as evidenced by the fact that last week's Fave came out on Sunday and I never wrote one for this past Friday. And after a very fruitful blogging July, August kicked off with a sluggish start. Patience, dear readers, patience.

* The UTI is pretty much gone thanks to a course of antibiotics, but probably exacerbated because of the drinking I've been doing lately. Thank you all for your concern, especially with my peeing/wiping habits.

* Ms. K and I have tentative plans to meet up this week for drinks. If past history is any indicator, we will end up making out in some bar in the wee hours of the morning and then I will ask her to come home with me. Because the dirty whore in me likes it.

* I went to go see Tegan & Sara at the Hiro Ballroom last Wednesday. My original plan was to write a review of the show, which was great, but deadlines and laziness got in the way. Once Band Buddy Maire sends me over her photos from the concert (hint hint, nudge nudge), perhaps I will be more motivated to explain why the show was awesome. (Photo below! Maire even took some footage and placed it on YouTube.) Maybe it was the fact that they played their new album, The Con, in its entirety from back to front? Maybe it was hearing the song "So Jealous" performed live that rocked my world? Maybe because they are a pair of gay twins who can rock out?



* I have a crush -- an intellectual, spiritual, platonic crush -- on a beautiful former Franciscan monk that I met whilst drinking with friends in South Slope on Friday. I want to pick his brain and spend evenings with him discussing history and spirituality. Perhaps I even have a monk fetish? My (budding stalker) friend found a picture of him online in his Franciscan robes and it was hot. Can a gay woman find a former monk hot? Too Thorn Birds with a dash of Chasing Amy? Discuss.

* I broke my vow of honesty on my blog for the first time when I wrote an entry that will never see the light of day. Well maybe someday, just in time for the DVD extras of the blog. Don't worry, I saved the entry.

* My new favorite singer is John Vanderslice. I mean, like, seriously. I must come across as a slut for good music, but I have a feeling that his album Emerald City is going to get the same heavy rotation on my iTunes as Andrew Bird's Armchair Apocrypha did.

"Use plenty of lube."

I've hit upon a winning formula. If I write about my embarrassing bodily mishaps/functions, readers will come in DROVES! And I can even shine the spotlight on my cats and the fact that one of them peed in my bed yesterday, which means that he either hates me or has a fetish. Please, keep up the wiping comments. One can not pass up such comedy gold.

"Morning shenanigans are good, and make my current level of exhaustion extremely worth it."

I have been trying to figure out how to start this blog entry, wavering between, "OH MY GOD IT'S BURNING!" and, "Few things in life are as unpleasant as a urinary tract infection." And while some of you may cringe in sympathy or perhaps cringe I am revealing too much, all I say is just you wait . . . JUST YOU WAIT! YOUR TIME WILL COME!

Christ, it's very unpleasant and keeping me from blogging about more enjoying activities such as inviting Ms. K over to my bed again and only getting three hours sleep.